Who you are

Over pad thai in an off-the-beaten path restaurant, M. asked me rather pointedly if I considered myself a francophone or an anglophone. Around here, that's a loaded question. M. is one of our translator, and most definitely a Francophone. In fact, although I didn't ask her she would say, proudly perhaps, that she's a Quebecoise. After a decade, I wonder if she considers herself a Franco-Ontarien now.

Me, well, it's not so simple. In our house growing up, we were defined more by what we weren't than what we were. We moved to Aylmer, Québec when I was six from Moncton, New Brunswick. In Moncton, well, I spoke with an Acadien accent heavily tinged with the chiac* of the region. My mom is from the République, my grandmother an ashamed-Acadien my grandfather, well, he's form Madawaska. I don't think he'd ever refer to himself as Quebecois. She, however, would. In her mind, the power and the glory were definitely in Quebec. My maternal grandmother, all about appearances, thought the only way to succeed was the blend into the majority. (She was ashamed of a lot of things. The family goes back to the late 1500s in Canada. She was scandalized to find rather large amounts of First Nations blood in the family. Obviously, she never had a good look at folks. You can see it.) Bar one, all of the kids married non-Catholic anglos. This was the late 60s, it was a scandal. She looks upon them suspicously.

My dad is an Anglo from Montreal -- and, for what it's worth, an Anglican. He's a third generation Canadian. Go figure. When I was six, we moved to Aylmer Quebec -- I became the funny French speaking kid from New Brunswick with an English last name. One thing was perfectly clear though, I was not one of them. Never would be. Still am not. Francophones outside Quebec have an odd relationship with that majority. Fact is, they are the big fish in the small pond. The rest of us, well, we're swimming in the ocean and I think we're bait. I never really fit in. Maybe part of me still doesn't, or maybe it's just that I'm ok with not being the majority. The outside looking in is not a bad place to be once you're an adult.

But for the kids, it's different. As a kid, it was hell. I'd hoped things would be easier for the second generation of don't fit in. The Boy is not a jock, he's quite the artsy, and well, he's not really into cars. It's not easy being like the other kids. He's a social monster. He likes people. But well, no one likes being picked last for the team. (Apparently their latest twist is that he gets to referee and keep score. He said it's ok, since he sucks at the game anyway.) The whole thing is rather heart breaking. You can talk to the teachers, and make sure he's supported there. You can tell him it's not ok to let anyone call him names and to insist that he tell the teacher, no matter what the other kids say. But the fact is, in the politics of the playground, popular matters a lot, and all the parents can do is console, guide and reassure.

______________________
*Québec: is pronounced KAY-bec not kweebec or kwaybec. (To me this is up there with the nuclear/nukular)
**Chiac is a anglo-French hybrid thing that they speak around Moncton-Shédiac.

Comments

[Dagny]

Thank you for sharing this story. It just goes to show that no matter how much things seem to change, in some ways it's just the same old stuff. And tell The Boy that I understand about being picked last for sports. That it gets better. Of course, the point in time for which this will probably happen for him also probably seems like eons from now to him.

[Selma]

I can relate. An Irish Catholic mother, a Scottish Protestant father. Growing up in Scotland. Coming to Australia and being asked if I could stop speaking Gaelic when I was speaking the Queen's English much better than they ever could. I have been an outsider for ages but I know how hard it is when your son also turns out to be one. I have held my Nick many times while he cried and asked: 'Why won't they let me play, Mum?' It breaks my heart and enrages me at the same time. Give your little one a big hug from me!

[alison]

I moved to Canada from the UK just before starting school, where I was the tall gawky girl who dressed and talked funny. Being so not good at sports, I was picked last too. I know the isolation of the outfield all too well. Hug the Boy. You'll tell him, like I tell my girls when disappointments hit, that it's only school, and things will get better as he gets older, but they won't believe us. Just like I didn't believe my mum when she told me the same thing. It feels so powerless to not be able to fix this, doesn't it?

[Marcy]

(((HUGS))) to the kiddo. Sometimes it stinks being a parent :-(

[Mimi]

I appreciate your perspective on the Francophone debate.

I moved to Canada when I was four, entered the school system in French (it wasn't spoken at home, though my father, who was a prof and an administrator for U de M was fluent). I was about as happy as well, a kid who's dropped into another world could be. I didn't even know that I WASN'T being picked for team games. I didn't know what they were saying to me.

Speed forward 20 years. My first marriage was to an Acadian. Only son. Two strikes already. When the third hit (we had way too much in common, I liked men, he liked ...), I was to the point of who gives a ratz ass. My ex's mother didn't like me. I was, ahem, different. I wasn't French. It was a hard hard 10 years to be ostracized at family events. They had many a tradition that were engaging, some of them were a bit clannish.

To draw a comparison, elementary and secondary school are like that aren't they? Despite the uniforms so that every one looks equal, we really aren't. And, regrettably, it's not until we're a bit older that we can learn to appreciate who we are, and who we've become.

I read the latest twist as a hurray. That The Boy found his nich. Something that he could do well (a la Doane's Method of Ukulele instruction). And that he'd been picked! Perhaps I read it wrong.

If I did, I understand The Boy. I understand his disappointment. It may not help to tell him, and all the boys and girls feeling this way that they're not alone. Their feelings do matter, and that there are an awful lot of bigger boys and girls out there who are routing for them. This too shall pass.

Meanwhile, I pick The Boy to be on my team!

[Mimi]

P.S. My daughter was asked the question in an interview of child with Exogamous couples (cultural intermarried couples) - what was she. I see her as a francophone first (as is her older brother, I have regrets that the younger two are English first). She proudly said "Je suis bilinge. I am bilingual."

[gkgirl]

i found this
really interesting...
different perspectives,
close to home...

and i feel for the boy...
it is heartbreaking
and you feel so damn powerless.
it's hard.

[XUP]

It's a horrible, gut-wrenching feeling when your kids have a tough time with other kids. As much as they try to stop bullying in schools, they'll never be able to squash some kids' naturally mean instincts. Whenever kids gave my daughter a hard time I'd remind her that these school days are such a small part of her overall life. It's not much consolation now, but at least she gets the idea that life won't always be like this. Meanwhile, I guess there isn't another, maybe more artsy school he could attend??

[Mayberry Magpie]

I don't understand the Francophone debate (being a Yank and all), but I never cease to be amazed at how powerful geography is. There's a very small community (maybe 300 people) less than 10 miles from my hometown called Lenapah. In high school, a boy moved to Mayberry from that community and for the whole time he attended our school (three years), we called him Mike Lenapah. It was our way of telling him "You're not one of us." And he was from 10 miles down the road!