Moncus Park: It Was You... It Was Always You

To: Moncus Park

It Was You….It Was Always You

Moncus Park is the place where I first understood that Lafayette was going to become my home. It only feels right that the first feature of Love, Letters to Lafayette is about the park. That was always a given. What I couldn’t quite put my finger on, however, was why. In the spirit of investigation, I decided to visit Moncus and ask the park myself.

Upon arriving, I let myself wander, taking in the layout, the scale, and all its features with the familiar eyes of someone who’s been here many times before.

I watched the myriad of couples strolling side by side. Some were mid-debate, using their free hands to paint the shape of their arguments, while newer couples seemed to be asking one another the quieter question: “Who are you?”

I then turned my attention to the fitness groups emerging into the cooler evening air, finally making exercise possible again after the day’s intense heat. Admittedly not exercising, I watched in rapt attention the various mixed-age running groups, kids’ play clubs, a boot camp (or a cult, I’m not sure which) where everyone donned sky-blue T-shirts while running the same drill back and forth. My personal favorite? A bubble bonanza—Lord, if I ever have to run, let it be through a cloud of dense, iridescent bubbles. Amen.

By this time, I had pulled out my phone to start taking pictures as I followed the winding walking paths. After walking the perimeter of Lake Reaux, I found a spot in the grass overlooking the water, and it was there that I greeted the spirit of Moncus.

For someone who expressly came to speak to the park, I was shocked to hear it actually respond.

Rolling with it, I jumped right in. “I’m writing a feature on you. I’m not sure what to say, so I figured I’d ask you. Thoughts?“ As if Moncus had been waiting for me, it answered right on cue.

“I want you to say that I’m for everyone.”

Easy enough, I thought to myself.

Then it added, “I want you to capture my essence.”

“And what is that exactly?”

“Community. Togetherness.”

I wrote it down.

Curious, I asked, “Why?”

It was here I hoped for something profound—something worth writing about.

Instead, Moncus simply offered, “Because it’s more fun that way.”

I nodded. “Of course.”

That was as good a reason as any.

I landed in Lafayette as a Hail Mary after closing the door to my international teaching career and soul-searching by means of a self-prescribed sabbatical through Mexico. By the time I returned to the U.S., I was jobless, carless, and savings-less.

Coming here was extended to me as a compassionate act of grace rather than a conscious decision based on any knowledge or research.

I needed something. And Lafayette was the only thing on the menu.

The offer came while I was visiting family for Thanksgiving. At one point, my mom asked, mostly in jest, if I’d ever consider moving here. Having spent years abroad, I considered myself worldly and cultured, so I scoffed at her suggestion.

As fate would have it, Thanksgiving dinner turned into a job opportunity. My cousin—someone I’d never really had much of a relationship with before—managed a restaurant and needed a good server. I needed cash, and it was right before Christmas. Unemployed and with my calendar conveniently wide open, I said yes.

That one decision solved three problems at once: a new job, a place to stay—thanks to my aunt and uncle’s spare bedroom—and a car, courtesy of my dad.

Already things were looking up. Where it would lead, I had no idea, but after months of feeling stalled, I was finally cooking with gas.

The restaurant gig started strong. Christmas was the perfect time to come on board: high volume, good turnover, generous clientele, and even more generous tips. But because I had to work through Christmas, I invited my parents to spend the holiday here with me and the rest of the family.

The invitation came with one request: Please accompany me while I get acquainted with this strange new place. With the family corgis in tow, they made the six-hour drive from Dallas. Now it was only a matter of one question: Where should we go first? The obvious choice was the Saturday morning Farmers and Artisans Market at Moncus Park.

The moment we arrived, I was taken by it.

As a world traveler, I have seen many a public park. Imagine my surprise that the best one I’ve visited so far is Moncus, hands down.

It was the scale that impressed me first. Rolling hills stretched across the property, crisscrossed by winding walking paths and a beautifully maintained gravel running trail. Beyond that, there was the playground and splash pad, anchored by the Savoy Treehouse—a kind of adult playground in its own right, complete with a 225-foot ADA wheelchair-accessible ramp that leads to a platform lookout over the park.

We started at the far end where the market is held and were welcomed by an array of people and their dogs. Officially, it was a farmers and artisans market. Unofficially, it was the weekly dog parade.

