Artowrk courtesy of Megan Broussard Maughaun, designed by Blake Lagneaux.
I, like many young girls, always dreamt of becoming a princess when I grew up. Of course, once I learned real life ones lived in Great Britain, I immediately grew fond of the country.
I was in eighth grade, in Mr. Arceneaux’s Louisiana history class, when I learned that the Brits are actually the enemy—specifically in the history of our Cajun origin story. They were the folks whose empire set off the chain of events that scattered my ancestors to various parts of the world, from Nova Scotia to Louisiana, and beyond.
And that, of course, was very uncool.
It didn’t stop me, though, from marrying one almost exactly one year ago. (Don’t worry I’m currently working through this in therapy.) The biggest surprise so far, I think, has not actually been our differences—those stereotypical distinctions, like his preference for tea over coffee, calling sweaters “jumpers,” or having an aversion to extremely spicy foods. There’s also the fact that he calls the closet a “cupboard,” or how when he sees a cardinal flying by he thinks “ah what a pretty red bird” not “that’s probably my long-deceased grandfather checking in!” And I definitely wasn’t expecting the word “hayfever” to come out of his mouth when he said between sneezes that he needed to “pop into the shop for some tablets.”
Don’t worry, he has been equally perplexed by my Southern American idiosyncrasies—such as that one time I ate a scone with jam and cream like a Whopper in front of his mother.
The point is, the clash of the Americanisms vs. Britishisms did not shock me one bit; it’s actually been our many overlaps that have caused my jaw to drop onto the floor.
For one, we put the same emphasis on etiquette and politeness above all else. Yes, there are times when urgent business must be taken care of, but nothing, and I mean nothing (well, aside from situations that involve an ambulance) is too important not to say “hello, how are you” before ordering a milkshake or kicking off a Zoom meeting.
I’ve never had to explain to Rick the importance of manners at the dinner table—unlike some Northerners I’ve dated, who in my experience also frequently failed to open doors and then let me go in first.
This leads me to a second commonality that, after unpacking it a bit, (See? Rick’s use of “bit” in place of the American “little” is rubbing off on me!) makes perfect sense: we both are masters at confrontation avoidance. I immediately think of the British sign you see in every London souvenir shop: “Keep calm and carry on.” These signs are remnants from those created to keep civilians going about their everyday lives while WWII bombs were dropping from the sky. I could totally see these posted in South Louisiana with a little tweak to the language: “Baby just keep on walkin’. That’s none of our business.”
The biggest surprise so far, I think, has not actually been our differences—those stereotypical distinctions, like his preference for tea over coffee, calling sweaters “jumpers,” or having an aversion to extremely spicy foods...it’s actually been our many overlaps that have caused my jaw to drop onto the floor.
Rick isn’t always up for dancing, but like me, he is always up for dancing around an uncomfortable conversation. And an “uncomfortable conversation” can also mean “direct conversation.” It’s something my passive-aggressive self really appreciates at the right time. For example, if I think he should switch lanes to get somewhere faster, I will simply ask whomever it concerns: “Do you think we should switch lanes?” I can’t help it; I get it from my momma.
Similarly, if Rick wants to broach a subject like oh, say, my never remembering to put the doggy-poop bags in the doggy-poop-bag bin at the door, he will simply say, with 100% commitment to gestures that convey true wonder and curiosity: “Any idea where the poop bags would have gone?” Even though we both know where they’ve gone. (In my coat pocket.)
The Louisianan and the Brit also both seem to prefer a slower pace. Neither one of us are city folk by nature; I’m from Youngsville and Rick from a little village called Pitton. Living in New York City has inevitably turned up our speed dials in the way we walk and talk now, compared with how we were raised. But at our core, we both still love to stroll in no particular direction and miss the way English and Southern servers never threaten to give your table to someone else if you don’t eat faster.
Speaking of food, would you believe that when I’ve visited Rick’s family in Dorset, that I have had, on many occasions, cracklin. That’s right. You read that right. CRACKLIN. Turns out, they fry pig fat as good as we do. Them’s fightin’ words, l know, but I stand by them. The British also serve something as close to boudin as I’ve ever encountered: black pudding. The consistency is different, and good boudin can really only come from what appears to be a deserted gas station, but the fact that the key ingredient in black pudding is blood really pulled on my heart strings. I immediately thought of its Louisiana sister: red boudin, or boudin rouge. I also take solace in knowing Rick’s people too are judged by outsiders because of the regional delicacies they enjoy.
[Read this: "A Transplant Story—The misadventures of growing bayou in Brooklyn"]
This brings me to my final point. Rick and I each know well the tendency to be wary of outsiders. I’m not even talking about the UK as a whole. I mean, specifically, where Rick’s mum lives in Dorset, in a little seaside town called Swanage, which is where Rick and I got married. They have a local term for outsiders, for tourists (Or, as the rest of England may call them “hoilday-makers”); it isn’t used in any other part of England, just in Swanage, where they call people like me and my kin, “grockles.”
I’ve felt fortunate every day in this first year of our marriage that Rick picked this grockle.
In a world where we are constantly concerned about our differences, it feels good to be reminded how much more we have in common than we may think.
And anyway, grockle sounds a lot better than what I call him, which will always be, lovingly, the enemy.
Read more entries of Megan Broussard Maughan's column, “In Search of the Lost Tongue,” at countryroadsmag.com.
