Opinion: The Problem with Being an Anglophone in Quebec
In 1991, I crossed the Ontario border into Quebec strapped into the back of my social worker’s grey sedan. We lurched down the highway, rolling through the changing foliage into the mouth of the Appalachian Mountains, coasting into the Eastern Townships, or as I would lovingly come to know it, Knowlton. Barely six years old, I was frightened and exhausted, having spent the last year shuffling between foster homes in Ontario, feeling like little more than a shadow.
My new foster parents, Randy and Georgina, were of the English persuasion. In fact, they were so English they were angry about it — something that was hard to understand as a kid with a whole lot of everything else on her shoulders. But I was happy to be safe and more importantly, to have some semblance of a home. I didn’t understand the boundaries of English — and I certainly had not encountered the difficulties that my parents had.
I entered primary school that year. I wore my Turkish dress (the only clothing that my birth mother had sent along with me that had survived the many moves), my dark hair like a wraith around me, nervous but excited about school — because as luck would have it, I was a nerd.
I LOVED to read. To write. To imagine. I was that kid that loved school. Fall bore the scents of lined paper and new pencils, of fresh starts and growing up. That was well and good and like the beginning of any earnest fairy tale, I charged ahead with all the positivity that a kid could muster.
Then I encountered the beast that I came to know as the French language. I say this not because it was horrendous — I am all for learning languages and taking in as many of them as possible — I say it because of how the French language was presented to me — it was laid out before me like a kraken in the sea. A fierce, negative entity with tentacles wrapping every which way, without giving way to optimism or encouragement. Even the classroom felt sterile and cold, as if you were entering a hospital that specialized in verbs. It was a far cry from the warmth of my homeroom, with bright posters plastered across the walls and paper chains hanging from the ceiling.
So the battle began. Me, a kid with a love of learning, was told that I MUST learn French. Not only must I learn French, but it seemed that my value as a human being would be based on my ability to learn this new language. And so I did. You better believe I did — but it didn’t matter. At the root of it all, I was still English enough–I mean, I really wish I had a dollar for every time I said, “Café, si vous plait” and was met with a very French, “Excusez-moi?” This is where the frustration sets in. Try as you might, a notable share of the French population isn’t concerned about whether or not you know how to speak French. They’re more concerned with how you speak French. Trust me — I’ve been called “Maudit Anglais” enough times to warrant a statement like this.
Waitressing through university, I could sell a bottle of Champagne in any language. I could speak French conversationally — YES. But what gets me is the negativity that comes along with an anglophone trying to get it right. A lot of the French people I know are incredibly gracious — they are patient, knowing the work that comes with making a statement work in another language. What I can’t bear is the cashier staring at me, refusing to understand when I say something as universal as Air Miles. She and I both know fair well what “Air Miles” means. But because I haven’t said “Miles aériens” she’s got a bee in her bonnet and I’ve suddenly become less than human.
As a taxpayer, it’s frustrating to not be able to understand the technicality of documents as I’m asked to fork out a fair sum of money. As a farmer, it’s upsetting to know that I can’t grasp the entirety of a document, because the one detail I missed might be the difference between a grant and dismissal. As a mother, it’s heartbreaking to watch my children earnestly try to understand and absorb French, knowing that despite their best efforts, this second language will serve them well in any province but this one. Because no matter how they excel they get in French, they will still be anglophones. In a medical emergency, they will be addressed in French and they might not know the critical word to explain what is wrong.
And I get it — I paid attention in history class. This back and forth goes way back to 1869. Louis Riel divided the waters with the execution of Thomas Scottand conscription certainly didn’t help. The Frontal Liberation of QC (FLQ) disaster didn’t lend optimism to the pot either. With facts in hand, I still don’t see how continuing down the barrel of “Learn this or fail” is going to inspire an entire generation to hang on to a language that beats them down regardless of how hard they work at it.
Instead, I propose some positivity — let’s inspire a love of languages — where the learning of both French and English is encouraged instead of demanded. I mean, it’s a tactic that seems to work quite well when it comes to parenting. Why shouldn’t it work with languages?
-SM
