A Visit To Canada

Canada—the English speaking parts of it—often feels about as much like the United States as you can feel not being in the States. Talking to say, someone from New Brunswick (although it is legally bi-lingual), doesn’t feel all that different to a Michigander from talking to someone from Oregon or New Jersey.
I always feel comfortable in Canada—and the Canadians seem to feel comfortable with me as an American. Border crossings have gotten a lot harsher than they were ten years ago. “What’s your purpose in Canada? Put the windows down.” As he looks at our passports, “How are you related to each other? Delete all the pictures you took of this border crossing and then hand me your camera.”
That’s no longer so comfortable. Nine/eleven has changed a lot of things. They have you on computer from where you entered the country—and they ask you a lot of questions with no other purpose than to trip you up.
But, once you’re in, it’s basically a pleasant place to be. Canadians still profess a certain amount of annoyance at Americans who know nothing about Canada. One hotel clerk in Ottawa told me she gets people from the States, coming into Ontario, who express surprise at not seeing any igloos.
Perhaps it’s because I grew up in a state that borders Canada that I don’t expect Igloos. I have also taken a moment to read a bit of Canadian history. I am struck by how intensely aware Canadians are of us. They follow American politics more closely than most Americans do. By reading Canadian papers, I kept up with nearly everything significant that happened in Washington.
As I said to one Canadian naval reservist, “You’re our Finland”. She laughed, thought for a moment and nodded. That they are. For over a century, the very feeble United States wrenched concessions from the then superpower, Great Britain, by threatening to invade Canada.
Canadians don’t seem to resent us for that. (Of course the last time we did it was in 1922, and then only very subtly. The last time we did it seriously was in 1895.) We haven’t had a shooting war with Canada since The War of 1812. The Great Lakes, which define much of the eastern border between Canada and us have been neutral ever since that war.
I recall asking an American Coast Guard officer what the largest weapon his cutter could carry under terms of Canadian/American treaties. “A twelve gauge shotgun,” he answered. The three thousand mile long border remains basically undefended.
Those of us who do pay attention to Canada are probably aware of how close we came to having a full scale civil war on our northern frontier. Quebec nearly voted to secede from Canada in 1995. Had it done so, I cannot imagine how French and English Canada could have separated without shooting. Neither can a lot of Canadians I talked to.
What happened in Canada should be of great interest to Americans—who are finding more and more people on our southwestern border who speak a different language and have a vastly different culture from standard, English-oriented America.
After all, like the English speakers in Canada, we conquered Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California back in the 1840s. (Mexicans who sneak across our borders can be pardoned if they see nothing illegal about crossing into their own conquered territories.)
The same thing happened to the French in Canada. (One of the things I did on this visit was walk the Plains of Abraham outside old Quebec where Moncalm and Wolfe killed each other in a twenty minute battle in 1759 that resulted in all of Canada becoming English.)
For two centuries, French Canadians lived under the Union Jack and learned to deal in an English-speaking world. Then about fifty years ago, Canada agreed to strike the Jack and go over to a Maple Leaf flag that has no ethnic antecedent. They passed a law that required all Canadian highway signs to be in both English and French. The French of Quebec had never stopped being FRENCH.
In the 1960s, Charles DeGaulle, whose hatred for English and all who speak it was built into his bones came to the two islands in the St. Lawrence River that are still part of metropolitan France and urged the people of Quebec to become militantly French. You could think of him as a Gallic Hugo Chavez, if you want to. Unpleasant thought for us.
Letter bombs came in the mail. Secessionist movements arose in Quebec. (I still saw some graffiti in Quebec City that read, “Quebec Libre!”) By the skin of its teeth Canada hung together. I think of that when I look at our increasingly Hispanic southwest.
The highway signs in English Canada are bi-lingual. The signs in Quebec are French only. There is some bitterness in English speaking Canada over the fact Quebec refuses to obey the law. Your waitresses and hotel clerks can manage reasonably coherent English for tourists—but the French accent is heavy indeed. Get away from tourist haunts and you are often reduced to a patois that consists of about six French words I know and five or six English words he knows.
The Canadian brigade that mans the citadel just inside the walls of old Quebec speaks ONLY French. I asked a guide as we toured the fort (which was built, incidentally, to defend Canada from American invasion back in the 1820s) if that didn’t make maneuvers with the rest of the Canadian army a bit difficult.
He told me that the brigade has several officers whose only job is to translate orders from English to French, and he conceded that the language difference can make things quite inefficient. “But,” he pointed out, “it would be politically impossible not to speak French.”
It’s a fair question to wonder how much good Quebec’s insistence on dealing with the world in French has actually done them. As Quebec became more and more isolated in its hold on Eighteenth Century French culture, Montreal went from being the first city in Canada to being a bit of a provincial backwater. Business action takes place now in English speaking Toronto.
After all, English is still the dominant language of the business and scientific world. Those who speak it fluently enjoy a real advantage. One almost suspects that French Quebec is still trying to reverse the verdict on the Plains of Abraham when Wolfe sent his redcoats up the steep river bank to surprise and defeat the French defenders.
Even if this may seem somewhat irrational to an outsider, the feeling is intense and—apparently—eternal. It may also be so in our southwest. Time will tell.