The word coonass is a slang term for a Cajun.
Cajuns, just to be clear, are former French Canadians, from the Acadia region, who were booted out of Canada in the mid-1700s when the British came to power. Some of the exiled Acadians resettled in Louisiana and parts of Southeast Texas. Cajun is a corruption of Acadian.
The origin of coonass isn’t so clear. When it first appeared, the term was considered insulting and degrading, especially when used by non-Cajuns.
But in the same way that the term redneck was appropriated by the rednecks themselves, many working-class Cajuns began to use the term coonass as a badge of ethnic pride.
Hold that thought for a moment while I switch to another track in my story.
Last month, I stopped in Apple Valley, a small community north of Jefferson, to check out a new thrift store. I wanted to see the place because not all junk stores are created equal. Some have really neat stuff.
The new store is called The Picky Peddler.
The selection there is pretty interesting. The owners are into old cameras, projectors, and record players, and they have quite a few for sale. The store also features more antiques than I expected.
But the PP is fundamentally a thrift store, so the display shelves are loaded with old clothes, used books, pots and pans, glassware, tools, dusty CDs and VHS tapes, and assorted tacky knick-knacks. I even saw couple of Chevy hubcaps.
I learned later that Wendy, the proprietor, is a designer as well as a shop owner. That accounts for the scattering of hand-made craft items amid the clutter.
What caught my eye and took my breath away when I walked in, however, was a beautiful pair of red and blue clown shoes.
They were magnificent. They sat casually on the floor near the entrance, impossible to miss.
I stood there looking down at them, admiring the spectacular, clean lines and the fine quality of the leather. These were genuine, adult-size clown shoes, clearly meant to be worn for real.
“Them shoes are beauties, aren’t they?” said a man behind me. I turned to see a 40-ish fellow with a short red beard. Whether he was an employee or a customer, I couldn’t tell.
“They’re beautiful for sure,” I said. “I was thinking they’d make a great Christmas gift for one of my sons, but I can’t decide which one.”
“Well, save your energy,” said the woman behind the counter. “They’re not for sale. I’m amazed at how many people want to buy those shoes.”
That was Wendy. The shoes, she explained, are her personal clown shoes. In addition to being a designer and a shop owner, Wendy dresses up and does clown gigs at local festivals and events.
“Those shoes are the real thing,” she said. “Inside, they’re regular shoes, in my size.”
She smiled proudly. “I could run a 5K in ‘em.”
We chatted for a minute about the clown profession — of which I know nothing, mind you. Then, smoothly, Wendy transitioned into relating a capsule summary of her life so far, starting with growing up not far from Atlanta.
I learned that she spent the past year working in New Orleans, and now she lives in Apple Valley with her husband and kids.
She and her husband, the red-bearded fellow, renovated an old store, and the Picky Peddler was born.
While she and I talked, her husband tended to the other customers. One of them, a small elderly white-haired woman, apparently overheard Wendy mention New Orleans. She approached the front counter.
She was a typical small-town Southern lady — formal, proper, old-fashioned. Her attire was simple and clean, suitable for church.
“Excuse me,” she said politely, “I grew up in New Orleans. Are you from there, too?”
Wendy was about to answer when her husband interrupted.
“No, ma’am, she ain’t,” he said. “Wendy’s a Georgia gal! I’m the coonass around here!”
The white-haired lady looked away in obvious alarm, clutching her purse tightly to her midsection. Her eyes were wide and her lips tight, as if she had just sucked on a lemon.
“I was born and raised in Jefferson Parish,” the husband continued loudly. “I’m as coonass as you get!”
The lady regained her composure a bit, but clearly she wanted to be somewhere else. I wondered whether she understood the meaning of coonass, or if she merely took offense at the word itself.
For the next few minutes, the husband engaged the disconcerted lady in a conversation about New Orleans. She responded, but tersely and reluctantly. He didn’t seem to notice. Neither did Wendy, who resumed her life story.
As Wendy proceeded, the white-haired lady edged toward the exit. The husband stayed with her, reminiscing about New Orleans and its many virtues, all the way to the front door. Fortunately, he refrained from using the term coonass again.
That day, I went home with a handsome white wicker mirror and a small figurine of a mouse eating a peanut.
Alas, what I really wanted was those clown shoes.
Laissez les bons temps rouler!
