“Say My Name”

By Rebecca Benoit

For about fifteen years I’d struggled through researching volumes of old records, land documents, and family trees in an attempt to unravel and establish factual connections within the Benoit side of my family.  I put the research on hold for a couple of years as I started planning and coordinating my retirement.

Once retired, I left California and moved to Tucson, Arizona.  The desert always appealed to me and, like others living in the Sonoran desert, I became mesmerized by the spiritual effects of desert life.  There’s something about the searing heat, and observing its effects on plant and wildlife, as they waged a daily fight for survival.  At some point you think of your own life and wonder how a “little Cajun girl from Kaplan” survived city life, travels, work, and most of all, being away from the people you grew up with and loved.  With that reflection came the ennui for those in your family who had already left this earthly plane. There was so much more to say to them, so much more to ask them- who were their people; what was it like growing up in their time; how did they feel about getting older, etc.

Soon I unpacked the genealogy files and with renewed interest, plunged back into the world of  ancestry, dna, family trees, and old stories about relatives.  With all the new data available on the internet, I was soon making progress as I was able to put pieces of the puzzle together. The path of that venture went from Louisiana, to Spain, to the Falkland Islands, to France, and then back to our Acadian beginnings in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Newfoundland.

 Why hadn’t I taken more of an interest in our history when I was younger?

It certainly was a humbling experience when I realized that the Creator, “the Universe” had waited to unload all that data at a time when I could really appreciate its profound meaning. 

With such a rich history as that of the Acadians, I often found myself filled with pride at all we accomplished and at other times, crying as I read of the number of relatives taken off their beloved land dying from disease or drowning, having been put on substandard ships chosen for us by the British.  

I became curious as to what the political scene was during those years, so I developed an historical timeline, placing my relatives into those slots as I found French and British records of their whereabouts. It was all becoming much more “real” for me.

I was living and breathing their life, and after one particularly arduous day of work, in the middle of the night, I awoke to a dream of a booming voice, “Say My Name!” This voice coming from a young man with longer, darkish hair dressed in Acadian garb, an old rifle held at his side. 

Wow, it was so loud, commanding attention, and I thought- Yes, it is the least I can do.  You, my ancestor from days long ago lived, loved family & land, and because of you, this family exists!

I no longer wanted to spend long hours working with records.  I wanted to be on the actual land my ancestors walked, or at least in the same Canadian province; to go back to our Acadian beginnings, take my genealogical lines to this land, and read their names out loud.

Like everything else falling into place in respect to my genealogy research, I did just that this past August, when an old friend announced she was going back to Canada for vacation.  Armed with dna test results for the males in our family, a timeline for all Benoits in our direct lineage, I scheduled a three week trip to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.

For a first trip to the home of our ancestors, I stumbled upon a really perfect schedule.  I made the trip with my friend Judy LeJeune, originally from Church Point, another Cajun-in-Exile living in the Southwest.  This was her third trip and she had many friends awaiting our visit in New Brunswick.  We flew into Halifax, Nova Scotia and from there made our way along the Southeast coast, rounded the cape, and stopped at the early French colonial sites previously occupied by our ancestors. Using the French and British census’ of the early 1600’s to 1755, we visited places like Pubnico, Yarmouth, Digby, then on to Port Royal (Annapolis), where my gr+grandfather, Martin Benoit arrived on L’Oranger from LaRochelle, France in 1671.

The Benoits inhabited Port Royal until around 1710 when Port Royal was captured by the British.  Martin and sons then moved into the Minas Basin, and Pisiquit areas: Cobequid, Riviere-aux-Vieux-Habitantes, and Riviere de Pisiquit.  Though there are no records of Martin after 1714, his sons were there until 1749, around the time 2600 English colonists were brought into the area.  By 1755, the year of the deportation of the Acadians, Martin’s grandsons Jean and Claude Benoit ended up on what I soon learned was now called Dorchester Island, a meeting point of the Petite Coudiac, Memramcook, and Shepoudy Rivers.  Their neighbors were the Lanoue, Landry, Aucoin, and Girouard families.  In 1755 these Acadian settlements were burned, and the inhabitants were killed or deported.

Armed with a copy of Hameaux Acadiens 1755 map found during research, I was determined to find the site.  When I showed my travel companion, Judy, the map of the Benoit’s “last stand” in Acadie, she looked at me and said, “Unbelievable, I think it’s near where we will be staying with friends in Memramcook!”  Later, when I showed the map to one of my new Memramcook friends, Nicole Landry, she expressed surprise,  “What, are you kidding? Your last name is Benoit?  I know exactly where this is, and I am from this same Landry lineage.”

The next day we began our journey to Dorchester Island.  It was only a short distance away.  Nicole was very quiet, yet excited as she had heard of, but not actually been on the island. We drove along a country road, passed an old military bunker, and turned left onto Dorchester Island Road.  For a short distance we passed neat, green fields, old apple orchards, and then came to the view of the three rivers converging and farther out, Chignecto Bay and the Bay of Fundy (old Baie Francaise).

