Who Am I?
By Jocelyne Ann Leblanc
Who am I? Now isn’t that a silly question for an 80+ woman to ask. Wouldn’t you think it’s about time I found the answer? MAYBE — SIMPLE QUESTION, COMPLEX REPLY.
I want to get something out of the way right away. I am a Canadian but what type of Canadian? I was born in the Eastern Townships in Richmond, Quebec — at the time a thriving railway hub town where both English and French people co-existed.
My dad, Homer, or JH as he always signed his documents, and known to his friends as Bud, was a member of the Brotherhood of Engineers as a telegraph operator. As such he had to do jobs where seniority counted – and so went from pillar to post sometimes for 2 weeks, sometimes for 5 months or more. He lived from boarding house to boarding house.
My mom Claire, aka lollipop to her friends — can you imagine how embarrassed it was for me, as a teenager, to hear her called that in public — was a registered nurse.
Since Daddy was always moving, they decided it was bet for my mom to keep her job as assistant to Dr. Manning until Daddy was more settled. Her family — that is her mother Betsy, her Aunt Jinny, and her sisters Tany and Holly — were the members of the female posse who cared for me when I was a baby.
Both my parents were English-speaking and Roman Catholic. My dad was French but of Acadian origin — his family had suffered the deportation of 1755, were sent to Louisiana and over the centuries returned to Canada. My granddad went by the name of White all of his life, but because of his creamery business, reverted to the original name Leblanc with a capital B. His mother was of Irish descendance. She was a Moran, whose mother was an O’Shea, whose mother was a Moriarty. Not many French-speaking persons there. My mom was a Linaken, whose mom opened a fancy store to support her 5 children after her husband Johnny was killed in a train cash.
The census told me what a fancy store it was. It was a high-end 1920s and 30s. op that sold lace, taffeta, needle point, floss, buttons and bows to the comfortable women of the town. And, let’s face it, at that time in the late 1920s and 30s, these ladies were almost always English-speaking and wives of the upper crust.
When daddy finally won a permanent posting in Stanbridge Station, he and mommy decided to live in Bedford, just a few miles away, so he could come home for lunch. Plus, we then lived in a house just across the street from his mothers.
As happy as my parents were to finally have their own home, a granddaughter soon arose.
Their daughter (me) was now of school age. Which school to send me to? The English school in Bedford didn’t want me because I was Catholic. There were 2 types of school boards in the system...the Catholic and the Protestant. So, English Catholics were not allowed in English Protestant schools — that was the law. The Catholic system was itself split in two: The French Catholic and the English Catholic.
So the French school didn’t want me either, and as my parents told me later, the idea of sending me to school in French didn’t cross their mind. Actually, Mommy could hardly speak French , just stumbled along.
The decision was made to send me to school in Richmond, where the convent was right across the road and where there were English classes. Mount St. Patrick it was called, and so I returned to live once more with my grandmother Betsy and her...although of course I spent all my holidays with my parents.
I remember how hurt I was when people would tell me that I had been shipped off, when my parents were heartsick they couldn’t keep me at home. As became noticeable even when I was young, the French and the English CDN men didn’t get along particularly well themselves and divided up the convent — we didn’t have recreation or assembly hall at the same time, nor play basketball and croquet with the French kids.
And there was also something amusing to notice. Most of the French students had Irish-sounding names whereas most of the English had French-sounding names. The expression “mother tongue” was in full force: You see in the 1850s, many Irish immigrated to Richmond as victims of the Great Potato Famine, where they got jobs on the Old Grand Trunk Railway Line and married the locals. So the language of the children followed the mother, whereas her name came from the dad. And more happened…even if I had a French name I couldn’t join the French Girl Guides, but the English ones, the Canadian Girl guides, yes.
When I graduated from high school, I wanted to go to college at Bishop’s but Daddy didn’t have the money as my mother had become ill with a non-curable disease that was very expensive. (No government health plan at the time, remember?)
The solution was to send me to a French college to get my BA and I needed it and I wanted to go to law school. You cannot imagine the tears I spilled, the unhappiness I felt. My notions of French were rudimentary, but once again the nuns, my tutors, did their best and finally happily I learned quite acceptable French.
Let’s go forward a bit. English on a...scholarship , good practice in law as an associate of Charie Van Horn — until I was a victim in a terrible car accident and had to be hospitalized in Montreal for my injuries. Then, I had to follow weekly treatments at the Montreal Neurological Centre, and then all my expenses because no government health plan yet.
There seemed to be only one viable solution...to live with my parents in Trois-Rivières, or Three Rivers as we called it then. By now, Daddy was the freight and station agent there.
Imagine how awful I felt. Here I was a professional with a good practice going to live with my mom and dad. I had to find something to do with my time between treatments and the university courses…teacher’s college and Normal School which offered a special course to students with a bachelor’s degree, so I applied , got accepted and it was all in French of course.
Long story short, one of the professors fell for me. He taught statistics and he was the dullest teacher I ever had. Hated his classes, but he had the kindest eyes I had ever seen in a man so I accepted a date to go bowling and to a sugar shack.
What do you think happened? We fell in love and I got engaged.
All wasn’t roses. A few of his friends could not understand why he was marrying une anglaise, une étranger. (At least I was a Catholic.) Most of his entourage were well settled in the trifluvien society and expected him to take his place there along with his wife. I didn’t seem quite suitable.
But Emilien, aka Cowboy, was stubborn and said that he was willing to take on the challenge, and we were married in a bilingual wedding.
Emilien was a true son of T-R. His father’s family had deep down roots in the 1600s 3 centuries before. His English was atrocious, he simply could not speak it although he could read and understand it almost perfectly. So we spoke French together and when he had children he addressed them in French and I in English and they had to answer that way too. We started them out in French school where they could attend with all their friends.
We had planned on transferring them over to English for their high school, but then guess what? Bill 22 and Bill 100 came along and we felt we had to send them to high school in English. But they would have to go to CEGEP in French.
I joined the French-speaking associations and lived my life almost totally in French. Couldn’t even go to St Pat’s church anymore because it wasn’t close to us. Eventually we started going to the French church closest to us.
I lived, worked and breathed in French. The only English that remained was being a member of a group of 14 who founded Alliance Quebec, an association for English speakers who were proud Quebecers. The motto was “Count us In. On est fait partie.”
Time does not allow me to get in to all the details. When Emilien passed away I had to decide what to do, continue living in French, stay in T-R or move away. I felt lost! Then COVID struck and I could not get out and socialize anymore. Some good friends died and then Zoom came along. I found out a book club in English and about CASE. I finally found my old bearings.
But who am I? An English-speaking person who happens to live in Quebec, a French-Canadian widow, certainly not a Québécoise, according to most folks even though the government says I am. Perhaps a Quebecer, I still do not know but I do know I belong here, I am lucky. I have lived in 2 wonderful cultures and thrived in both. In my heart I am a true English-speaking Québécoise.
