Éloge du Chiac Disco

(Or: That Time I Saw Lisa LeBlanc in DC)

One day late in 2023, I learned that another Acadian would soon be in Washington, DC. 

I moved to DC four years ago for grad school. Since then, I've been linguistically lonely. Like most other Acadians, I speak a particular kind of French—a French that most French speakers have trouble understanding (and, in some cases, tolerating). Sometimes, we call it “Chiac.” Sometimes, that doesn't really work. We don't worry too much about le mot juste. We just use le mot qu'y faut.

This weird, wacky dialect—that shows traces of English, of resistance, of our mistakes and our triumphs—is so precious to me. Only a few hundred thousand people speak it, and they're mostly concentrated on the East Coast of what is commonly called Canada. So, for four years, I've been thinking: what are the odds of finding someone else who speaks it in DC (except if “being here” includes calling me on the phone)? 

Maybe another Acadian has been nearby all along. If so, they haven't seen the little flag on my keychain, or the sticker pasted to my water bottle. Or maybe they did, but they didn't want to reach out. Maybe they're just hiding somewhere I haven't looked yet.

Sometimes, especially when I'm walking in DC's more posh or touristy neighbourhoods, I hear the sounds of France or Québec. When I'm feeling really desperate, those voices almost sound homeish. But what I speak is so different. I just want it spoken back to me. I'm hungry for its sounds, its rhythms, the way it thumbs its nose at the norm. 

All that to say: when I saw that Lisa LeBlanc, who is probably the most famous living Acadian, was going to play at Jammin Java, I was elated. She was coming! To DC (or, technically, to Vienna, VA)! When I announced the news to my folks back home, they couldn't believe it. I bought six tickets and invited some friends to come with me.

On the night of the show, we piled in my roommate's Ford and made our way to the venue. I wore my favourite Lisa LeBlanc t-shirt and, since I have several, I lent another to one of my friends. He wore it proudly. I couldn't help hoping some other fan would spot us, recognize that we were in the know, and offer to be my Acadian-home-away-from-home.

Lisa LeBlanc is a huge deal in Acadie—she fills the biggest concert halls we've got. But that night, the room was mostly empty. Some folks seemed to be there for music, any music. Some seemed to know the stuff from her English album. Most folks didn't seem to have an attachment one way or another and were sitting toward the back, where you could more easily get food and beer. 

No one else seemed to be desperate for sounds. 

A few minutes before start time, I spotted someone wearing an Acadian flag as a cape. I went up to him and asked, “Hey! Do you have Acadian ties?” And then again in what might have been our shared dialect: “Allo! T'es tu Acadien? Tu viens d'où?” 

He looked at me blankly, especially when I switched to Chiac. He said that no, he wasn't Acadian at all. He was from New Jersey. But he'd worked at a summer camp in Maine a few years ago and picked up the flag as a souvenir. He was wearing the flag because it was “basically merch for this show.” I couldn't find the words to answer him. 

Soon after, the lights dimmed, and Lisa came out. To the building sounds of disco music, she stepped off the stage and danced through the bar, inviting those in the back to inch forward and form something like a crowd. Reluctantly, or perhaps just shyly, people shuffled forward.

But she didn't need to do much coaxing once she really got going. Back onstage, she was dazzling. I mean, she was utterly phenomenal. She sparkled. My friends were wide-eyed and excited. I was ready to burst out of my skin. Par les p'tits, folks got into it. By the third song, everyone was dancing. 

Sometimes, she explained what the Chiac songs were about. She sang a few English songs, too. But most of the time, she just played her music and let her words speak for themselves. She sang expressions that live in my heart, like “pets de soeurs” and “ça pas d'allure” and “au pire, on rira ensemble.” They all reverberated through the speakers and wrapped themselves in and around me. For a few seconds, I felt like I could have been in Shediac, or Bouctouche, or Grande-Digue, or Moncton, or Cap-Pelé. 

When the lights eventually came up, folks started cheering for a few more songs. Rhythmically, the crowd shouted “encore”—the French word everyone says when they want another one.

Without thinking, I yelled, “Une autre!” It's what we yell at home. Used to taking my cues at this show, my friends started yelling it with me, over and over again. 

And then something beautiful happened. The stranger next to me looked over and saw we were doing something different. They leaned in and listened. Then, they looked into my eyes, a question in theirs, and practiced repeating it with me: “Une autre? Une autre! Une autre!”

Then their friends caught on and joined in, too. Others followed. Soon, dozens of folks started practicing the sounds on their tongues. “Une autre,” with the elided r, turning a DC crowd into the perfect host for an Acadian star.  

She came back onstage to those sounds and sang une autre.  

That night, I went to a concert hoping to hear one person speak familiar sounds; instead, a room of people I didn't know sang my sounds back to me. They held me into them—just because they could, just because it was beautiful, just because they'd been dancing and wanted to keep going. 

Selves are so radically vulnerable to others' grasps—we are held and misheld, recognized and misrecognized, tenus et entretenus. But here is a truth: we can be reminded of who we are, even by folks who don't really know us yet, and even by folks wouldn't be able to fully articulate us back to us. We can learn to hear the sounds others need. We can learn to make living, breathing art with them. We can learn to coordinate our voices to make brilliant, boisterous chorales. 

DC didn't ever become a home to me. But generous, lovely people with worlds of their own have learned to make new sounds. And their sayings create little pockets where I can belong.

I teach my love to say “ch't'aime,” and he does.

My roommate asks my cat, “quisqui fait des bons choix?” (And, when needed, sometimes scolds, “On fait pas ça!”)

My friends learn songs and hum the tunes and come to concerts.

Some students and teachers try to pronounce my name. 

And so, little homes are carved out for me—by the generous, curious, open spirits of others. May we all try to hold each other like this. 

• • •

Et toi, l'acadien(ne) que je n'ai pas encore trouvé(e): J't'e tiens, toi aussi. J'te hâle vers moi. Viens me chercher. Je t'espère. On se fabriquera des carapaces linguistiques qu'on portera ensemble. On mettra en musique les sons qu'il nous faut. On inventera des orthographes pi des projets de poèmes multilingues.

Et à tous celleux que j'connais pas encore, à tous celleux que j'reconnais pas, que j'reconnais mal: j'garderai mes yeux ouverts. I'll keep listening for you. Tiens bon, toi aussi. J'ouvre grand mes bras. Ouvre les tiens. C'est tout c'qu'on a d'besoin.^[1].