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This week marks the founding of two countries that share the longest border between any two countries in the world. Crossing that border two weeks ago was simple. With no line to wait in, I drove right up to the open window where the young Canadian border patrol officer smiled a friendly “Bonjour”. I was wearing my "Canada is not for sale" red t-shirt I bought last summer. As expected, there was a passport check followed by a few questions meant to trip up those harboring malintent.
“You’re from Florida? Do you have any guns? Knives? Pepper spray”? Non, non et non! Then I said: "I am originally from Massachusetts", as if to exonerate myself from a Red State’s reputation. “So, less inclined toward weapons”? She smiled. Oui! Then I drove over the border between my native New England and my grandparents' native Québec. Just like that.
It wasn’t so easy when my grandparents emigrated from their homeland to begin a new life in a foreign country. My aunts and uncles liked to talk about Mémère's and Pépère’s decision to leave their village. I always heard them say: “Papa wanted to have a farm”. I never thought to ask why he did not stay on the agriculturally rich land of Québec. I had imagined the winter was too difficult to farm with any success. Lo and behold, the answer lies in the history of this place where I have come to touch my roots.
In the 1600’s, then New France, was beholden to the King of France. Few settlers had any means other than farming which was controlled from afar in a feudal system. The land was owned by landlords who leased it to the “habitants”, like my grandfather. There were strings attached like annual fees and limited rights over productive activity. There was no way for the farmers to get ahead. South of the border was an entirely different story at the turn of the twentieth century.
In the place where I was born, the Industrial Revolution was booming. The so-called “mill barons” went North to recruit struggling French-Canadian farmers and their families to leave their homeland with the promise of something better. The story takes off from there when millions of French Canadians with many young children settled in what has become Little Canada, in Lowell, Massachusetts.
Those were hardscrabble times for these immigrants, my ancestors, who like so many other immigrants hope for opportunity and prosperity, and some small slice of the American Dream pie. The story unraveled over a century with me caught somewhere between two worlds as a Franco-American.
This week, here in Québec City, there will be celebrations of Canada Day, July 1, the national holiday to mark the anniversary of the Constitution of 1867 when the original three colonies united into a single self-governing country within the British Empire then in 1982 gained full legislative independence from the UK. On July 3, Quebec City will celebrate its founding in 1608 with its unique culture and unmistakably proud heritage of the Quebecois and French-Canadian people from whom I descend.
The following day, July 4, the United States will celebrate its 250th anniversary of its Declaration of Independence written by freedom-seekers whose forefathers and mothers once crossed an ocean with the same hopes my grandparents had when they crossed a border for a new life.
When the two flags are raised during these holidays, it must be with hand over heart-- not for what is--with all the flaws and shortcomings in plain sight-- but for the hope that inspires people everywhere to strive for something better. God bless America! Vive le Canada!
Happy 1st, 3rd and 4th of July to all of us!
