Acadians

OK, my favorite subject.

We were the "other French colony" - comprising present day Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island and Maine. As such we bore the brunt of British colonal attacks out of Boston and New York.

My g-g-g-g-g-g-grandfather (Barthelemy Bergeron d'Amboise) had come from France with the military and fought in Hudson Bay and in New York. He married into a family that had been granted the whole Passamaquoddy Bay, where the St. Croix river flows into the Bay of Fundy. He and his wife (Genevieve Serreau de St-Aubin) were "given" Campobello Island for their home after their wedding. They lived there, on and off, for about 25 years, until they moved to the area that is now Fredericton, NB. Barthelemy was a privateer in wartime and a sea-going merchant along the Fundy in peace time. The English called him a pirate and smuggler. His son who was my g-g-g-g-g-grandfather was also a sailor and merchant.

The next one in my family tree was a real hero. After the deportation by the English in 1755 (in French it's called "The Great Insanity") a group of families tried to stay in the Fredericton NB area, but were constantly attacked by soldiers and rangers. The latter were from Massachussetts, wanted more land up there and had a veangeance thing for all the past wars. Quebec would attack the English, and all they saw was Frenchmen, so they'd attach Acadia because it was close and easy to get to. The Rangers were especially nasty, killing women and babies if they couldn't get anyone else. (One of their leaders later became a Massachussetts hero of the American Revolution.)

After about 10 years of this, Michel Bergeron, a carpenter with a lot of woodsman skills (he had Indian uncles), led a group of ten extended families through the forest all summer, up to the St. Lawrence River. They wintered in a small village there, then canoed upriver to a spot across from Three Rivers (Trois Rivieres), where they settled. Then Michel worked in the city for cash so the families could buy tools, seeds, and food to live on until the next crop came in. For his selfless work, he was given a long life (he died at age 96 in the early 1800s) with lots of family. My paternal grandfather came from the region that Michel had settled.

I am working on a book about these first three generations of Bergerons in the Americas. I just found out about these people 10-12 years ago and have made their story my passion. If I ever go back for my Master's Degree, I'd like to study the relationships between black, white and Indian people in New England and Acadia. Whether they are willing to admit it or not, every Acadian has SOME Indian in their family tree, but once they got to Quebec, they didn't like to talk about it. The Acadians who became Cajuns in Louisiana very quickly mingled with Indian folks down there.

I have a paper published on the internet that will form the basis for the book. It is called Three Acadian Generations: The First Bergeron d'Amboises in the Americas. See www.acadian.org/bergeron.html. I try to keep the "d'Amboise" part with the name as much as possible, because one branch of the family has kept it, or a variation, as its family name. I have a cousin in New Hampshire named Joe Damboise.

Poetry Time

Shock and Awe – 1961 and 2000-What?

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, how’d you do your thing?

How could you be in the noise and the crowd,
Sit there for just one short hour,
Come back with your special power
And might?
Don’t think twice, it’s all right.
You said you don’t even know
How your songs ever came out so.
You certainly never tried to make them great.
But wait!
That music must have beeeeen
Just a-blowin’ in the wind.

But more important still,
You started rearrangin’
Our conscience and our will
‘Cause the times, they were a-changin’ -
wakin’ feelings in the numb,
transformin’ marchers’ fear,
givin’ voices to the dumb,
makin’ politicians hear,
movin’ power to the people
chanting we shall overcome.

You put some simple words to music in your head
And changed the world once before.
Now we’re in another war
‘cause politicians lied,
Continued with that song that says God is on our side.
And it keeps on goin’ like a rollin’ stone
So we’re headed for a complete unknown.

We need to discover how you did it back then
‘cause we really must start the stones a-rollin’ again.
Look out, kid, it DOES matter what you did.
Now we got to get this movement on the wing
So, hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, how’d you do your thing?

Story Time – Real Muslims

In November of 1962, not long after the Cuban Missile Crisis was over, my ship pulled into Karachi, Pakistan, for a well-earned rest. We would relax here for a while and enjoy our Thanksgiving dinner.

