Bonjour mes amis!
My name is Megan Broussard Maughan, and I’m excited to welcome you to my new monthly Country Roads column, In Search of the Lost Tongue.
What began as a chronicle of my journey to learn Cajun French on Instagram and TikTok has now grown into something much bigger: an attempt to put into words the parts of our culture that don’t always translate neatly. It’s a feeling we may not be able to fully describe, but we know what it sounds like, tastes like, and feels like.
In the long-held tradition of Country Roads, we’re going beyond the magnolias, moonshine, and pickup truck stereotypes. From food to lyrics, accent quirks to local characters, together we’ll explore the corners of our part of the Gulf Coast. This is a space to celebrate the traditions, stories, and everyday moments that make our culture unmistakably ours.
If this is the first time we’re meeting: “hey, how’s ya mom and them?” I bet we have a cousin or two in common. I was born, raised, and went to college in Lafayette, Louisiana. Now I live in New York City with my husband, Rick, the enemy (he’s British); and our elderly cockapoo who hates laughter, joy, and corgis. I’m a writer and TV producer, mostly comedy, true crime, and paranormal shows—and when I’m not telling stories, I’m a student of my own heritage.
[Read Megan Broussard Maughan's story, "Overheard in Louisiana," here.]
I’m especially obsessed with the whys behind the things we do and say that are so different from the states that surround us, but so similar to other parts of the world: France, Canada, and Senegal, to name a few.
So, let’s get into the first thing I’ve been wondering about lately: Why is it that when something is so much of that thing, we have to say it twice?
Last summer, I was walking Chewbacca, our dog, on a retractable leash through Prospect Park when he must have sensed (he’s almost blind) one of three things: a squirrel, an irresistibly aromatic pee spot, or a big ass bulldog he hates for absolutely no reason except for that it’s a bulldog.
Anyway, he charged, full speed, across the walking path, and I panicked. No fight, no flight; I just froze. I clamped down on the zipping wire with my ring and middle fingers. First heat, then the unmistakable slice of skin, my engagement ring only sharpening the cut. I stared down in shock, expecting to see blood. And I did, but I also saw something gnarly and white. Bone? Was it bone?! I nearly fainted, and then I called Rick.
"Where does “bad bad” fit on the pain scale? I asked myself. Well, ten must be feeling like death, and this was just a finger. Eight to nine would have to feel like surgery would feel better. And, I wouldn’t leave my house for numbers one through four. So really, I was left working with five, six, and seven, which was perfect because it matched the intensity scale I grew up with."
“You all right?” (This is his default greeting whenever I call him. Also, it’s very important that you channel Peppa Pig when you get to his speaking parts.)
“Rick, it hurts bad bad!”
“Err…sorry? Who’s bad? Chewie?!”
“No, me!”
We met at the doctor’s office. And, in the waiting room I had time to reflect on the last time I remembered hurting myself this bad, well, this bad bad. When was the last time I said, “bad bad” out loud? I think it was in high school when I got a foot to my face as a base on the cheer squad. Being around New Yorkers for the past fifteen years, I’ve started to pick up their “isms.” (I can’t tell you how many times I say “whaddyagunnado” on a regular basis now.) It takes a little more provocation to use my Cajun-isms.
So, why did “bad bad” shoot up to the surface so easily this time?
And what is that doubling up of adjectives about, anyway? Why do we, as South Louisianans, do it?
I called up Dr. Barry Jean Ancelet, an expert on Louisiana French and linguistics. He said it was pretty simple:
“It mostly comes from the way our ancestors spoke French, and it’s drifted into the way we use English today,” he said.
[Read Megan Broussard Maughan's deep dive on the Cajun use of the word "couillon," here.]
He explained that when most of our ancestors settled in South Louisiana—our ancestors mostly began to leave France in the early seventeenth century, the Acadians beginning in 1632—French was not as standardized as it is now. The large concentration of the people who became Acadians and eventually Cajuns came from a rather tight, well-defined area, concentrated around the northern Poitou, Vendée, and the Charente areas in France. In those areas, it was common to express the intensity of something by doubling whatever adjective or adverb used to describe it.
For example, they said:
In French: Il a couru vite vite.
In English: He ran fast fast.
En français: C’est gros gros.
In English: It is big big.
En français: Lui, il fait pas ça, lui.
In English: Him, he don’t do that, him.
En français: Elle, elle a faim.
In English: Her, she’s hungry, her.
It makes sense. But what fascinates me most is that what sounds simple—even unsophisticated at first glance—is actually incredibly precise. Here’s what I mean.
When the doctor came in to look at my mess of a hand, she asked me to describe my pain level on a scale of 1 to 10.
Where does “bad bad” fit on the pain scale? I asked myself. Well, ten must be feeling like death, and this was just a finger. Eight to nine would have to feel like surgery would feel better. And, I wouldn’t leave my house for numbers one through four. So really, I was left working with five, six, and seven, which was perfect because it matched the intensity scale I grew up with.
Five = bad,
Six = bad bad
Seven = expletives.
“I’d say it’s a six,” I said to her, bracing myself for stitches.
She gave me cream for a brush burn.
On our walk home, I could tell Rick felt bad that my cut wasn’t as bad bad as I thought it was. And I was embarrassed for looking like a baby. So, he kindly babied me—picked me up my favorite pop corner chips at the bodega and put me in a cradle of pillows on the couch. It’s funny how moments of vulnerability can pull a hidden language out of me, one I don’t even realize I’m carrying until I need it.
Megan Broussard Maughan is a Writers Guild of America award-winning writer and producer with recent work for ABC's The Chase and Warner Bros. Discovery. Her short humor, personal essays and features have been published in The New Yorker, Marie Claire, Slate, McSweeney's, Southern Living and more. Connect with her on Instagram, watch her latest web series Late Bloomers, and follow her monthly Country Roads column, In Search of the Lost Tongue, a quest to keep her family's dying language alive.
