Sharing any abundance was a Cajun norm shown me countless times and in many ways.
Gifts of food were so common I’ve long forgotten the bulk of them, but one shrimp haul I do remember well came from a family that only had a small boat, often called a Lafitte skiff, a boat only used in the more sheltered areas and not out in the open Gulf of Mexico where the larger trawlers the kids called “steel hulls” plied the open water. The smaller wooden boats were commonly hand-built by the fishing family or a local who specialized in that sort of boat building. Lots of good welders and ship fabricators inhabited the area and I often saw the welding sparks fly as another steel hull was being built along Bayou Grand Caillou.
“Johnny,” I said said to one shrimp giver on a Saturday afternoon. “I thought the shrimp season was closed except for out in the Gulf.” I knew his family had only one of the smaller boats not able to ply open waters and wondered where the catch originated.
“Gang warden’s on vacation, Mr. Brown,” he said with a broad smile, and such was the bayou information network I grew to frequently employ myself. I’m not sure how “game” became “gang” and only know that’s how the water law enforcement people were described. I also knew the “gang warden” because I taught with his mother and brother who were good friends.
Johnny came from one of the largest groups in the Grand Caillou area, Native Americans who at the time I lived there referred to themselves as Houmas Indians. Like many Native Americans, the Houmas worked at a wide variety of jobs, but the largest segment was involved with commercial fishing, most commonly after shrimp and oysters. Centuries of tradition as hunters and gatherers still continues in the region, but many have moved away because coastal erosion has left once generally dry ground completely underwater as I believe is the case today where we lived in the 80s.
While the Houmas lived all over the Grand Caillou area and in many adjacent bayou communities, the biggest population I knew lived in Dulac, a few miles further south and even more exposed to flooding and hurricanes. In all my life I’ve never known a more accepting and less judgmental culture and people. “In Dulac, you Dulac you want to,” is how one Houmas kid put it when describing his neighborhood as we talked together in front of the Dulac Community Center that’s gone under water more times than Jacques Cousteau. But the community center bounces back to life every time and still struggles on, long a focal point of tribal activity, the building part of the Methodist Church’s outreach programs still providing much aid to a largely poor community.
The boy I visited with was in the process of repairing a bicycle made from parts of many others, the front and back wheel were of different diameter and the handlebars constructed of used galvanized pipe wrapped at the ends with black electrical tape. The boy, a current student, employed a screwdriver badly bent on the shaft and attached to only a fragment of its original plastic handle.
“Where’d you get that screwdriver?” I asked. “Sears,” he replied and then smiled as he could see I was obviously confused. He then pointed to a large dumpster across the street. “That’s Sears,” he said, and then turned to point out the location of another trash dumpster to inform me, “That one over there is TG&Y,” the name of a budget store in Houma. I’ve never laughed more in a lifetime of laughter, the entire community always ready for a good joke and playful by nature.
Not every Houmas was poor. I taught with one at Grand Caillou School who at the time I believe was only the second member of his tribe to graduate from college, most Houmas dropping out before finishing high school for two main reasons, one being the “city,” as Houma was often called in Dulac, didn’t appeal to them and this is where all the high schools were, and two, it didn’t take a formal education to make the most common living available, commercial fishing.
Many Houmas made a good living and frequently lived in homes elevated far off the ground to prevent flood damage everyone knew was inevitable otherwise. Still, most did live at ground level with the understanding that, sooner or later, it would be time to start all over again, except for what was saved when the family moved to their boat during a hurricane with hopes of floating over the storm surge instead of being consumed under it. This may sound crazy, but my mother-in-law recalled being tied up in a big oak tree during one bad storm, getting rain-soaked preferable to being blown away or drowned. She told this childhood story when she was in her 90s, recounting her experience with the casual air of one who took a trip to the mall, nothing unusual here. This sort of laid-back resilience was most typical all over Cajun country and a big part of its charm.
The lowest tier when I taught In South Louisiana wasn’t defined by race but economics. These families, a large population, were always one step from disaster and existed on a thin reserve of food stamps, marginal wildlife catches on ground and in water, and whatever could be found for free and put to use. Even then though, generosity was common and sharing always a part of the picture.
One Houmas boy I knew well lived near the community center with his father and four siblings in a tiny trailer smaller than most dog kennels. My homeroom was involved in a competition with other classes to see who could raise more money for a charity I’ve forgotten. Each morning the boy came in with a handful of change and led the class by far in the amount donated. I was concerned knowing the boy was probably poorer than the people who’d eventually benefit, but I didn’t say so. I just asked him how he was able to get so much money every day.
“Every night dad comes home drunk and passes out on the floor,” the boy said. “I go through his pockets and take all the change. He’s always too drunk to remember if he had any, so I won’t get into any trouble Mr. Brown. Besides, he’ll only use it to get drunk again.” He spoke without emotion, quite common for impoverished kids I worked with daily. Still, I asked the boy to stop raiding the family pocket fortune, or at least buy food with it. Only in Mexico have I seen greater poverty, and that’s saying something because I’ve seen so much of this in my life, a tapestry of broken bottles, junk cars and low expectations. Through it all though the kids were resilient and resourceful, none so more than the Houmas where life goes on much the same today and most likely always will until the entire region becomes another Atlantis.
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