Alongside Capitaine Mariah Quebedeaux and La Patrone Danielle Gee, Ashlee Michot dubs herself "Chasse-Femme," a play on the Louisiana vernacular prononciation of "sage femme," which means "wise woman" or "midwife". Apply it to a wise woman at a chicken chase (chasse) though—and it takes on a whole new wealth of meaning.
Envision this: A gathering of people, wild and pulsing with a strange, almost primal energy, adorned in vibrant, gaudy colors and ever-dancing fringe, directed by the sound of the Cajun fiddle, the seductive whine of the accordion streaming through the air. Each face is barely human, covered by screens and giant googly eyes and grotesque renderings of well-known political figures, tangled mats of hair in every color of the rainbow, every texture too. The humid morning is scented with dewed dirt, sweat, and livestock. Someone is holding tightly to a chicken, for the moment.
For many, it is strange. Maybe frightening, this unbridled dirty frenzy. For me though, it is nostalgic, almost sacred, and so very familiar. A strange annual pre-Lenten experience inherited from generations of living on the Louisiana Cajun prairie.
On this occasion though, in this particular rendition of the traditional Mardi Gras courir, there is a quirk—an almost subtle, but at the same time deeply present change, evident when the revelers turn to the front of the fray, looking to their leader.
In this instant, it becomes apparent that they are mostly women. And so is she.
La capitaine.
And so the vision will be on Mardi Gras Tuesday in Arnaudville, as the Prairie des Femmes Courir makes its way through the historical Prairie des Femmes. It is difficult to imagine a more fitting place for one of the region’s only—if not the only—women-led courir.
“Tradition” as a concept has been pledged sacred in almost every iteration of South Louisiana culture and has a particular reverence when it comes to interpreting Mardi Gras rituals. Though, at the same time, the traditions of Mardi Gras festivities—from the New Orleans krewes to the prairie courirs—have also always been about subversion. You must know the rules first, then show us how you can most resoundingly break them.
When it comes to the courirs specifically, you’ve got the purists and you’ve got the changing-with-the-timesers. Examining the array of runs across Acadiana’s small towns, you’ll see many that have shifted to include more New Orleans-esque floats and less horses. Every year I meet someone railing against the increased tossing of actual Mardi Gras beads—a tradition historically relegated to the “big city” parades. Masks are often no longer required, and sometimes costumes aren’t either. But then you’ve got some places like Grande Mamou, known for following each of the ancestors’ methods to the tee.
One tradition that has received increasing contention in recent years is the exclusion of women in Mardi Gras runs. Historically, for a woman to engage in the mischief and disorder of the run would have been to reject their traditional roles as symbols of home, respectability, and order. Rather, women participated in Mardi Gras in such ways as costume-making, gumbo-cooking, and providing the audience for the men’s performances—though often without due recognition.
Today, women find their way into the fray, and you’d be hard pressed to encounter someone truly offended at the sight of woman sporting a capuchon, kicking up her feet, or even rolling in the mud to catch a chicken. Most Acadiana Mardi Gras courirs have evolved to include women, and in many places where the men’s organizations haven’t presented open arms, separate women’s-only runs have been organized as a “non-traditional” counterpart.
However, in places like Grande Mamou, where tradition is deemed immovable and sacred, there is no place for a woman but on the sidelines. And even in many places that promise inclusion, they still, by merit of “tradition,” require that women run only after and behind the men.
Courir de Prairie des Femmes organizer Danielle Gee moved to Louisiana fifteen years ago from California. “I fell in love with it here,” she said. “The people, the culture, the feeling that I was family and part of the community.”
She dove into this strange culture of Louisiana and inevitably came upon Mardi Gras traditions—watching YouTube videos of wild costumed men chasing chickens. “I thought it looked so fun and cool, and I loved how it was this thing that’s been passed on for so many generations,” she said. “I got really excited. But then I found out—women can’t even run, or that they had to run behind a man.”
Gee works in the unincorporated area of the Prairie des Femmes, a rural and remote place that has historically been the home of women raising families and working the land while their spouses were at war or at work.
“In this place, all of these strong women—back then and now, too—worked so hard, and not only to do everything to take care of their families, but also to run businesses or grow crops when the men were gone,” said Gee. “So I thought, in honor of them, in this place the women should get to run first.”
Ville Platte native Ashlee Michot said that she has wanted to bring the courir to the area ever since she and her husband Louis (of the Michot Melody Makers and the Lost Bayou Ramblers) moved to the Prairie des Femmes years ago. As strong proponents of Louisiana French culture, both recognized the need to keep such traditions alive throughout Acadiana, though they were never quite able, between Louis’ touring and raising their children, to commit to organizing it on their own.
And as a creative whose work is indelibly tied to womanhood and to the history of the Praire des Femmes itself, Michot said that when Gee reached out to her with the idea for a women’s chicken run through the prairie, she felt it was like a miracle. “She was reading my mind!”
Michot helped Gee and other organizers develop the plans to infuse their courir with tradition, saying that costumes would be mandatory, horseback would be encouraged, a gumbo would be made, and they would need a capitaine.
“We’ve got a lot of women in the band that we are organizing,” said Michot. “But we’ve also got some men, and I think they will be dressing as femmes, which I think is just fantastic.”
Gee makes a point that nothing about this courir is meant to be exclusionary, and that this is certainly not a women-only courir, or even a direct push back against tradition. “I want everyone to come and want everyone to feel welcome,” she said. “I’m not trying to change tradition or history. Rather, I want to acknowledge history that hasn’t necessarily been acknowledged, and to take this opportunity to honor the roles women play. “It’s important to know that we as women are important and are part of this culture. We shouldn’t have to stand behind a man. And, well, we don’t have to.”
Michot says that to have this courir be woman-run is not something that needs to appear novel, but rather a natural continuation of what has been going on all along. She says, laughing, “Someone told me, ‘Anything that’s worth anything is run and organized by women anyway!’”
Mariah Quebedeaux, a born-and-raised Arnaudville local and an employee at Gee’s store, took on the role of the Prairie des Femmes Courir’s first capitaine in 2018. She’s gone to Mardi Gras for most of her life and says she remembers chasing chickens in the children’s courirs when she was small, and how disappointing it became once she, as a girl, became too old to be included anymore. She said that she was excited for all of the firsts that this courir is bringing to her community. “Arnaudville’s first courir, the first women’s run in the area, I—a woman, and a single mom—will be its first capitaine. We’re making new traditions here.”
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