je suis sortie

Bonjour mes lecteurs et lectrices! J'étais absente, mais après aujourd'hui il y aura plus de temps pour blogging.

I have decided to drop out of my nighttime french writing class for now, as 8+ hours of class plus hours of homework in addition to a brand new job is proving to be a little much for the old cranium. Actually, it's more the constant sitting that I can't handle. So, until I get into the rhythm of working (and getting my photography business up-and-running, and becoming a Quebec resident, and fixing my computer blah blah blah), I am a night school drop-out.

Which means, however, that I will have more time to come here and write. It's going to be a bit of a challenge, getting myself to type and be creative after typing and trying to be creative all day. I promise you my best effort. My career counsellor, Ellen, told me 2009 is going to be my year. Although it's highly likely that she said that to all her clients, I am going to pretend she only said it to me.

I want this year to be fabulous, so I am starting by defining what fabulous is for me. Honestly, I am so relieved to have graduated, to be working, and to have an album on the go, that I am apt to say the status quo ain't bad.

But now is never enough, is it?

"je suis entre les deux"

It's always while losing myself in some delicious bite of one delectable meal or another that I continuously fall in love with Montreal. The food culture here is truly unlike that of any other city I've lived in.

Even the most modest restaurant takes pride in presenting simple, fresh and delicious items, and they don't overcharge. Although there are many well-known eateries serving haute cuisine, for the most part going out for dinner is not prohibitively expensive. In fact, most restaurants make it affordable for anyone to have a nice dinner without draining their bank account.

I have become especially fond of bring your own wine places. I'm sure it's obvious why. And I'm quickly growing accustomed to being delighted by the array of cheap and amazing dining options that abound. It's unusual that I'm not impressed.

That being said, maybe it's the onset of the Christmas paraphernalia, or maybe its just been a while since I've home, but pre-holiday homesickness is definitely setting in. Despite being surrounded by amazing restaurants, chocolate shops and cafés, there is nothing I crave more than a home-cooked meal at my parents' house. I love cooking, and I try to appease myself with homemade soups, but it's just not the same.

This is my third December living in Montreal. I've slowed with the picture-taking of the city as, I suppose, I've become less of a tourist. But while preparing for a presentation on Griffintown in class (a historic Irish neighbourhood in south-west Montreal) and going through all the photos I've taken of it and other neighbourhoods, I realized how cool it is to look back on the ways I've seen the city over the last 2-3 years. It has changed shape as I've come to know it.

So I've decided to stay in the habit of taking photos when the moment strikes. For some strange reason, showing photos to my readers (many of whom do not live in Montreal) makes me feel a bit more connected to home. It's as if I can share a part of all this with you, even when I feel far away.

At times I feel I am starting to belong here, and at other moments* I wonder how any non-native can ever feel at home in Quebec given the political and emotional residue. I know that may sound harsh, but it's very frustrating that one's best efforts to integrate and to fully embrace a new space and its culture are met with a rebuff.

It's said that Montreal is an Island in every sense (and thus differs geographically, politically etc. from the rest of the province), and it is positioned as a bastion of tolerance. I have met wonderful people here, of course, just as I did in the Lac St-Jean region two summers ago. But in both places, as well as in Quebec City, I have also encountered great bitterness and faced ridiculous generalizations based on my first language. One man in Jonquière actually said, "Hé, les anglaises ne sont pas toutes laides," (Hey, not all English girls are ugly after all) when he met me. The rest of the evening, I had to sit at a dinner table while nearly all the guests alternated between insulting contemporary Anglo-Canadians and ranted about what les anglais did 200 years ago.

Clearly, I am frustrated today and yes, I get frustrated often for this same reason. But I also like to rise to a challenge. And learning French, despite being discouraged in one way or another, is my task au moment.

I was speaking to a canvasser who was raising money for HIV/AIDS research in Africa, who happened to be from Côte d'Ivoire. She was complimentary of my French and we chatted for a while. She told me that although she was born in West Africa, she has a Québécoise mother, and has lived here for 20 years. But, she added, most people tell her they do not consider her a Québecker. "Pour la plupart des gens ici, je suis entre les deux" (for most people here, I am between the two). For this reason, she finds herself identifying more with her roots.

If it's been 20 years for her, will I ever feel closer to belonging?

