A Dubious Interview with Gus Babineaux
an excerpt from Burnside Soleil’s debut
Gus Babineaux, the peculiar historian of Berceuse Parish, comes from the swamp but believes South Louisiana is about more than the swamp. His efforts to document our humble village have finally found its form in a curious book, which we met over the course of three days in Berceuse to discuss. I proposed the interview should be conducted at Peach’s, our beloved local bar, but he declined and insisted I view him in his natural habitat: his cottage with a wide front porch. Given that he, unusually, has no outside seating, we talked inside where he offered me tea to be cordial, though he couldn’t brew it. He had no tea. Pressed further, he admitted that he has never bought tea in his life.
Along with Burnside Soleil, whose whereabouts remain unknown, Gus Babineaux is the narrator and editor of The Berceuse International Youth League & The St. Herménégilde Society for General Upkeep & Social Benefaction Presents A Melancholic Fantasia in the Tradition of Lonely Swamp Pop, a Collage of the Culture & Peculiar History of Our Parish as Figured in the Tragicomic Soleil Family, Especially Our Unofficial Town Poet Laureate, Burnside Soleil, in Conjunction with Gus Babineaux, an Historian of Dubious Origins & Compiler of This Fine Book, Berceuse Parish.
—Pervice Thibodeaux, scholar and lifelong resident of Berceuse Parish
THIBODEAUX: Hopefully, this collection of poems, letters, news clippings, historical jottings, and more will generate considerable public interest and tourism. So where is Berceuse Parish? How does one get there?
BABINEAUX: Berceuse Parish is located between a bayou and a river, Brasseaux and Waxtuygi, and it can be arrived at via vehicle—car or van, in addition to truck, of course, though I have my aesthetic objections against that machine.
Berceuse and Lunchville are the only towns in Berceuse Parish.
A local scholar, Augustine Lirette, claims “berceuse” denotes the second meaning of the word, “rocking chair,” not “lullaby.” If you tread beyond the grassy fields that a retired literature professor (that’s you) calls a “heath,” then you’ve left town.
If in doubt, follow the yellow brick road to get there.
THIBODEAUX: I believe one should ideally arrive by boat. Even better, a traditional pirogue.
BABINEAUX: We’re not that kind of town. This isn’t that kind of book. You might be looking for more about gumbo or étouffée, or perhaps I’ve been remiss and haven’t chosen poems and ephemera replete with zydeco and washboard similes and metaphors, whatever kind of cultural kitsch that typically interests the tourist—which is to say, they seek what they can recognize.
THIBODEAUX: Since you’ve brought up a fraught subject, I must express my disagreement. I think that your statement could be interpreted as an affront to many Cajuns or cadiens—or however we’re supposed to name our people in modern parlance. I will push the point a touch further. One could object to your role as historian and documentarian, that you miss out on the spirit of our storied region.
BABINEAUX: I have been chided for exceeding what others sometimes deem an acceptable provincial dialect, a Francophone glossolalia authentic to the swamp. You don’t talk so “Cajun” yourself. But there’s no one idiom in South Louisiana.
Call us Cajuns, or cadiens preferably, or even a slew of other monikers that traffic in stereotypes of lazy, illiterate Francophones contrasted with assiduous and enterprising Anglophones. It’s amusing because, for some, they imagine the diaspora as settled and, now, insular, so when I show this book to “outsiders,” they balk, incredulous. The book goes all over, including Sicily and Philippines. Some wonder how these people in the book can travel all around, from Colorado back to the East, when they’re supposed to be orbiting only crawfish boils. Do you think we know only swamps, not the mountains and rivers and snow? Read a book.
THIBODEAUX: Ours is an unusual parish, I will credit you that point. One could say it is unlike any other parish to ever have existed.