We couldn’t take five full steps without people stopping us to ooh and ahh over our two corgis, Gracie and Ollie. They reveled in the abundance of attention and gladly received pets from eager passersby who delighted in greeting them.

I’m not able to accurately express how touched I was by that first visit. Something about that morning stayed with me long after we left.

Another observation that stood out to me from that first visit was that it’s a state-of-the-art park and everyone in attendance was entirely…ordinary. It didn’t seem to attract any one specific type of person but a little bit of everyone.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what belonging feels like. When no one fits a particular mold, it gives you permission to not fit a mold either. Whatever self-consciousness or apprehension I had arrived with quietly began to dissolve over the course of our visit.

That day I came to see myself as a natural and inevitable part of the crowd—one more ordinary person among many.

We left the farmers market to explore the rest of the park. The well-paved walking trails guided us back to the heart of Moncus, and we watched the scene gradually change around us.

Crossing the bridge, we were instantly greeted by the frenetic energy of the playground and splash pad. Continuing further, the noise and electricity of the playground faded into the background, introducing us to Lake Reaux, where walkers, runners, and anglers coexisted harmoniously along the water’s edge.

Peppered among the expanse of verdant fields were the less ambitious folks, stretched out and lackadaisical, taking in the midday sun. As we approached the far end of the park, the crowds thinned and everything seemed to slow down. The layout felt like an interactive musical score, a sharp crescendo followed by a steady decrescendo.

By the time we crossed to the other end of the park, it was mid-afternoon and the Louisiana sun boasted its heat—yes, even in December—effectively reclaiming the day. It was time to go home. As we left, I tucked Moncus away in the back of my mind as a place worth returning to.

As we drove away in the direction of home, I looked back at the park and it struck me.

Whatever low-key panic I’d been carrying—that unsettled feeling of being new to a place and not having your bearings yet—quieted just long enough for a small window of possibility to open.

I felt comforted by the park’s accessibility and knew that it was there for me whenever I needed a change of pace or scenery.

For the first time since arriving back in the U.S., I felt that I was on the right path, still completely unsure of where it would lead.

Since that first visit, a couple of months had passed as I hustled through full-time serving shifts, continued living in my aunt and uncle’s spare bedroom, and tried to make sense of what came next.

Around that time, my cousin’s wife, Lyndsey—now a close friend and confidante—invited me to Yoga in the Park, a free Wednesday evening class held on the grass in front of the amphitheater.

I accepted, and we arrived with yoga mats in hand: Lyndsey, very pregnant, and me, curious to see how the evening would unfold. I was thrilled by the turnout. Easily more than seventy-five people had gathered, representing every age, shape, size, color, and level of fitness.

Once again, Moncus seemed to magnetize a little bit of everyone. I was impressed.

Settling into my mat, I noticed how at ease I felt. I wasn’t conspicuous or out of place. Again, I observed that I was one ordinary person among many, there to move my body outside on a pleasant evening in the park.

At this point, Lafayette was still just a landing place in my mind—a temporary foothold while I waited for the next, more legitimate chapter of my life to begin. But it was that afternoon when something shifted.

During the flow, increasingly pissed off by the fast pace, I glanced over at my very pregnant friend, who, of course, was effortlessly nailing every transition.

The realization landed with surprising clarity: I was already in my life. I had never left. It just changed. And for better or for worse, this was it.

That was the first time I felt grounded. As if this new city might actually be capable of holding me. From then on, I began to sense that something deeper was taking root, however slow or imperceptible.

This was when my heart and mind began to open—a noticeable softening toward what this place would come to mean to me.

Through an ongoing correspondence, a friend provided the words that helped me see Lafayette for what it is. He described the warmth and affection he felt for his own town as “a community that shows up for itself,” and I recognized that I was standing in a place that does that too.

The seed was planted—maybe there was more to Lafayette, and the people who live here, than I’d originally let myself believe.

The question of “Why Moncus Park?” was resolved. Moncus Park is what a community that shows up for itself creates. Every kind of community member is reflected across its hundred-acre expanse, and, in turn, every kind of community member shows up to enjoy it.

I write this as an ode to Moncus and, by extension, to Lafayette and the people who cared enough to make a place where someone who had never before set foot here was somehow already considered—already reflected.

Moncus told me to write, “I’m for everyone.” At first, I assumed it was talking about Lafayette and everyone else. But somewhere along the way, through the process of writing this, I realized that everyone, by definition, includes me too.