Twelve or fourteen greats ago, I don’t remember, a man named Louis looked to land across the ocean, and he dared to claim it–a place for him and for sons and daughters yet to be born. Fourteen in all.

August of 1647, his feet touched the shores of New France. Among the second wave who journeyed from France to the fresh forests of Canada, Louis Houde followed in the tracks of intrepid pioneers and did what any good settler does. He built.

Stonemason. Father. Visionary.

Laying stones, he helped build a city. Giving land, he helped build the church. Raising sons, he helped build French Canada.

And Madeline stood by his side.

—

On other shores, maybe some of my ancestors twelve or fourteen greats ago boarded ship by force, not by choice, and helped build other people’s houses under a southern island sun where the French sounds Caribbean.

Harder to trace back on that side, except in Abuelita’s veins and maybe in her Mama’s family name. It’s a story of hard work done between the sea and the sky, of love and loss and a tear-filled eye. Of backs half-broken, and nearly the will, but justice dies never, and God is good still.

Endurance, this legacy hidden in our veins–a love that suffers but never complains. Thank you for building, though I don’t know your names. Thank you for living in spite of the chains.