A long, long time ago in a land not so far away, a little girl was born to a man and a woman who grew up on the bounty of the forests and waterways of Louisiana bayou country. Me.
My paternal grandparents were Islenos (Spanish speaking Louisianians from the Canary Islands, losislenos.org) and spoke native Spanish until the 1930’s. My maternal grandfather spoke French and my maternal grandmother was German. My heritage is classically Southeast Louisiana. They were fur trappers, shrimpers, and dairy farmers. And the stories they could tell…
Me? I grew up half city, half coonass. Go ahead, look that up. I’ll wait for you.
I spent my summers on the bayou with my shrimper forebears running around in a bathing suit, catching frogs (which I didn’t eat), lizards, fish, crabs, and anything else that would allow itself to be caught. I could fish, throw a castnet, swim, and shoot a bb gun with the best of them (or worst, depending on the occasion).
I’ve seen more fish gutted and filleted, more hogs skinned and butchered, more crabs picked and shrimp peeled than I can remember. And boy, do I remember and long to go back. I’ve even seen otter furs sold back when wearing fur was a status symbol and had the pleasure to catch, raise and play with more than one otter way back when.
Why do I miss it? Why don’t I go there now? It’s because hurricane Katrina destroyed completely what my grandfather began working on in the 1940’s. And the life that made me who I am no longer exists for me. But you can’t really take the bayou out of a girl with saltwater running through her veins. And so I will be Bayougrl no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, until I can no longer open my eyes and remember.