Hi, my name is Josh — and I confess, I’m a Quebec anglo-phone. In fact, I’m a typical Montreal anglo — I’m Jewish. Like most Jews I went to the English Protestant School Board of Greater Montreal, because the French Catholic board didn’t want us back then.
PIERRE OBENDRAUF/ THE GAZETTE Gazette columnist Josh Freed’s French has evolved considerably. Here he stands on Rue Jeanne Mance, which in his earlier days was always Gene Manz. So I see myself as a Jewish Protestant. That’s because I spent every morning of my childhood learning all the traditional Christian hymns that only Jews in Montreal sing. For instance: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so” and “O little town of Bethlehem , how still we see thee lie.” I can go into any synagogue full of Montreal Jews and lead them in a rousing chorus of Onward Christian Soldiers, and they’ll all know the words — including the rabbi!
Now, unfortunately, while I was learning all these Protestant tunes, I didn’t learn much French, because English schools didn’t really teach that language in Quebec . When I went to school, at Sir Winston Churchill High, I did have a French teacher — Mrs. Schwartz. She taught me French twice a week with an English West End accent — one part Paris and two parts Cavendish Mall. But it turned out to be incomprehensible once I was old enough to go east of Schwartz’s Deli.
I grew up on a street called Deleppy — and I was 15 before I found out it was actually called de l’Épée. I found this out when I took my first cab home alone and the francophone driver couldn’t find my street — even though we kept driving right by the street sign.
Fortunately, in my late teens I moved to downtown Montreal , where I finally started to understand how Montreal worked. I lived in an area full of francophones on a street I called Gene Manz. This was obviously a cousin of Rue Jeanne Mance, the name every francophone I met called it. Same went for Pine Ave. , which francophones all mysteriously called Avenue des Pins.
But slowly I started to adapt and speak French better in this francophone city full of anglophones, allophones and xylophones. I worked in French; I dated in French; I even voted for René Lévesque in 1976 to boost French power at a time I thought we needed it. I guess it worked.
My anglo wife and I also sent our son to French school for eight years, where at first he spoke a strange hybrid language — and came home saying thing like “Dad — I want a collation” (snack). Even today he thinks “buying milk at the corner dépanneur” is standard English throughout Canada — just like taking the “métro” or the “autoroute.” Our goal was to make sure he spoke French better than I do, and we succeeded. At age 16, he’s bilingual and totally embarrassed to hear my prehistoric anglo accent.
It’s a garden-variety pre-Bill 101 anglo accent. I struggle to get my “eu” sounds quite right — so I’ve been known to pronounce the city of Longueuil as “Longay” instead of the correct “Longueueueuey.” But I read French newspapers, and like most anglos, I watch Canadiens hockey games on the French-language channel RDS — ever since English CBC started favouring Toronto Maple Leafs games.
Overall, I think my history is typical of many, and probably most, anglos. Our community has changed and adapted enormously over the past 30 years, as much as almost any in the western world. Our grandparents didn’t speak French at all — they were too busy trying to survive.
Now, unfortunately, while I was learning all these Protestant tunes, I didn’t learn much French, because English schools didn’t really teach that language in Quebec . When I went to school, at Sir Winston Churchill High, I did have a French teacher — Mrs. Schwartz. She taught me French twice a week with an English West End accent — one part Paris and two parts Cavendish Mall. But it turned out to be incomprehensible once I was old enough to go east of Schwartz’s Deli.
I grew up on a street called Deleppy — and I was 15 before I found out it was actually called de l’Épée. I found this out when I took my first cab home alone and the francophone driver couldn’t find my street — even though we kept driving right by the street sign.
Fortunately, in my late teens I moved to downtown Montreal , where I finally started to understand how Montreal worked. I lived in an area full of francophones on a street I called Gene Manz. This was obviously a cousin of Rue Jeanne Mance, the name every francophone I met called it. Same went for Pine Ave. , which francophones all mysteriously called Avenue des Pins.
But slowly I started to adapt and speak French better in this francophone city full of anglophones, allophones and xylophones. I worked in French; I dated in French; I even voted for René Lévesque in 1976 to boost French power at a time I thought we needed it. I guess it worked.
