John
Woolfrey 1806
words
1729
Rue de la Visitation
Montreal,
Quebec, Canada
H2L
3C3
(514)
597-2189
Appearances and Reality
Copyright 2005 by Raymond John Woolfrey
From East of the Big Q,
a collection of gay short stories about Montreal
Comprehending Québécois (Quebec
French) is often not easy. Vowels get swallowed and consonants all seem to
run into each other. There are regional differences across the province. The
English speaker with only high-school French usually understands nothing more
than the simplest of phrases, and usually only when they’re spoken slowly. And
slow is not how most Québécois like to speak. Few newcomers master Quebec
French, even after several years of living in Montreal; and those of us native
Montrealers whose mother tongue is English don’t always understand everything
we hear, especially jokes bantered about in a group.
I’ve always thought that Quebec French is
to international French what English in the southern us is to North-American English. As in Dixie, Quebec
diphthongs are exaggerated, broad, and drawn out, often in a minor key; like a
plaint. Both groups use very colourful expressions and metaphors, and address
others as though everyone has known everyone else for a long time. In Quebec
the informal tu for “you” is used almost all the time, even when
speaking to little old ladies. Both groups show a fondness for composite names,
such as Bobbie-Joe in the South and Jean-Marc in Quebec.
All who have adopted French—any language,
for that matter—as a second language have found their word power enriched, and
usually to their great pleasure. Sentiments that would sound flowery in the
pragmatic English can be expressed in French in such a way that is pleasant,
light and enchanteur (see, it’s only natural—wouldn’t it sound a bit fey
to say “enchanting”?). French can be a fun language—especially the Quebec
variety, with its joual, a pan-Quebec patois; essential in communicating
with a fun people.
I think some people have a gift for
learning a second language while others simply do not. I’ve met several
intelligent people who are very knowledgeable, well educated and even very
creative in their own language, whether French or English, but simply fall
apart when trying to utter a few words in the other tongue. But even the
least-educated Montrealer is often equally at ease in both French and English,
jumping back and forth, indiscriminately expressing ideas in the other
language—to the point where a third one emerges. What we call Franglais.
We all use Franglais a bit from time to
time. It’s not unusual for bilingual Montrealers in conversation to grab a word
or a phrase from the other language, or even switch altogether, depending on
which language suits the speaker’s needs for a particular subject. Children of
immigrants, whose first language might be Portuguese, Chinese, Arabic or any of
dozens of others, are particularly adept in conversing in both French and
English—both being at once their second languages. Eavesdropping on a group of
high school students on a bus must be very frustrating for someone who
understands only one or the other. The listener would hear the kids express one
string of thought in one language and switch midstream to the other: “I just
sat down at the beginning of Algebra, when Marie-André comes up to me, really
mad, eh. So I go, ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’ Pis e’ m’a dit.”
For many of the gay men who come to
Montreal from other provinces or the us,
it’s not just the romance language they love, but the romance they find in the
French speaker— Not only the foreign tongue, but the foreigner’s tongue.
One night at La
Queue Doré I was comfortably
perched on my favourite vantage point—the railing overlooking the rear-bar
area—watching the crowd, when this guy who’d been flirting each time he passed
by finally stopped to talk to me.
“ ‘i. What’s your name?” he said.
“William. Et toi ?” I
said, in a natural response to the Québécois accent I detected.
“Luke,” he replied, and preceded with some
more pickup lines. This led to conversation, still in English, but punctuated
with a few bêns[1]
and Gallic shoulder shrugs from him. Whenever I switched to French, he stayed
in English. I figured he just wanted to practise.
But it’s considered bad manners for an
anglophone, when conversing with a francophone, not to use any French at all—at
least enough to show that he can speak it. I felt uncomfortable. “D’où viens-tu
?” I asked.
“Hein?” he said, “What’s dat?”
“I said, where’re you from?” somewhat
perplexed. Why was I repeating this question in English to an obvious
francophone?
“bc,”
he said. “Up the coast from a small town. You never heard of it.” I took his
word for it.
“Did you move here a long time ago?” I
asked, more confused.
“No. Just last year.”
“Then how long were you in bc?”
“I was born there.”
“You speak French up there?” I was
desperate to understand.
“No.”
Surely he was pulling my leg. “But you
have a Québécois accent!”
Luke shrugged. “No. I don’t know,” he
said, smiling. “Do I?”
I laughed. What is going on, I wondered.
