More anglo-Gaspesian than Canadian
‘My roots are more tangible while I’m in the Gaspé,’ writes Mel Simoneau.
In a recent email exchange with friends about identity, I declare exactly who I am: 1) male; 2) Caucasian; 3) anglophone; 4) heterosexual; 5) humanist; and 6) Canadian. I say these things resolutely; I have always been those things and always will be.
Then I type an asterisk next to Canadian.
Oh, I’m a proud Canadian all right. I joke that when I bleed, I bleed Atwood, Orr and Lightfoot. But I also realize, in my regular trips to visit my mother on the Gaspé coast, where I grew up, that at times I’m more anglo- Gaspesian than Canadian.
While in the Gaspé I bring with me childhood memory, and I connect still to the pale yellow-headed gannets hurtling into the Gulf of St. Lawrence off Percé, to the abandoned copper mine in Murdochville, to the serpentine hills and curves along the “mine road,” the forested highway between Murdochville and the city of Gaspé.
More, I relate to the people — the anglophones, in particular.
I find myself at the city of Gaspé’s groovy Café des Artistes or at its Tim Hortons turning to look in the direction of anglo- Gaspesians when I hear their unmistakable accents (that’s my accent, too, though modified now after years living in Gatineau- Ottawa).
After so much time away, my network, social activities and intellectual connections are in the national capital, but I wonder who those voices that I hear at the Café or at Tims belong to, and how or whether we connect. I may not know them, but as a visiting expat, this is my past and my culture for the moment.
In a way, my roots are more tangible while I’m in the Gaspé, my identity a stripped-down version of my twin Canadian self.
Not so long ago, a news pundit was asked whether U.S. President Donald Trump’s alleged sexual affairs would affect his presidency, his popularity. The pundit said no, that his tribe would continue to follow him.
Tribalism is taken as pejorative — a biased loyalty and often unreasonable connection to one’s primary cultural and social group.
It lies somewhere between the incendiary fervour of ethnic nationalism and the liberal values of civic nationalism. There’s a kind of tribalism that deserves scorn, but not the kind that elicits an enduring recognition of attachment to home roots — to the memory connection, the ties to family, to cultural and geographic origin.
I hear friends and former colleagues talk with expatriated warmth about Antigonish, Trois-Rivières, Timmins, Saskatoon and Vancouver, people who make their homes in the capital, yet have a bond still with their firstknown places.
Is what I feel not fully tribalism, but merely a kind of birthplace regionalism that I and others go through when we visit home?
I get together with my mother and mutual friends, hers and mine, at the Café. We talk and laugh over breakfast and coffee.
I ask the server to take a photograph. She positions herself as best as possible to capture our small group. “Sois sûr qu’il n’est pas dans la photo,” I joke as I point to one of my longtime buddies.
A couple of patrons smile at the obvious joke and, I imagine, know by the accented and anglo- Gaspesian French that I’m “local.”
Some 25 years ago, my then girlfriend and I drive the “mine road” on a visit to the Gaspé. We take a short break from conversation as people do on long car trips.
I’m behind the wheel, and like those hurtling Percé gannets, I enjoy the moment at a good speed: big July sun; York Lake; steep hills and curves — I shift gears — the smell of balsam fir trees; Corduroy Hill; steep hills and curves — I shift gears — York River ... Beaver Dam … Horseshoe Turn ...
My girlfriend smiles and looks at me. “This is really you, isn’t it?”
Mel Simoneau, a former writer for Parks Canada, is retired, and lives in Gatineau.