Co Habs

As a Canadian anglophone who grew up in Eastern Ontario, I may have some insights to offer other anglophones on the relationship between the French and the English in this country. Those English speakers would include most of the French speaking population. (And if I'm lucky, German Yugoslavian girls from Ontario.) There appears to be a contrast in attitudes between these two historically opposed European cultures. The French Canadians, including my brother, whose first language changed to francaise, and his family, are calmer, often pensive, and may care more about people than money. I've never had a problem getting along with them. My niece once explained to me in her French Canadian accent that a conquered people have nothing to prove. It's a relief for them. (The natives might view this conquest differently.) The English Canadians are, well, English. Sometimes those French get on our nerves if they leave a mess behind for us to clean. And we just know they did it on purpose, and they're hiding around a corner where they can watch and laugh at us. We may need a few drinks of alcohol to get like them. It used to be in Ottawa that the English customers could continue their drinking binges on the French side of town past the closing time that was decided best for them. (A reasonable, virtuous hour for the children to go to bed.) No longer, though, I hear. They had cheaper rent over there, too. Less of a deal now, I'm told. I lived in Quebec while I attended college and another time stayed long enough to get my card de soleil. Probably misspelled that. (I was very unhappy that day. It shows in the photograph.) Both times I stayed at my brother's house. You could get a one litre bottle of Colt 45 for three dollars and twenty-five cents from the 'dep.' Depanneur. Convenience store. Your last memory before passing out might be cooling off with the ladies by the pool. And you're still alive. They musn't think much of an anglophone who needs to live in their corner, but they did accept and encourage my singing and playing on the patio. So did my brother. And my niece. My niece didn't care much for my weeping, though. And I disliked her squawking, as well as my brother's power tripping. ('You two, quit that squawking and weeping in there!') In Ottawa it's helpful to one's career if one is bilingual. My brother encouraged me to start reading French newspapers. I kept the French/English dictionary close by. (Stupid thing was designed for Yanks in Paris.) But I didn't make it past the tabloids. It was not to be. I'm still glad I made the effort. And I'll have a head start if Canada's second official language should ever again assert itself upon me.
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© 2010. Statements by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.