BABINEAUX: It’s unusual, sure, but also in ways, we’ve heard parts of this story before. Like most settlements in the South, Berceuse is vexed by a history that has little to salvage, except for the century or so of subsistence farmers who lived often enough in collaboration, not conflict, with les indigènes, espagnols, français, gens de couleur libres, et al. During the 19th century, the parish population reached an apex—a modest number, complete with a homegrown abolitionist, Dacpsy Brunet, who converted many townspeople with her evangelical zeal; however, in 1835, les vilains from Broguin torched several establishments, and some homes, threatening the livelihood of many and diminishing the morals of almost all. Dacpsy vanished, presumed dead.
THIBODEAUX: Yes, a fascinating history, to be sure, and forgive the intrusion, but given that this book is supported by the generous sponsorship of the Berceuse International Youth League, perhaps one should elaborate not only on the history, but also the present wonders of our village.
BABINEAUX: Yes, fine. A single store, Berceuse Co., and two churches, St. Herménégilde and First Baptist Mission, are the limited but vibrant cultural epicenters of our town. Le Parlement de Berceuse almost daily informs its citizens in one of the few remaining bilingual papers in Louisiana, except when it doesn’t because Michel Lefrere drank too much the previous night, indisposed at his shack where he will still tell you some news if you knock on the kitchen window and furnish the sill with an offering of whiskey.
THIBODEAUX: It indeed sounds as though the news source can hardly be credible. Let’s get to the heart of the matter, though. I have never quite read a history like yours. Importantly, you draw upon the poems of Burnside Soleil to tell a story. As I’ve mentioned, you have letters and news clippings and more. Why not write a more traditional and comprehensive history of our beloved parish? Truthfully, I wonder at the support you’ve received from our cultural organizations, but as they say, any publicity is good publicity, perhaps.
BABINEAUX: I narrated the story the only way it could be narrated. There are only parts. This is a book about family, or about a parish as figured in a family—a strange one: a failed faith healer turns his yard into a garden of glass seraphim, a mother renames trees in secret, and a boy digs a grave for mice beneath the oaks. I cannot tell you everything. I have what’s left of that old Berceuse. I have the incomplete record, gaps and silences generous enough. I do not know what became of everyone I narrated about, not exactly. You may consider this meddling, this constellation of poems and letters and notes and scraps. But I think all things want a pattern.
THIBODEAUX: I am seeing a pattern here of unconventional methodologies and obscure answers. Unlike the very best historians, you haven’t said the most essential thing directly.
BABINEAUX: What am I not saying?
THIBODEAUX: I’ve retired from instruction, I’m afraid. But let me try this. Why should anyone read this book of yours? It sounds as though it will teach them nothing about the real Louisiana. You have captured so few of our precious folk traditions.
BABINEAUX: My dad, Nicolas Jean Babineaux—that’s why anyone should read the book. No one is one thing.
When he was a boy, he once stole a library book about Hell. It had lots of depictions, including Botticelli’s illustrations of the Inferno. My dad was as country as you could get, a small man, intelligent and literate without having attended anything beyond middle school. But all my dad’s life Botticelli fascinated him, up until his death from lung cancer.
When I was young, my dad read miraculous Biblical stories as we bunked in the old houseboat, tales like Jesus feeding thousands from a few fish and some loaves, the scarcity prayed into plenty. I especially liked the dead coming to life again and incessantly asked about decomposition. It was the default, that the world surged with some peculiar unnamable magic.
This is a book about fathers. My own grandpa, like Burnside’s father, left after farming cane for decades. He kept walking, and no one knew where he ended up. He didn’t know how to write, so couldn’t even send a postcard. But my dad stayed until he couldn’t.
I can’t help myself. All of these men, gone, returning now in these pages I narrate. It’s not an act of grace, not forgiveness. It’s spring. My dad, too. Spring.
One evening, we marveled at the clouds, silent and then suddenly luminous. We had been riding in his red truck. My dad said it’s not real, heat lightning. It’s a myth that temperature could crackle with light. But it’s pretty, prettier than the truth, he said. A good story.
I keep telling it.