Une Rue à Deux Sens

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.”

Cyclists waiting to cross on part of Quebec's Green Route.

Quebec City skyline.

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?