* like today, when I found out my French teacher waited until we three anglophones were absent to rant about les anglais to the rest of the class, even though she said "je ne parle pas de la petite Dallas; je l'adore! The fact that she refrained from speaking badly of anglophones in front of us shows she knows what she said was objectionable.

french fights and equal rights

Back to the issue of anger in a second language that I mentioned a few days ago. Today was freaking frustrating.

Basically, 5 minutes after inviting me to her wedding, and telling me that, "it doesn't matter that we don't have much. Love is all that matters," the same girl who I mentioned in my previous post proceeded to go on a homophobic tirade.

It's as hard for me to translate the class discussion that followed, but it essentially consisted of this girl and a Peruvian man saying incredibly offensive and closed minded things about queer people. I don't even want to repeat the things the girl said. Suffice it to say that our teacher had to reprimand her. When she began to backpedal and said she doesn't respect gay people but she would talk to them if she had to, I called her a hypocrite (which is the same word in French).

When she said she sympathizes with people who say they would kill their child who have what (in her words) "is widely considered a mental illness," I asked her if she would be equally eager to kill a child that had any other kind of "mental handicap." Thankfully, my classmates and teacher stood behind me.

Our teacher told the girl that she has the right to her opinion, but that the school insists on tolerance, and she has to at least respect that while she's in the building.

The Peruvian man said: "the problem begins when you let them marry. It's even worse when they want to adopt. They should NOT be able to have children. " For him, gay marriage is as the destroyer of the nuclear family and basically heralds the apocalypse.

I am not a person who gets easily angered, but discrimination and hate speech are things that I refuse to tolerate. The girl and the man attributed their viewpoints to being latin-american. This excuse angered a lot of the other latin-American students in the class, who absolutely disagreed with them and were furious to be lumped in with their beliefs. For me, being intolerant has nothing to do with what country you come from, rather it is a matter of personal choice.

Anyways, this argument went on for about half an hour, ending only because the class did. Our teacher asked the two students to, if nothing else, reflect on what we've discussed today, and to consider opening their minds and hearts. She asked them:

"If you were in a car accident and someone came to your aid, would you ask them what their sexual orientation was before they saved you?"

I wonder if my classmates will go home and think more about this, or if they will go home to their respective households and reaffirm their close-minded beliefs with their sympathetic partners. I have been thinking about this discussion, and the protestation against equal rights a great deal lately, especially in light of Proposition 8, which "eliminates the rights of same sex couples to marry."

Jessica recently posted a video of Keith Olberman on MSNBC, discussing this very issue. In his words:

"This isn't about yelling, and this isn't about politics. This is about the human heart. And if that sounds corny, so be it. If you voted for this proposition, or you supported those who did or the sentiments they express, I have some questions, because truly, I do not understand.

Why does this matter to you? What is it to you? In a time of impermanence and fly-by-night relationships, these people over here want the same chance at permanence and happiness that is your option. They don't want to deny you yours. They don't want to take anything away from you. They want what you want: a chance to be a little less alone in the world."

Olberman claims to have no ties or sense of obligation to the gay community. He simply cannot fathom why people would be so against giving the equal rights to people who are in love and who want to marry.

I do have ties to the queer community, as many of my close friends are gay and lesbian, but that is not the sole reason I get so angry when I encounter intolerance.

I get angry because I believe that all humans who are honest, good people should be treated equally, and should be given equal status as citizens in country that claims to offer equality and freedom for all. I am always for things that promote love, and against things divide and discriminate.

I have a hard time dealing with the notion that immigrants who arrive in Canada with refugee status, and are given a chance by this country after suffering some kind of injustice or persecution in their own, would not be able to grasp the concepts of equality, compassion and respect for other humans.

I think it's obvious how excited I was by Obama's victory and the election of North America's first African-American leader. On the same day of his election, however, people voted yes for proposition 8. While a step forward was taken, there was also a large step back.

Today I struggled again to express my opinion in French. It's unfortunate that anger is what's driving me to push myself harder to speak well, but that's the way it is.

I am not giving up on either fight.

delayed reactions

As frustrating as learning a second language can be, the process has its advantages.

First of all, it forces my brain to go into overdrive every day, while my thoughts and my tongue wrap around new words and sounds, respectively.

Secondly, when I encounter a comment that frustrates me (read: fills me with rage), I can't freak out immediately. Because of my French deficiency, I am forced to carefully sort through my thoughts, compose myself, and then painstakingly struggle through a tempered reaction. The following examples are roughly translated from French.

