My time in Quebec came to a close almost a month ago. Given the province’s unique history and
identity, it was a year that offered no shortage of reminders that identity
politics are a two-way street. While I would hardly call myself an expert on
the issue, here are a few snapshots that stick in my memory.
Because Quebec has been officially recognized as a “
nation within Canada," the provincial government is called the National
Assembly. I had known that before I arrived. But the “national” distinction is
in other areas of the public sector as well, including the provincial parks. As
a result, the naming system for provincial parks can be easily confused with
the federal parks that happen to be in the province, as any provincial park is
formally called a “national park.” From what I can tell, the two are
distinguished as “parcs nationaux” and “parcs nationaux du Canada.”
Even more than its overarching national identity, I was
struck by how clearly people distinguished different regions of the province. My
students from Quebec City jokingly referred to the weird accents people have in
Gaspé, Lac Saint-Jean, and Montréal, all while disregarding that
all Quebeckers have funny accents. Laval University’s radio station
even ran a program in which people from different regions debated their various
strengths and weaknesses. I was impressed to learn that they found
representatives from some of the more distant regions (Abitibi-Temiscamingue
and Cote-Nord), but Quebec City -
la capitale
nationale – draws people from all over the province.
“Locally grown” has become a trendy label throughout the
Western world, but Quebec’s inward focus seems to have put it ahead of the
curve. It’s not only hipsters and environmentalists who buy locally grown in la belle province, and it’s not
necessarily for environmental reasons, but out of national pride. Produce grown
in the province is labelled with a big fleur-de-lys sticker, and dairy products
usually name the specific farm of origin. That said, Quebeckers aren’t proud of
everything they produce – bringing a sample of its miniscule wine industry to a
party does not impress people. Believe me, I tried.
Having a strong sense of one’s origins and identity is a
good thing for many reasons that, in the interest of space, I will not discuss
here. In my experience, however, it can also limit one’s curiosity and
understanding of differences. Many of my students had never left Quebec; those
who had seemed surprisingly unaware of things beyond the province’s borders. As
stunning as it was to me, my students’ lack of curiosity was unfortunate but
harmless. Many of them had just finished high school and were studying to be
paramedics, nurses, and a variety of other professions about which I know very
little.
However, my fear is where that lack of curiosity leads in
the future. After the Christmas holidays, I began tutoring a couple in their fifties that wanted to learn English to travel across Canada and get to know their
own country better. Especially given what I knew about many Quebeckers’ typical
attitudes, I was impressed at their interest. Then one day, they told me about
a trip they’d taken to Montreal that weekend. Montreal is about two hours away
from Quebec City, but culturally much more distant. My two students didn’t like
it there very much. Why? “There was…trop
de râce.” Literally: “Too much race.” They then proceeded to list all the
races they saw using words that would end a politician’s career (or in Donald
Trump’s case, launch one).
As I’ve said, identity politics are a two-way street. How do
we balance out the positives (sense of belonging and connection) with the
negatives (limited curiosity, disdain for those outside the community)?
One of my students works at a fast food restaurant near a highway
and serves a lot of Anglophones. His English is not perfect, but it’s better
than many Quebeckers. He told me a story about a very demanding Anglophone couple
who were unhappy when the restaurant could not meet their very specific
requests, and had little patience for his limited English. The student was understandably
annoyed that, in a restaurant within throwing distance of the house in which he
was raised speaking French, he could be judged inadequate by customers for
being unable to speak his second language well enough. In response to his
story, I explained my approach as an Anglophone living in Quebec City – to begin
every conversation with a stranger in French, only switching to English with
their approval. Another student in the room said “That’s it. That’s respect.”
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| Cyclists waiting to cross on part of Quebec's Green Route. |
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| Quebec City skyline. |
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| Yours truly tapping a maple tree. |
Epilogue:
When I left Quebec at the end of May, I stopped for coffee
just outside the city. A large crowd was waiting, not really in line, as they
read the menu. The woman behind the counter asked, in French, if anyone was
ready to order. It was a shock to the system to hear several of the group belligerently
respond in Australian accents, “Sorry, I don’t speak French.” As I stepped
ahead of them to order, I grumbled inwardly before realizing the irony in an Anglophone
getting annoyed at other Anglophones for not speaking French. What did I say
about this place being unique?
