I’m a Quebecer and a musician first; being anglo is beside the point

Iam an anglophone musician living in Quebec. I have no time, and even less patience, for the language debate. I spend my days trying to write music, book gigs and expand my fan base.

Even when I lived in Vancouver for 10 years — I returned to Quebec a year and a half ago — I never stopped calling myself a Quebecer. And I will continue to do so, wherever I am. A combination of pride and determination helps me hold that title. I have weathered the storms.

I attended French elementary school when my father was principal of the English elementary school. I was the lone anglo on the volleyball team on the French side of my high school. I have French- and English-speaking friends, and when we are together, generally and without thinking, conversations flow fluidly in both languages. I swear in both languages. I say “Hello-bonjour” as though it were one word. I get French jokes. I can spot a pothole at 500 metres and apply evasive manoeuvres. I am a Quebecer. French people think I am bilingual. Bilingual people think I am English. English people (outside of Quebec) think I am French but speak English remarkably well for a Quebecer.

My experience is not unlike that of a majority of musicians, regardless of language. Our challenge is to earn a living in a traditional workforce with an untraditional skill set. In my field there are music teachers, music superstars, and a huge grey area known as the “hospitality industry.” Regardless of language, there is a perception that musicians are talented hobbyists who do not need to be paid for their work.

Using my skills as a musician and my background as a Quebec anglo, I set out to create my own opportunities — and the rewards exceeded anything I could have achieved under any other circumstances.

With support from Quebec’s English Language Arts Network, I embarked on a tour of non-traditional venues using music to draw attention to the cultural richness that exists within the Quebec English-speaking community through its libraries, museums, churches and heritage sites. At each show, I invited a local musician to share the stage with me. The result, by circumstance and not design, reflected the Quebec I remembered. I teamed up with a unilingual francophone at a century-old schoolhouse turned café in Nouvelle; I shared the stage with an amazing First Nations singer from the Maria reserve during a show at the Loyalist Village in New Richmond, on the Gaspé coast, where I grew up. Having my former teachers and classmates and my parents’ friends in the audience at each of these shows: priceless.

The experience was repeated in the Eastern Townships, where I spent my high school and college days. I teamed up with talented musicians I know and respect in performances at the Brome County Historical Society, where I worked summers as a student; at the Wales Home for seniors, where I sang a song I wrote for my grandmother’s 90th birthday; at the iconic Haskell Opera House in Stanstead; and at the Piggery Theatre in North Hatley.

I am currently working with a talented group of singers and filmmakers on a sugar-shack series to highlight the maple-sugar industry in the Eastern Townships.

Wherever I perform, I sing in English but always address audiences in both languages.

Language, in my world, is about courtesy and communication.

When I lived in Vancouver, I described Quebec as a forward-thinking, multicultural province. I explained that my generation had no interest in a language debate, and that most people I knew were bilingual, or at least had a functional knowledge of both languages. I described times when, because of my limited vocabulary, I was required to talk with my hands, point and dance around to get my point across, but always felt that my efforts were appreciated and the message was received. I didn’t, and I don’t, feel like my status as a member of a linguistic minority has diminished me as a Quebecer.

I am a Quebec musician who sings in English.