We parked above the river held back from the Bay by an old aboiteaux system originally built by the early Benoits.  My friends knew I had to be alone on this journey.  Taking in every moment, every sound, every scent, my head was swimming with the idea that my people had actually lived and perhaps died here. 

As I walked along the path to the irrigation river, I noted a number of “No Trespassing” signs posted. When I looked out over the water, I saw a small dock and a fishing boat.  Within a matter of minutes, a car drove up at a quick speed. An elderly man walked out of the car over to me.  Emboldened by the emotion I experienced over seeing the “no trespassing signs,” I glared at him, daring him to tell me to get off the land.

I think he was taken aback.  I said the words. “I am from Louisiana.  This was, I think, the land of my people at the time of the Deportation.”  You saw his shoulders drop and color leave his face.  I was soon to learn that in this land, in old Acadie, emotions and generational memories of the Deportation run deep. 

At seeing his reaction, I took a step back and asked if he could assist me by looking at the map and confirming if I was in the right spot. Fisherman Trefethan confirmed that I was indeed on the very land shown. He even spoke of the family currently occupying the only house on the island and said he thought that Mr. Bowser, who had passed away recently, had even written a book about the island. Trefethan encouraged me to visit widow Bowser.

I later walked up to widow Bowser’s home, met with her, and she graciously let me read her husband’s book, though it only covered early 20^th century shipbuilding events. It is one thing to travel to the country of your family’s beginnings, but quite another to actually walk on the exact land they walked and worked, then sit in a home and take in the grand views.

I was now ready to go to the site of the Deportations- to Grand Pre’.  We had a solemn walk along the wooded path to the church. Once there, upon seeing tourists, I decided it would be best to later silently read the names of my Benoit lineage.  Many had died by drowning during the Deportation.

After walking around a bit and reading the history of the Acadians, I heard a little girl ask a guide in attendance, “Why did they separate the children from their parents?” the young English guide, out of earshot of the girl’s parents, responded, “Oh, they didn’t do that, it never happened, that’s just stories dear.”  My heart sank as I remembered a Boston chronicle of a Benoit, described as a “pitiful sight” walking from one village to the other looking for his children, begging a judge to have them returned to him.  With that, a flash of light, and I once again remembered the voice in my dream- “Say My Name!”

With newfound resolve, I walked up to the statue of Our Lady of the Assumption, patroness of the Acadians, in the center of the church, and read out loud the name of each Benoit deported, and when known, how they died.

When done, it felt like a victory had been accomplished.  It felt respectful.  I felt like the reason I was brought to this great land had been accomplished.

Later that evening, as I thought about the Acadians in the Maritimes walking around with our surnames, I realized that these folks, our Acadian cousins, were living proof of our Acadian strength and courage; the testament to our survival in light of the British government’s planned extinction of our people.  My Acadian cousins became precious beings.

What a gift my ancestors gave me, drawing me to this land. I knew this trip would be an emotional one for me, but I wasn’t prepared for the effects of its extreme beauty, as well as the open-hearted hospitality of its people.  Everywhere we went, when folks realized we were from Louisiana, they would walk up to us, hug us, and many cried. I soon found that some even experienced guilt for having survived by hiding in the forests of the Maritimes, while aware of all their Cajun cousins had endured.

 The rugged coastlines, soft green hills, and deep blue skies there are so beautiful they stop you in your tracks. From the first day of my trip, I wanted to walk rather than ride along the miles of breathtaking coastline, breath in the fresh air, and be still with all of its beauty. No wonder the Brits wanted to take it from us, and though they tried, did not manage to destroy our people! 

In less than two years an organized celebration of our survival will be held in the Maritimes on   August 07-23, 2009 during the Congres Mondial Acadien where Acadian/Cajun/French family reunions will be held amidst numerous festivals, concerts, plays, and art fests.                      Check out the preliminary schedules website at:  www.cma2009.ca

It’s never too early to begin plans to attend. I encourage you to go to your local library and begin your genealogical research.  Breathe life and pride into your family’s history by bringing your lineage to Grand Pre’, site of the deportation of thousands of Acadians, and read their names out loud.

See you there!

Of 8-10,000 Acadians deported from the Maritimes, about 7,000 were sent to the British colonies, captured and/or sent to jails in Halifax or England, later, some to France, while the rest that survived did so by hiding in the woods.  Others, in three years time, made their way back to Acadie by  walking in the edges of forests from Georgia, the Carolinas, and Massachusetts.  Their plight is depicted in the plays of Antonine Maillet’s Pelagie-la-Charrette performed in Bouctouche, New Brunswick’s Le Pays de la Sagouine outdoor theatre.