Example # 1 (2 weeks ago):
"I can't believe gays are allowed to marry here in Canada. When I heard the idea of them adopting children, it killed me. I wanted to shoot myself."
- a student in my class who recently immigrated from mexico

Example # 2 (today)
"We do not do the moment of silence here in Quebec. That is an anglophone tradition. Canadian soldiers went to war on behalf of the queen, and we were against the war. It does not make sense for us to remember something in this case."
- my teacher, who is a very nice lady, in response to my question as to whether or not our class would observe the moment of silence for remembrance day.

In both cases, I'm sure you can guess my immediate, emotional reactions. What would you say? Where would you start?

My fury and my lack of competence in French made the words tangle in my mind. Instead of spewing out a weird mélange of sloppy, angry Franglais, I took the time to really think about how I would reply. Strangely enough—and perhaps because of this— I am much more proud of how I responded in French than how I could have responded in English.

the world's oldest profession

During a coffee break in French class today, a conversation with one of the 3 other Anglos from the class:

Her: I might stay in Montreal if I don't get into grad school, but I'm so worried that I won't find a job 'cause I'm not fluent in French.

Me: Well you're in this class, so you're learning, right?

Her: Yeah, I just feel that my prospects are really grim because all of my friends here from Winnipeg have had such bad luck in the job market.

Me: What do you mean?

Her: Well, those who weren't working at call centres could only find work in factories or convenience stores... Oh wait, actually one of them found work in porn.

Me: Oh yeah?

Her: Well not real porn exactly. She just had to sit in front of her webcam wearing a bikini and, you know.

Me: Did any of your friends speak any French.

Her: No.

Me: Well...

Her: Yeah, they all just went back to Winnipeg.

Me: So they didn't even attempt to learn any French and wondered why they couldn't get jobs in a French province?

Her: Pretty much.

Me: Well, it's good to know what kind of options are out there I guess.

marché et terrace

The last week, I have been knee-deep in Français, with classes half a day and Radio Canada in the background of my daily chores. It's already gotten to the point where my English sentence structures are becoming warped and Yoda-esque as my brain slowly fills up with French grammar and vocabulary.

As of tomorrow, I start an internship at a montreal-based, national magazine, which I am thrilled about. And, in addition to that, I am getting back into the job search, which had been on hold for the last little while during our roughly 2 1/2 weeks of house guests, a visit to Toronto, and finishing my program. It is now back into full swing.

Best of all, with no homework looming, my evenings are now my own — guilt free — which means enjoying drinks on patios before godforsaken winter, hitting the farmer's markets just in time for the harvest (to try out all the new recipes I've been swapping with the Mexican and Ukrainian girls in my French class), and sitting out on my front balcony over the street. This new (albeit temporary) lifestyle, it ain't so bad.

le premier jour

As I bit into my crisp, red apple, the taste that filled my mouth was one of familiarity, nostalgia, and tradition. Every September, returning to school just as the harvest was kicking in. Every September, walking a well-known route to a well-known building. Every September, having a rough idea of what to expect.

The reassuring act of eating an apple as I walked to class masked a lot of things: uncertainty, fear, even exhilaration. The repetition momentarily fooled me into thinking things were the same as they have been for the past 19 years.

"Are you sad you're not coming with me today?" Brian asked yesterday, as he headed downtown for his first Ph.D class.

"Nope!" I replied, without a second's hesitation.

"Oh," he said, sounding slightly disappointed. "It's just that this is the first class we haven't gone to together in a long time."

"I know, but I am okay with that. You know that this is what you want to do, and that you want to go back to school. I know I want to do something different."

In the sweltering heat, three floors up in an old school building, I was conjugating verbs this morning. The room was packed: Me, one other Canadian anglophone, and about 20 immigrants from many different countries. We're all trying to improve our French, which is a struggle in itself. Then there's the added layer of thick accents from around the world. I have no clue as to what many of my classmates are saying in their accented French, and I doubt they can understand me. In the meantime, we all smile and nod awkwardly.

I was starting to feel faint in the heat, and putting my head down, when I felt something ice cold touch my cheek. The Iranian lady who sat next to me looked at me sympathetically and pressed a cold can of orange juice to my forehead. I smiled gratefully and glanced at her desk for the first time. She had an apple too.