Escaping the Witness Protection Program

I think my wife believes I'm part of the Witness Protection Program.

She's from Baltimore, and I'm from Texas. I've spent time with her family in Maryland and have met some long-time family friends and even some high school and college classmates. My wife's met members of my extended family, mostly at my Aunt Dorothy's beach birthday parties (yea, Bolivar!) or at weddings and funerals; and, although she's visited Port Arthur, she's never heard anyone say, 'I knew George when . . . .'

I grew up in Port Arthur, which for those of you not from 'round here, is about 90 miles east of Houston, 10-15 miles from the beach, and a quick drive 'cross the river' to Louisiana. Except for a high school friend now married to my ex-wife, she's never met high school or college friends from my life in Port Arthur. As a result, she must think that I made it all up and that I'm hiding from . . . well, somebody. Upside . . . at least I'm important enough to have to hide.

So, who cares?

As my kids have grown older and are beginning to leave home, I'm more disappointed that they've never connected with their heritage (my mother's was born in Jeanerette, Louisiana, and grew up in Port Arthur; my dad's from Mayfield, Kentucky, and moved to Texas after World War II).

Tell my kids that they're Cajuns -- coon-asses to some -- and that boudain, dirty rice and gumbo are heavenly delicacies (sorry, I'm not a crawfish fan), and they'll look at you like you're . . . well, just about as out of touch as their dad. I left Port Arthur right after college, didn't look back and didn't visit much, and before I knew it -- after I realized that my kids thought Cajun was a chicken sandwich at Wendy's -- my parents were old and soon died.

We live in suburban Fort Worth and have no family within a six-hour drive; no family that my kids know well within the two-day drive to Baltimore (don't cry for me, Evangelina; we have friends here from all over the country . . . all over the world actually, some we've known since our arrival in Fort Worth in 1990).

If you're still with me, you're asking what's set me off?

1) Nobody in my family will eat boudain or gumbo. Dirty rice is out of the question, just on name alone.

2) I Googled "'Port Arthur' and 1974" last week, and found the blog site of a former high school classmate who I knew but not well. We chatted (why couldn't any of us be that interesting in high school?), and she closed with 'Good luck finding other TJ classmates.'

I realized that I sounded like I was looking to re-live the 'glory days (or in my case, the gory days) of high school. In reality, I think I'm Googling for that recipe to mend the disconnect between our Chili's-Home Depot-Staples-Target-Dillards (and a bunch of teen-trendy. one-word-name mall stores) suburban lifestyle and our diluted Cajun heritage.

By the way, did you know that in Baltimore they steam their seafood and not deep-fry it? After rassling for a couple of ounces of crab meat, I ask for a cheeseburger.

So . . . know any good Cajun recipes? And if you know me, but don't know anybody named Corleone (remember the Witness Protection Program? . . . oh, come on; it wasn't that bad!), holler at me.