Charlotte Jones
Acadians celebrating Tintamarre on the 2024 celebration of National Acadian Day down Main Street in Yarmouth.
Sitting in front of an empty stage in the expo hall, Alan Broussard and his brother Richard asked if I had seen some person who was, “supposed to be here an hour and a half ago.” I did not hear the name, thought it sounded vaguely Cajun, and assumed he was asking about a musician based on the empty stage. I asked “who?” twice more. Not wanting to ask a third time, I shrugged and told Alan, “I have no clue—probably hungover somewhere?”
It was National Acadian Day, as well as the fifth day of the Congrès Mondial Acadien (CMA). The CMA is an international celebration of Acadian heritage featuring cultural festivities, workshops, storytelling, symposia, and family reunions—held this past August in “the homeland” of the Acadian shores in southwest Nova Scotia, where dozens of communities opened up their community halls, ice rinks, fire stations, decommissioned churches, and parking lots to host thousands of cousins over nine days, at events ranging from community breakfasts to poetry readings.
Historically, the gathering began in 1994 and since then occurs every five years in the primary regions where Acadian displaced families finally regained their footing after the harrowing Grand Dérangement that began in 1755. Earlier CMAs have been held in Maine, Louisiana, and different locales in the Maritime Provinces of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island. Despite the 2,000-mile difference, the threads between Acadian Louisiana and the Maritimes form the double helix that is the CMA, something that became abundantly clear within hours of the event's kickoff.
"While my New Brunswick neighbors offered me a sample of moose meat and French-immersion lessons, Alan and Brenda made their neighbors jambalaya and threw an impromptu Cajun jam session around the fire."
Alan and his wife, Brenda—from Lafayette, Louisiana—have attended the CMAs since 1999. Alan spoke to why they keep coming back: “It's like a religious experience in that I feel moved by the fact that these people are coming in from all over the world to celebrate our heritage. One of the big things, for me, is seeing all of the familiar faces.”
Charlotte Jones
Acadian flags displayed along the Nova Scotian coast.
The week began with remnants of Hurricane Debby, which delayed the Opening Festival by several hours. Two New Brunswickers laughed when I stubbornly refused their help setting up my tent in the high winds, reasoning, “this is not my first hurricane.” Acadian flags and custom printed signs announcing last names like Arsenault and Thibodaux around the Scalawags Oceanside Campground in Church Point made it feel even more like Louisiana. Just eight miles south in Lower Saulnierville, Brenda and Alan set up camp at Rest Ashore Seaside Campground, owned and run by, coincidentally, another Brenda and Alan. On the shuttle to the Opening Festival, I found myself sitting next to the mayor of Yarmouth, foretelling just how familiar attendees at the CMA were to become with each other during the week to come.
Still, feeling out of place as a solo traveler who can neither speak French, nor claim Acadian ancestry, I at once sought out fellow Louisianans at the Opening Festival. No one quite shouted, "I’m from Louisiana" like Robert Broussard Jr., who approached holding two beers, wearing a straw hat and a “Cajun AF” shirt. Robert introduced me to plenty of cousins and friends, including Alan, throughout the week—just as my neighbors at the campground welcomed me with their own version of Southern hospitality. While my New Brunswick neighbors offered me a sample of moose meat and French-immersion lessons, Alan and Brenda made their neighbors jambalaya and threw an impromptu Cajun jam session around the fire.
Any anxieties I had about attending the CMA were of my own making; everyone made sure that everyone else was well-fed and imbibed. At Le Richelieu, a beautiful hall nestled in the foothills along the Meteghan River, Louisianans brought their pots and paddles in rented trucks to serve jambalaya, complementing culinary traditions of the Acadian Shores such as lobster rolls, poutine, and Rappie pie, a casserole-like dish of grated potatoes. Bal de Maison, of France, and Acadiana’s own Amis du Teche provided a repertoire of Acadian music—but the sounds of laughter, feet shuffling, and bottles clinking produced the (all too familiar) soundscape. If you closed your eyes and listened, you could’ve sworn you were at La Poussière in Breaux Bridge.
Charlotte Jones
Acadians and Cajuns (and visitors) at Congrés Mondial Acadian convening at the campsite at Baie St. Marie.
