“You a Couillon”

Why you can only say this word in Cajun Country

by

I can’t remember a time when I didn't know what the word “couillon” (pronounced “coo-yon”) meant. It was programmed into my Cajun DNA in the same way that my tolerance for cayenne pepper was, or my ability to peel a crawfish tail. I heard the word early, around the same time other words just embedded themselves in my brain without explanation, like “lagniappe,” “pirogue,” or “cher.” Words that weren’t taught so much as absorbed, like steam off a boiling pot.

The first time I realized “couillon” wasn’t part of everyone’s vocabulary, I was in my twenties, driving with friends through Texas. One was from Colorado, and the other Michigan, and I had decided that they were ready, no, worthy of listening to Megan’s Mix Volume 23 (a burnt CD I made in college) with all my favorite “festival” songs on it.

In retrospect, they must have thought I meant “festival” as in Coachella or Lollapalooza—when really, I meant Festivals Acadiens et Créoles, specifically. As we listened to Louisiana greats like Wayne Toups, Zachary Richard, and Clifton Chenier, I fielded questions like:

“Is this polka music?”

“Are there any female singers?”

And…

“What’s a ‘coo-YOHN’?”

That last one hit hard, referring to the banger “Nuttin' but a Couillon” by Lafayette's Bayou Boys, and it sent me spiraling, nearly Jeep-first through a Whataburger. I shut the music off.

“‘Couillon’ is . . . It’s me. It’s you. It’s us that time we snuck ‘My Neck, My Back’ into the playlist at that Southern Baptist wedding reception!”

I couldn’t believe I had to explain it; a word as common to me as “queso” is to a Dallasite. It was the nickname we gave to the kid on my tee ball team who insisted on sliding into first base for no reason. It was the name of my sorority sister’s overexcited terrier. It was how we described a cousin with ADHD before we knew it existed.

I heard the word early, around the same time other words just embedded themselves in my brain without explanation, like “lagniappe,” “pirogue,” or “cher.” Words that weren’t taught so much as absorbed, like steam off a boiling pot.

The word is playful, a sign of camaraderie and mischief, and I was happy to have it in my lexicon when I enrolled in a five-week French immersion program in Nova Scotia, Canada nearly thirteen years later.

On Day One of that experience, I had about twelve words I felt confident using in French, and “couillon” topped the list. Surely there would be many instances at the Université Sainte-Anne that would call for its use. I just had to wait patiently for the opportunity to amaze and amuse my teachers, peers, and RAs—all from different French-speaking parts of Canada, France, and Africa—with my acutely attuned knack for using “couillon” at just the right time.

Finally, the moment came, during a game of pétanque. I didn’t know how to play and couldn’t understand the instructions in my elementary level French, so I assigned myself to le très important role of sideline cheerleader.

“C’est magnifique!” I yelled, quoting my Beginner French textbook. And, “bon travaille!” when good work on the field earned applause.

But when players started goofing off, missed a move, or celebrated a point too early, I let it rip:

“Couillon!” I shouted. “Couillon, couillon, COUILLON!”

That’s when I realized something was off. The responses I got didn’t match the ones I grew up with in Louisiana. Instead of big smiles, bursts of laughter, or a look of teasing recognition that says “it takes-one-to-know one,” I received a range of reactions—from puzzled, blank stares, to looks of sheer horror.

[Read this: "Tataille" - What the Cajun Word Taught Me About Fear]

That night in my journal, beneath the pale glow of my dorm room lamp, I wrote: “Not to self: when you get out of here, and can speak English again, find out exactly what ‘couillon’ means in modern day Standard French. It can’t be good.”

My hunch was right. Once I was back in my Brooklyn apartment, I reached out to an academic and current Louisiana French teacher about the word “couillon’s” contemporary meaning outside of Louisiana. They agreed to answer, but only so long as they could remain anonymous.

Anonymous? I thought. How bad could this word be?!

It turns out . . . kind of bad?

While the Louisiana French word “couillon” translates to “fool” or “dummy,” and is often used with some fondness, it originates from the Standard French word “couilles,” which is . . . modern day slang for “testicles.” It’s essentially the Spanish equivalent of “cojones.”

How it’s perceived in Canada and France and Africa varies. When I reached out to a few animateurs (the hosts who also act as RAs) from Sainte-Anne’s French immersion program, they seemed taken aback. Alec Comeau, a native of L’Acadie, Canada, specifically Baie Sainte Marie in the region of Clare, said it was the first time he, and his parents, had heard the word “couillon.” The same was true for Layla Abboud, from the same area. She asked, “Is that what the word originally meant, or did it just change over time?”

[Read this: What I Think Will Happen When I Speak Louisiana French Perfectly] 

Sophie Rhéaume-Jalbert, a Québécois from Trois-Rivières, Canada knew of the word, but said it’s “not frequently used in Québec. It’s more common in France. However, we know what it means. It definitely has a negative connotation though … like an insult.”

Of course I had to find out how much of an insult, so I contacted Tristan Bera, a native of France and the director of Sainte-Anne’s immersion program; along with Monique LeBlanc, a social media friend from L’Acadie currently living on L’Île de Sein in France, who I’d connected with after sharing videos on Instagram about the work I was doing to learn my ancestral language. Bera and LeBlanc both said the same thing about “couillon” in France: the word is vulgar.

LeBlanc, to me, explained it perfectly: “In France, you wouldn’t use it when talking about someone directly to his face.”  It seems to essentially mean, when referring to a guy, for example, “He’s a f*cking idiot.”

Part of what makes it gentle is the switch into French itself. It signals, “I can say this to you because we’re close, like kin, so don’t take it the wrong way.” Or maybe it’s because, in the Cajun way of speaking, the line between insult and endearment is razor thin—and “couillon” straddles it perfectly.

After speaking to a few native French-speakers from Rwanda and Côte d’Ivoire, I determined that it’s not commonly, if ever, used in Africa, either.

Even back home in Louisiana’s Acadiana, where “couillon” is one of the most commonly used examples of Louisiana French, the word seems to carry a certain mystery to it. I reached out to Ashlee Wilson, an expert on Louisiana French, and she didn’t know why on earth we, as a people, have latched on to “couillon.” Other scholars politely declined to be quoted, not wanting their names permanently tied to a Google or ChatGPT search for “balls,” which is fair. But it left me wondering: why has this word —a word that literally comes from the French slang for “testicles”—survived in the common parlance for centuries in Louisiana when so much of our ancestral language has slipped away?

I have some theories. Maybe it’s because “couillon” is one of the shorter, easier French words to pronounce that still packs a punch. Maybe it’s because it’s useful—a quick, familiar way to gently roast someone who locked their keys in the car, again. Part of what makes it gentle is the switch into French itself. It signals, “I can say this to you because we’re close, like kin, so don’t take it the wrong way.” Or maybe it’s because, in the Cajun way of speaking, the line between insult and endearment is razor thin—and “couillon” straddles it perfectly. It teases, but it also bonds. It says, “You’re one of us, even when you’re acting up.” Even in its crassness, it’s affectionate, in a way that English can’t quite communicate.

And that, to me, is fascinating: that a word whose literal meaning is anatomical has become one of our most enduring cultural handshakes—passed down, preserved, and still shouted across bayous, ball fields, and backyard boils.

I still love the word. In fact, like any kid who’s told a word is bad, I think I want to use “couillon” even more.