One of the most challenging topics of conversation for me when I was discussing Canadian culture with Americans on my frequent visits to the Pacific Northwest was trying to explain why and how English and French Canada became two distinct nations within one. Needless to say, describing the subtleties of the relationship the two cultures had with each other often seemed beyond even my talkative bent.
But it never stopped me from trying.
I'd usually begin with a history lesson; Americans are big on all things militant, so I'd usually hold their collective attention whenever I'd do that; you know, talking about how the French held Fortress Louisbourg in Cape Breton, then the English had it, then the French and finally the English - then I'd usually go on to explain that was how things went down in Maritime Canada. It had been different in what we formerly referred to as Upper and Lower Canada, which are now Ontario and Quebec provinces, respectfully. At this point, I usually got smiles and often, totally baffling responsive comments like, "Well, the French are like that. Look what they did after 9/11?" and other hugely unrelated stuff.
But at least, it was tragically clear they were, at least, trying.
Generally, when the listeners reached this point of total misunderstanding - which I classified up there with telling me they had visited Canada once before, whenever I told them I was from Prince Edward Island in eastern Canada and wasn't that near Vancouver? What's more, they REALLY liked Canadians! They were REALLY nice!! - I would notice my teeth begin this autonomic grinding. And then I would start this eye blinking I just couldn't get a handle on. Have you ever been with someone who was blinking rapidly? It is most disconcerting and leaves you with the uncomfortable feeling that they would much rather be interrogated in the Spanish inquisition than be present with you.
Being the polite, accommodating Canuck that I am, I hesitate to leave anyone with this impression so I searched, high and low, for a solution to my dilemma.
I had learned, in short order, to make the connection for this bunch it was going to take more than a few history lessons and quotes from General Montcalm. For awhile I was really mystified about how, exactly, to accomplish this, until I fell upon the solution - quite by accident.
At this juncture, I want to make it perfectly clear that I did not blame my Yankee friends at all. I understood there were huge cultural and sociopolitical reasons these folks would never understand what I tried, over and over, to convey and failed so miserably at. But they really did try to grasp it all with genuine enthusiasm. It just seemed so impossible. Short of sharing whole chapters of detailed history books, I knew it was a losing battle. Like explaining light to someone who was blind, or the concept of budgeting to Paris Hilton. It was hopelessly pointless and I knew it.
Just for the record, though, I want to reiterate, I have NEVER been so affably misunderstood. I guess that was what made me keep trying.
In the meanwhile, until I discovered how to get through to them, I would usually smile sweetly and move on to easier topics like barbecue recipes or Obama's popularity or lack of it, depending on who I was conversing with.
Then, out of the blue one time, I remembered something from my first years married to my husband. Something that brought the relevance all back to my cultural exposes and with which no American could respond by regaling some personal irrelevant experience or fact about U.S. federal policy. It became, please excuse my French, my piece de resistance - as cliche as that sounds.
(I wonder if the ironic use of those last two phrases will be lost on anyone but my Canadian readers?...)
And here is what I recalled.
My husband's mother was born and raised in Shawinigan, Quebec. In French Canada, being French Canadian, of course. Incidentally, which is, for those of us in the know, the same Shawinigan in which resided the illustrious family of one of our former Liberal Prime Ministers, Jean Chretien and a few professional hockey players, if memory serves me correctly. In fact, one of my mother-in-law's sisters had dated one of his brothers, but, as she told it, the young lady actually had her eye on Jean. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on which side of the fence you are on, he never asked her out and so ended that fine tale.
Apparently my mother-in-law was not infected by the same Liberal virus while growing up alongside the Chretiens and, like many of her thinking Francophone peers, she developed a nationalistic bent. Which was understandable. Having traveled several times to her other sister's abode and heard the honest stories of how the English land and business owners lorded it over the poorer, struggling French Canadian labourers in the days of their childhood, I could empathize. I grew up in Cape Breton and learned how blue collar workers were downtrodden by those who ran industry, including in the coal mines and at the Steel Plant in Sydney.
But remember, I was trying to find a simple, yet delicate way of explaining the French/English conflict back home to Americans who hadn't a clue. So this is how my memory served me well.
It seems to me that during Chretien's last years in office, which coincided with the early years of my marriage to my husband, a provincial vote was taken, called a referendum, in Quebec, on behalf of residents, to decide whether the province would declare itself a nation and separate from Canada. And for those of you in my readership who either grew up in Canada or are still here, this is not news for us, as there had been several other votes of this nature taken previously, which culminated in the government of Canada granting special benefits to the province of Quebec in exchange for that province staying in Confederation.
One day, just before the vote was to take place, I had a short but telling conversation with my mother-in-law, who had moved with her English-speaking husband to the Maritime provinces some years earlier, but who had, very much, kept her ear to the ground when it came to all things Quebecois. I had to admire her tenacity and cultural loyalty.
I asked her how she thought the vote would go and she shrugged her shoulders and took a deep breath. Her words gave me succinct ammunition, south of the border, whenever the urge overcame me to educate my American friends on Canadian cultural diversity, for some time after.
And that was this:
"I am sad to say that some of the young separatists in Montreal really want to separate." Emphasis on the word, "really".
I think it speaks for itself.
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