My anglo wife and I also sent our son to French school for eight years, where at first he spoke a strange hybrid language — and came home saying thing like “Dad — I want a collation” (snack). Even today he thinks “buying milk at the corner dépanneur” is standard English throughout Canada — just like taking the “métro” or the “autoroute.” Our goal was to make sure he spoke French better than I do, and we succeeded. At age 16, he’s bilingual and totally embarrassed to hear my prehistoric anglo accent.
It’s a garden-variety pre-Bill 101 anglo accent. I struggle to get my “eu” sounds quite right — so I’ve been known to pronounce the city of Longueuil as “Longay” instead of the correct “Longueueueuey.” But I read French newspapers, and like most anglos, I watch Canadiens hockey games on the French-language channel RDS — ever since English CBC started favouring Toronto Maple Leafs games.
Overall, I think my history is typical of many, and probably most, anglos. Our community has changed and adapted enormously over the past 30 years, as much as almost any in the western world. Our grandparents didn’t speak French at all — they were too busy trying to survive.
But today most anglos send their kids to French immersion or French school, and many of them end up with the Québécois accent of a lumberjack and the wine sophistication of a sommelier: “Dad, passe-moé le Grand Cru Château Dépanneur 2004, s’il te plaît.”
To quote a recent joke by legendary Quebec comedian Yvon Deschamps: “On ne peut plus se moquer de nos anglophones … ils sont devenus bilingues … ils nous comprennent.”
We anglos are slowly mastering many others linguistic skills, too. For example, we’re learning to quickly decode those flashing electronic construction signs on our highways filled with large numbers of French-only words, announcing info rmation like: “AUTOROUTE EN CONSTRUCTION. ROUTE ALTERNATIF FACULTATIF A MONTREAL, VIA IBERVILLE par le Chemin d’Argenteuil, à la Route 66(b) et 35(a) — sujet à des changements imprévus.” (And they wonder why there’s always a traffic jam on the Eastern Townships highway. It’s because everyone’s slowing down to read the sign — especially us anglos. I think the roads department should at least give us some warning with a sign that says: “Attention! Affiche en français difficile dans 2 km. Préparez vos dictionnaires!!”)
Quebec is always interesting, and it has made us anglophones more interesting, too. I think just like my journey from Deleppy St. to Avenue de l’Épée, we anglos have travelled a long way over the years. But it’s a voyage that’s just starting. The truth is that Montreal is an enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a duffel coat. It’s a mystery that’s hard to fathom — and so are we anglos.
We chose to stay here when hundreds of thousands of others left. We stayed through exhausting sign-law battles and two Neverendum Referendums we didn’t want. We stayed because we’re Québécois — and Montrealers who love our city with a passion few Canadians can outdo. We’re all in favour of French signs and French service as well as French wine, French food and French kissing. That’s what makes this French North America and gives our city its je ne sais quoi.
We’ve also stayed in Montreal while too many francophones have quit for the suburbs. And we may need a Bill 301 to save French in Montreal — by forbidding more francophones from moving off the island.
Like many anglos, I have Montreal in my blood. It’s an unpredictable, intriguing, special town — battered but beautiful, full of potholes but full of life. It’s a huge laboratory where the English and French languages mix together on the street like in no other city on Earth — a global experiment. It’s where comedian Sugar Sammy can do a show that’s half in French and half in English — and sell out to 30,000 people.
It’s a city that’s living proof that English and French get along very well in practice — if not in theory. With patience and time, I believe we can ultimately have a strong anglo community in a strong French Quebec: a place where the two solitudes finally become just one.
I hope our kids stay here, too, and master the French language well enough to achieve the impossible anglo dream — to get a job as a Quebec civil servant.
FIN
Thanks Ellen/Sam
I went to a Catholic school in the late forties and fifties. I had Jewish kids in my class. So I don’t agree that they couldn’t go to a Catholic school.
The key word here is "French" Catholic and I believe it is right, I myself attended Herbert Symonds in NDG and many of my friends were Jewish including the Hills who owned the Chicken Coop with the Indian Room on St. Catherine as well as the sports bar in Alexis Nihon Plaza and the Stagecoach on Decarie. Other friends were the Dubeau's and Fleishman's all of whom were holocaust survivors.
This fellows story really hits home with the songs from our youth and I never really though about how we imposed our selves on the Jewish community.
Here in Ontario the Jewish Separate schools fall under the Catholic Separate School Board.
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