One day, a Saturday, as I was standing watch on the quarterdeck, I was called on to recruit volunteers to go to a tea party to be given that afternoon by the Pakistani Navy at PNS (Pakistani Naval Station) Dilawar, a local navy base. Few of these hard-drinking woman-chasing American sailors wanted any part of a tea party. Now, I was also always on the lookout to learn more about people and their culture and history. I expressed my regret that I had the duty and couldn’t go, but the officer of the watch suggested I get a standby. This turned out to be easy because I had already stood my watch, and the ship only needed a body in case of fire or some other emergency.

We had tea and a number of tidbits – tiny bananas, some very spicy tarts, a sweet cookie, etc. All of us there were very conscious of being the strangers in a strange land. The food was different. The tea had milk and sugar in it. And we had been constantly warned throughout the Muslim world not to ever eat with our left hand or offer it (or anything in it) to another person. (In the old days, in the desert with little or no water, the left hand had been used for certain personal cleanliness functions and was therefore soiled. The functions changed with time, but not the customs of politeness.)

Then they put on a magic show with some fabulous tricks. One trick was writing in any language on a piece of paper. Two guys wrote something, then the papers were burned after being folded and sealed in envelopes. Two small slates were scribbled on with chalk and the ashes were placed between them. When the plates were taken apart, the ashes had disappeared and writing was on the slates, one message on each – the same language, the same handwriting, the same size as had been written on the papers.

Another trick involved a rope which had been cut before our eyes. The ends were placed together and zip! The rope was whole – no knots – perfectly, as if it was just made. Then the two loose ends of the rope were placed together, and zip! The rope was a loop – no knots, as if it had been made that way.

A ring was borrowed and made to disappear. Then a sailor was asked to unwrap a ball of twine about three inches in diameter and four inches long. The twine had covered a whole egg, which was then broken. It held a nut inside. The nut was busted open and there was the ring.

Another ring was made to disappear and a sailor was asked to cut open a grapefruit. The ring was inside.

On the bus on the way back I met a Pakistani sailor from Dacca, East Pakistan (now Bangladesh), who had been sitting behind me during the magic show. His name was H. U. Ahmed. We made friends instantly, so I offered to show him around my ship. He got a big kick out of the coke machine, how it worked automatically. He even asked me to buy a second one so he could watch more closely! Then we talked for quite some time, during which I expressed my interest in learning more about Pakistan and its people. So we made arrangements to meet the next day about 1400 (2:00pm); we would go to the movies (Pakistani style) and then to the international trade fair here.

On Sunday afternoon, I left the ship before Ahmed arrived to watch a show on the pier being put on for the Americans: a fight between a cobra and a mongoose. The handler had a leash on the mongoose and turned the cobra loose. This was of some concern to me at first, but that cobra wasn't interested in anything else than his mongoose enemy. The mongoose started snarling and the cobra started hissing and spitting as soon as they saw each other. As the two were placed facing each other, the mongoose couldn’t show his real stuff (running round and round the cobra, which watched the furry little rodent, which made the snake dizzy). However, it did run back and forth a little, and then we saw how fast the mongoose was, for it suddenly attacked. In the blink of an eye, it held the cobra’s head between its needle-toothed jaws. The snake writhed violently, wrapping itself around the animal’s body, but to no avail. The serpent’s head was soon crushed, and the mongoose kept gnawing, probably until the handle pulled it off or until the snake’s head fell off.

I didn't see that part of the show, because Ahmed arrived and we prepared to go to the “Bengali film.” We went to the theater and Ahmed bought the tickets for a show that would begin in an hour or so. He paid for both of us (“My treat!” he said.). Then we went to have tea and more of those great cookies. He paid.

“You are my guest,” he smiled.

The movie had been made in Bengal (East Pakistan at the time, now Bangladesh) but was in Urdu, the official language of the country and the main language spoken in West Pakistan. The name of the movie was “Chanda” (emphasis on the last syllable). It portrayed the struggle of modern thinking against old customs.

