Franglais and Boreal on the Taxpayer's Dime

As a university student in the ‘70s, my Anglophone uncle ran away to Quebec for the summer and never came back. He participated in a language immersion program in Trois Pistoles, fell in love with the province (nation?), and to this day resides in Quebec City. Thirty years later, I decided to follow in his footsteps – at least for the summer.

Having lived in the world's second largest French speaking city (that would be Montreal) for the past nine months with no functional ability to communicate in French, I decided the time was ripe to improve. I settled on the Explore program, five weeks of language instruction and for high school and university students in various French speaking areas across the country, fully covered by federal tax dollars. Thanks, Daddy.

A bit of history: the program was started in the late '60s under the auspices of that most Obama-like of Canadian leaders (not Iggy). Trudeau's studied opposition to Quebecois nationalism combined with a desire to improve Canadians bilingualism led to the creation of the Explore program in ‘67.

In the midst of a global recession, trying to find a decent summer job for a first year university student (in arts, no less!) with little in the way of work experience save for a choice selection of cushy extra-curriculars promised to be a feat of iliadic proportions. When in doubt why not fall back on the welfare state? We do pay for it after all. And what could be better procrastination than five weeks of cheap Quebecois beer and Franglais on the taxpayer's dime?

Thus, I decided to demonstrate a commitment to my country and to my bilingualism (read: Franglais) and pack up for five weeks in Trois Pistoles, Quebec, population about 3 000. In the summer.

For a city dwelling, Anglophile, Westmount wannabe such as myself, Trois Pistoles' single rue principale was a shock. I missed hot dog vendors, and smog, and noise. Oh how I missed noise! After watching an ambulance slowly amble by with no need for a siren due to the dearth of traffic, I was sorely tempted to hop on the next (albeit seven hour) train ride back to civilization.

But in spite of being bored out of my mind, the town is quaint, unfamiliar, and new. Living as I do in Montreal, sheltered in my English student bubble, rarely venturing east of St Denis, much less Papineau, it is easy to forget that Quebec is any different than the rest of the country. One big North American city looks much like the next. Baltimore, Philadelphia, Montreal - it's easy to forget where you are. In Trois Pistoles, Quebec's cultural difference is for the first time palatable.

The majority of the town doesn’t speak English. Food ranges from baguette with smelly Basque camabert and yellow, tomato-like cherises de terre to greasy, brown sauce smothered poutine at the local “Cantine d’Amour.” Trois Pistoles holds claim to the continent's “pelot Basque” court, a raquet sport obscure in North America but popular in France. No reassuring Canadian flag flies outside of the elementary school.

Over dinner a few nights ago, a girl I am living with asked our host family, bravely and bluntly, "Est-ce que vous vous appellez un Quebecois ou un Canadien?” Do you call yourself Quebecois or Canadian? It was the first time the subject had been openly breached. Funny that here we are on a program designed to foster dialogue between the two nations of our country and yet everyone is too terrified or polite to actually discuss it. The elephant in the room. How typically Canadian!

The reply was also decidedly Canadian, ironic but diplomatic. “Alors, nos passports dissent Canadien donc…” Well, our passports say Canadian so… But of course they were kidding. “Canadien, bien sur,” they reassured us. The separatist movement is over, Quebec satisfied with its limited autonomy and benefits within Canada.

Certainly, the sixty-something lady I’m living with has a framed photo of Rene Levesque in her living room, but these days most young Quebecers don't appear to care one way or another. In the high school where we take language classes, English influence is clearly apparent. “Nous devons chill ce weekend!” “M’envoyez un text!” Far from what the FLQ wanted.

Fifteen years after the referendum, when “oui” and “non” signs pitted neighbor against neighbor, the question of Quebec separatism appears to have died of apathy. After five weeks bored in Trois Pistoles, however, my knowledge of Quebecois slang has markedly improved. Without the separatist movement, that never would have been possible.