Unlike Alan and Robert, this was my very first CMA. I had been invited to speak on the subject of Acadian cattle brands in Louisiana as part of the Symposium Louisiane-Acadie hosted by the Center for Louisiana Studies. Featuring a series of speakers and experts from Acadie and Louisiana, the program was designed to emphasize the modern day connections between the two related cultures. Of course, the Louisiana-Acadie connection cannot be discussed without confronting the Grand Dérangement, though the apocryphal Evangeline narrative has generally quieted down in recent years. Many descendants today recognize the relative privilege that they have been afforded in contrast to other diasporic peoples; their remembrance being allotted this celebration. Still, that does not negate the fact that the tragic Grand Dérangement created more victims than spoils.
Today, one of the long-term reverberations of the Acadian diaspora is the language preservation movement. As part of the symposium, Cajun musician and language activist Zachary Richard delivered, in French, a history of Acadians in Louisiana to a packed house. Prefacing his talk with the importance of language preservation as a notion of Cajun and Acadian identity, he asked "will we be able to conceive of ourselves as our ancestors did?"
"There is the emotional transference—a potential trifecta of grief, anger, and unprocessed trauma from the Acadian diaspora is instead transformed to power a celebration of living, camaraderie, and ancestry. Perhaps, it is more of a transcendence. "
The question was explored in more detail on Day 4 at the Broussard Family Reunion. Folks wrote down their maiden surnames and where they were from; Louisiana towns were in full presence. The reunion included a field trip to Belleisle Hall Acadian Cultural Centre and an interpretive sign commemoration for Joseph Broussard dit Beausoleil, the resistance fighter who led hundreds of Acadians on the journey from Acadie to St. Martinville, Louisiana in 1764. The majority of the 200 people in attendance claimed Louisiana as home. Near the end of the day, one of the descendants saw me at the reunion picnic, pointed, and said, "You. Come here." I bumbled over, fearing I would finally be ousted as a fraud and party crasher. Rather, she and her folks deemed me an honorary Acadian, and told me I could "officially" spell my surname: J-E-A-U-N-E-S.
By the time I got to Day 5 at the expo hall with Alan and Richard Broussard, wondering about the mystery person who was late for their appearance—I was exhausted, hungry, and a little overwhelmed. Walking back into the main hall, a flock of people and activity formed a cohesive entity around one man towering above the rest. It was then that I realized Alan and George had not been asking about a hungover musician, but Prime Minister Justin Trudeau.
Charlotte Jones
Dancing at Le Richelieu Dance Hall along the Metaghan River.
There is a certain phenomenon that takes place at the CMA that cannot be wholly articulated. First, the physical superimposition—people of Acadian descent returning to the lands that their ancestors once tended, rekindling connections to a place across distance and time. Then there is the emotional transference—a potential trifecta of grief, anger, and unprocessed trauma from the Acadian diaspora is instead transformed to power a celebration of living, camaraderie, and ancestry. Perhaps, it is more of a transcendence.
All of it culminated that same day at 5:55 pm, during the National Acadian Day procession known as the Tintamarre. In this relatively new tradition—likely predicated in the ancient—Acadians announce their presence with a litany of noise. Kazoos, pots, pans, instruments, horns, and buckets accompany the vocal proclamation, “Vive l’Acadie!” amongst themselves and to the world.
As the Tintamarre meandered down main street, a dense fog rolled in from the Atlantic —the kind that usually quells its surroundings like a lullaby. Rather than clashing with the cacophony of noise, colors, and people, the fog complemented and amplified the Tintamarre, turning the normally sleepy town of Yarmouth into an enriched palette of celebration. Transcendence.
That evening, thousands more descended upon the Yarmouth Airport for the National Acadian Day Concert, and there were still three more days of official CMA events. The dancing continued. The remembrance continued.
I could’ve sworn I was the only one tired. Perhaps, “Keeping up with the Acadians” should be Louisiana’s motto for maintaining pace with your neighbors. As a Jones, I have some authority in proverbial cliches, and after spending a week with my Acadian neighbors and their cousins, I re-learned another: it’s a marathon, not a sprint.
