Louisiana Creole
I’ve always known my father’s biological side was Port Arthur certified by way of Louisiana and Arkansas, with predominantly southern Louisiana Creole roots. But growing up, my mother’s side surrounded me and my father’s adopted side, which was ingrained in Black Texas culture, tradition, and heritage. I, without a doubt, would claim Texas all day. When people would ask what my ethnic mix was, I would name Creole, just as if I were reading off a list, nothing major. I didn’t really feel connected. I knew I’d always loved the food, but that was about it. I didn’t spend much time in Houston with that side of the family. I was, and still am, a Dallas girlie to the heart.
It wasn’t until I started attending the University of Houston that I became more connected to my dad’s biological side. I would go to Port Arthur to see my great-grandmother, and I would go up North to see my great-aunt, the family griots. I would listen, write down, scan photos, and document. I still would say “Creole” in passing, not with my chest like I say “I’m from Texas!” Owning a Black American flag and a Juneteenth flag were no-brainers for me. It’s how I saw myself. That’s my culture, that’s my heritage, I know the history. I put Louisiana Creole in the same bag as I threw, and still through my Indigenous and Mexican ancestry in. I literally felt more connected to my West and Central African DNA.
As a published historian, being educated on the history is a big part of what makes me feel connected; also speaking the language and cooking, not just eating, the food. A few years ago, my great-aunt decided to put on a family reunion in Louisiana, southern Louisiana to be exact. Being able to be in these Iberia and St. Martin parishes physically was a full-on education. It took me outside of my typical Shreveport, Baton Rouge, New Orleans route. I tasted the authenticity in the food. I felt the uncomfortable humidity at the plantation. I read and listened to the history from my family and the tour guides. My mind always stayed in thought, as I was a woman from a big Texas city living in a post-slavery, post-Jim Crow, presently still fighting for Civil Rights era, trying to decipher and understand what it must have been like to be in Southern Louisiana in the past, and what it means to be a Louisiana Creole.
I’m still learning as I’m making a seat for my Creole heritage by digging deeper into the culture. I’ll forever appreciate the knowledge my griot shares with me. And with flag now in hand…I’m reminded that heritage isn’t just inherited. It’s learned, lived, and celebrated.