The 49th Parallel

It took six weeks, but it finally happened. I was walking along in the neighborhood where I have been enjoying summertime, when I witnessed the following scene:

A man of about 80 years saying, “Welcome to Quebec. Are you from New York?

A man in his car smiling said: “Brooklyn”.

A third man wearing a chapeau and sipping coffee at the sidewalk cafe said: “We don’t like your President. In fact, we hate him”.

I stopped for a moment noticing the yellow New York license plate wondering what might happen next. This spontaneous exchange took me by surprise because in every interaction I have had both this summer and last, Canadians have kept their thoughts and feelings about those from below the 49th Parallel to themselves.

Clearly, these sentiments have been simmering and coming to the boiling point. It’s only natural when someone feels threatened to strike back. The latest tariff threats on Canadian goods may be the tipping point. The expansion bridge across the Detroit River meant to unite two countries by easing the transfer of people and goods saw only a one-sided ribbon -cutting here above the 49th Parallel.

I come from a long line of Quebecers, and the one thing I know is that we value heritage: language, foods, faith that bind together a culture that sticks together in solidarity. When my grandparents joined the mass exodus in the early twentieth century from Quebec to New England they settled together in “Little Canada”. They were not looking to be Americanized, they were looking for work.

They never gave up their Canadian citizenship while doing the most difficult work of America’s Industrial Revolution. My mother at age 15, dropped out of school and worked twelve-hour days as “mill girl” standing at the wool and cotton looms that pushed out products the country needed to thrive. She, on the other hand, turned over her weekly pay to her family trying to survive which was the case with millions of immigrants. Theirs was not an easy life.

What sustained them was their way of life within a way of life that was foreign and would always be until grandchildren and great-grandchildren, me and my children, all American -born turned the tide. They tolerated our Americanized ways outside the house, but at home and particularly at our grandparents’ home, we were French Canadians first—Franco-Americans. I wore both proudly without ever knowing how the elders had suffered when leaving a homeland they loved while wanting most of all to preserve it for their growing families.

I would say they are more entitled than most to say: “We do not like your President. In fact, we hate him”. Yet, they stop there without lumping all Americans with the politicians. Where this goes is anybody’s guess, but I know there is a kinship between both sides of the 49th Parallel that will always be shared

WorldAtlas.com

1908 - A treaty between the two nations is signed, establishing a joint commission tasked with surveying and delineating

the border between the two neighbours.