{The movie’s story line – skip if you don’t want all the details: A stranger comes into a region of Bengal. He fell in love with Simki. Also, he saved the life of Chanda, the local king’s daughter, and she fell in love with the stranger. Many struggles and hardships occurred, including the imprisonment of Simki – I don’t remember why, and my notes don’t help – and her release by Chanda, who had a bit of pull since she was the king’s daughter. There was also a villain, of course, and he wanted to have his way with Simki, by force if necessary. And so the stranger battles the villain and kills him by throwing him over a cliff. Now it was against the law for a local woman to fall in love with an outsider, and so Simki was condemned to death by cobra bite. Chanda, who also loved the stranger and felt that even if she lived she wouldn’t have a chance of getting him (against the law, remember?), so she took Simki’s place and died. Chanda was delivered to the sea by the stranger (as burial). The death of his daughter made the kind realize how bad that law was, and he repealed it, and so Simki and the stranger lived happily ever after.}

This movie, a fairy-tale story that was crude by American Hollywood standards, was in its 33rd week of play, and was a favorite hit of the Pakistani people. Ahmed and I sat in the very back row so we wouldn't bother any one; he translated the story for me, just about line for line, in a loud whisper.

Next we went by taxi (which Ahmed paid for) to the outskirts of the city, to the P.I.F., the Pakistani International Fair, a good sized trade fair. We ate sugar cane (which Ahmed bought), getting at the sugar by biting off a chunk of the cane, chewing on the inside pulp until the sugar was gone, then spitting out the remains. Ahmed also bought some some “pan” (pahn) for us, a very spicy and aromatic mixture of shredded spices and herbs (including betel) wrapped up in a large leaf. It is chewed for a long time to extract the good tastes and releasing the aromas. The red juice acts as a breath freshener and helps the digestion. We saw a number of displays and Ahmed explained everything he could from his part of the world.

At one point, we almost had a fight. I wanted to buy some souvenirs and gifts for folks back home and again he insisted that he should pay for them. I refused.

“But you are my guest!” he persisted. We got around the problem when I explained that I was willing to accept his paying for me as his guest, but these were things for others whom he didn’t know and who weren’t with us. So he resigned himself to letting me pay for my souvenirs.

By the way, Ahmed made about 100 rupees a month. At the time, I was making over six times that amount.

But this isn’t the end of the story. Ahmed got me back into the city and we were waiting for a bus that would take me back to my ship. However, he had watch-standing duties to perform, so he asked another Pakistani sailor, a chief petty officer, to escort me. I replied that once I got on the right bus I would be all right, but, no, I was a guest, and would be escorted. So I said good-bye to Ahmed and got onto the bus – the Chief had already paid for me.

One of my “hobbies” was to collect as complete a set of coins and bills as possible from every country I visited. But since Ahmed had paid for everything, I’d had no chance to get any coins at all (I had bills from my money changing on board my ship). The buses in Karachi are British style, with conductors in the aisles to make change and collect fares. So I asked the Chief if he would have the conductor make some change for me. He asked why and I explained. Then, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins. He started going through them, extracting different ones, asking “Do you have one of these? How about one of these? Here, take two of these, they’re small.”

And so I got my coins from Pakistan.

I have often marveled at the treatment of guests by people in other countries and prayed that visitors to our country could find Americans who were as selfless and generous. And when people today begin to rail about how horrible those Muslim people are, I shake my head and tell them this story. Ahmed and the Chief, not the terrorists, are the real Muslims, following the real teachings of Islam.

He's a poet...!

Sample of my poetry - the only thing I've ever memorized. I prefer to expend my energy performing my poetry (not reading it). Here it is:

SNOWFLAKES AND CINDERS

Why, oh disillusioned people, do you dare

Depart from searching for the snowflake rare

To build a life of cinders, mud and sand,

When graceful crystals melt no longer on your hand?

Notice of reading by some of the best poets of color around (they let me read with them), the poets of Guild Press:

Sunday, October 23, 2005, 4-6pm
Heritage Community Center
(Heritage Park Housing, Olson Hwy & Bryant Ave N, Minneapolis)