Louisiana History

What if there had been no Trail of Tears?

October 13, 2026

Well, if you survived Monday, pour yourself a cup. Depending on your calendar and community, you may have called it Columbus Day, Indigenous Peoples’ Day, or Native American Day.

woman in yellow jacket and brown white floral apron holding yellow white ceramic mug — _{^{Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com}}

Whatever name you used, it got me thinking about the Oklahoma of my childhood.

When we played Cowboys and Indians on the playground, we had the real McCoys on both sides—kids from cowboy families and kids from Native families.

Sadly, the cowboys always seemed to win, and our Native friends went along with it. That was simply how we played. I don’t remember anyone questioning why the ending had already been decided.

Now that I am older, I realize how sad that was. Truly sad. Even in a childhood game, we were repeating the story we had been taught: who got to be the hero, who was expected to lose, and whose side of the story hardly mattered.

Had I understood then what I understand now, I would have wanted more victories for my friends—and a chance for them to tell the story their way.

But we had been programmed. Before we were old enough to question the script, we already knew our parts.

Growing up, we commonly used the word “Indian.” We also watched television westerns where Indians fought cowboys, and the script usually told us whom to cheer for before anyone fired a shot.

Looking back, television was doing a fair amount of our thinking for us.

I still have Native friends who call themselves Indians. That is their choice, and I respect it. People deserve to tell us who they are, rather than have the rest of us decide for them.

The Oklahoma I remember has changed. Tribal businesses and casinos became increasingly visible over the years, especially after I moved away. Places I associated with one chapter of my childhood began to look very different.

But seeing a changing landscape and understanding its history are two different things.

For years, I wondered how land purchased by a tribe became tribal land. I also confused that question with whether the land was sacred. Those are different matters: sacredness concerns religious and cultural significance, while trust status involves a legal process through which the federal government holds land for a tribe or an individual Native person.

Still, understanding that distinction leaves me with a larger question: How did we arrive at a place where Native nations sometimes have to buy back portions of the lands they lost?

That question stays with me longer than the explanations about deeds and boundaries.

What might this country look like if settlers and the governments that followed them had respected Native nations’ right to govern themselves? If agreements had been honored? If families had not been forced from their homes?

What if there had been no Trail of Tears?

Would we be better off today? Would our relationships with one another be different? What knowledge, traditions, and possibilities might have survived that were instead disrupted or lost?

I am not looking for an argument over my morning coffee. I am wondering about the distance between the history we inherited and the history we might have made.

We cannot know exactly how that other America would have turned out. But uncertainty about what might have been does not erase what actually happened.

Perhaps that is what this day brings to my table: a reason to look beyond the television westerns of my childhood and listen to the people whose histories those scripts so often pushed aside.

My coffee cannot change yesterday. But I can still learn something today.

The reference to forced removal and the Trail of Tears is supported by the National Park Service’s historical account. nps.gov

Signature of Benjamin Groff along with copyright and attribution information.

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

May 25, 2026

From Louisiana dance halls to national television, the Kershaw brothers carried Cajun music into the American spotlight with fiddles, fire, heartbreak, and unforgettable Southern spirit.

The canjun era playboys — Rusty and Doug Kershaw

There are entertainers who become famous, and then there are entertainers who become woven into the cultural identity of an entire region. Doug Kershaw belongs in that second category.

For generations of Americans, the sound of Cajun music was introduced not through textbooks or documentaries, but through the fiery fiddle and unforgettable personality of the man known as “The Ragin’ Cajun.”

Born in Louisiana in 1936, Doug Kershaw grew up surrounded by the sounds of French-speaking Cajun culture. In fact, he reportedly did not learn English fluently until around the age of eight. Music came first. By childhood he had already mastered the fiddle and was performing professionally while still young. But Doug’s rise was not a solo journey.

Standing beside him during those early years was his younger brother, Rusty Kershaw.

The Ragin Cajun era — Rusty and Doug Kershaw

Together, the Kershaw brothers became one of the most recognizable Cajun acts in America during the 1950s and early 1960s. Rusty often played guitar while Doug handled the fiddle and vocals. The pairing worked perfectly. Doug brought explosive energy and showmanship, while Rusty added a smoother musical balance that grounded the performances. Their harmonies and stage chemistry helped carry Cajun music far beyond Louisiana dance halls and onto national stages.

The brothers recorded together under names such as “The Continental Playboys” and later found growing popularity with songs that blended traditional Cajun sounds with country and rock influences. Their performances helped open doors for Cajun music at a time when much of America had little exposure to the culture. In many ways, the Kershaw brothers became ambassadors for an entire way of life rooted in the Louisiana bayous.

Doug’s signature song, “Louisiana Man,” eventually became one of the defining Cajun recordings of the modern era. Written while serving in the military alongside Rusty, the song would later be recorded by hundreds of artists and become permanently tied to Louisiana musical history.

But success also brought hardship.

By the 1960s, the brothers’ partnership began to fracture under the pressures of touring, fame, and personal struggles. Rusty Kershaw battled severe substance abuse problems for years, an issue that would haunt much of his life and career. While Doug continued rising as a solo performer known worldwide as “The Ragin’ Cajun,” Rusty drifted through periods of instability despite remaining respected by musicians who recognized his immense talent.

Still, Rusty’s influence on Southern music remained significant. He worked with major artists, performed in recording sessions, and continued contributing to the broader Louisiana music scene even when public attention faded. Musicians who knew him often described him as gifted, deeply authentic, and troubled by demons that shadowed many performers of that era.

Rusty Kershaw in Nashville 1955 — Rusty Kershaw, from recording with brother Doug.

Rusty Kershaw died in 2001 at the age of 63.

Doug, meanwhile, carried on. Like many gifted performers of his generation, he openly battled depression and substance abuse during portions of his own life, yet continued performing with the same fiery spirit audiences had always loved. His story carried the same rough edges and resilience found in the music he played.

As of 2026, Doug Kershaw is still alive at 90 years old, a living reminder of a uniquely American musical tradition that once echoed from dance halls, roadside bars, radio stations, and county fairs across the South.

Over the years many people have also confused Doug Kershaw with another famous Louisiana-born performer, Sammy Kershaw. The similarity in names, combined with their Louisiana roots and unmistakable Southern styles, naturally led audiences to assume the two men were related. Surprisingly, they are not known to be close relatives.

Sammy Kershaw rose to fame during the 1990s country music boom with songs such as “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful,” “Cadillac Style,” and “Queen of My Double Wide Trailer.” Where Doug Kershaw exploded onto stages with a fiddle and Cajun rhythms, Sammy carried Louisiana into mainstream country radio with honky-tonk storytelling and a voice many compared to George Jones.

What connected all of them was not necessarily blood, but heritage.

They emerged from the rich musical soil of Louisiana, where Cajun traditions, country music, gospel, swamp pop, and Southern storytelling blended into something that could not have come from anywhere else in America. Louisiana did not merely produce singers during that era — it produced personalities. Characters. Performers whose accents, styles, and energy reflected an entire culture.

In many ways, Doug and Rusty Kershaw helped pave the road for later Louisiana performers like Sammy Kershaw to reach national audiences while still sounding unmistakably Southern. One represented the wild spirit of Cajun fiddle music. Another represented its soulful backbone. Together they helped preserve the sound of Louisiana for generations of listeners.

And perhaps that is the real legacy of “The Ragin’ Cajun.” Doug Kershaw did not simply entertain audiences. He carried a culture with him every time he stepped onto a stage — fiddle in hand, sweat pouring under the lights, and enough energy to shake the walls like a Gulf Coast thunderstorm.