Luke was of average height and looks, and about
twenty-eight years old. He moved his body in an easygoing way, and his plain,
slightly fleshy face with its dark, bright eyes was open and friendly. His
teeth strong and white. He smiled broadly and often, and laughed in a rich,
raspy baritone. His dark hair was short on the sides and combed to one side on
the top to end in little curls. It looked in need of a trim. His body, between
average and husky, in a few years might become fattish and drooping. It was a
body and a face that looked like they had a fondness for having fun. He told me
he’d been working as gardener and maid for a Montreal industrialist and his
wife at their country house in the Eastern Townships. Luke was very proud of
this job, and frequently recounted incidents that happened there.
He spoke with an overly contrived, crusty
queen façade that some gays adopt when introduced into gay society. He made no
bones about letting me know he was hopelessly into blonds, and I found his
energetic boyishness enticing, despite the queen lines. I knew I could relax
with him. Plus I wanted to solve this puzzle about his speaking English with a
French accent.
“You’re the same type as my fantasy,” he
said, “blond, tall, German looking. I can’t believe you’d be attracted to me.”
I wanted to get my Teutonic paws on that
doughy body of his. “You’re hot,” I said.
We eventually went back to my place, where
he spoiled me. He was my love-slave in bed, and the next morning almost cuddled
me to death. He got up when I got up, anxious to be with his “prize.” While he
were dressing he checked out my diplomas. “You’re an intellectual,” he
proclaimed. “Oh yeah, you’re a writer,” he remembered.
“I just write a little bit,” I protested.
“And it’s not like I have a PhD
or anything. Hardly an intellectual.”
We moved to the kitchen where I made
coffee and pancakes. We talked while we ate, and as Luke spoke I listened
carefully to the way his diction and satisfied myself that he pronounced
several words the way only an English-speaking Canadian could, like “out” and
“rainin’. I asked him again about his “Québécois” accent.
“I
guess I’ve met a lot of French guys since I came to Montreal,” he said,
shrugging his shoulders. “And I ’ad a couple of French boyfriends. I really
like French guys—they’re so hot! And I
love Montreal. People are real here, warm. I’ve been trying to learn French but
I can’t seem to get it. It’s frustrating.” He cocked his head and pouted his
lips, à la Québécoise.
“What brought you to Montreal from BC?” I
asked.
Like many people when they find out you
write, he was eager to tell me his story. “I ’ad to get away. I tried
Vancouver, then Toronto, but I didn’ like the people there. Too cold. I always
wanted to live in Montreal, but I didn’ speak French. Finally, one day I was
broke in Toronto and some friends were driving here. I just came along. I got a
job and everything’s working out okay. I love my job. I feel so lucky.”
“Do you miss your home town?”
Luke was sitting opposite the kitchen
window. The grey morning light caught his dark-grey eyes and hair, making them
look one and the same colour. As he told his story he flashed his eyes to
emphasize important parts.
“Are you kidding? There’s nothing there
for me,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I had no father and my mother
died when I was fourteen. I had to go into a foster home. The father was a cold
kind of guy who didn’t have much to do with us kids—there were some other foster kids there.
The father had muscles and tattoos an’ he worked on old cars. One day he
started sucking me off. Eventually it became routine—at first I was excited, but at the same
time I wasn’t sure. I was a bit uncomfortable, as though it was something I
shouldn’t do. I loved it though, and he only did to me what he wanted me to do
to him, but it was always when he wanted. I felt I had to do it. This went on
for a few years, until I found out he was doing it with the other kids, boys and
girls. I was mad. I thought I was the only one. The mother knew about it, too,
but she didn’t do nothin’. That’s when I left for Vancouver. I was almost
eighteen anyway.”
Luke told this story very
matter-of-factly, as though it didn’t matter all that much.
“Are you still mad at him?” I asked.
“No. I don’t hate him or anything. An’ I
was never in love with him. He was pretty hot, with those muscles, working on
those cars. I helped him on the cars. That’s when things would get hot. But
that’s behind me now. I don’t write or call or anything. I’m very ’appy now.”
Luke looked pensively out the window at
the yard below. “I wasn’t gay after that for a long time,” he said, “till I
came to Montreal. I had a friend in Vancouver. A really good friend. But one
day I said let’s do something sexual, and then he wasn’t my friend anymore.
That’s when I moved to Toronto. I was really unhappy. I missed my friend so
much. I blocked it out for a long time, but finally I remembered.”
He shrugged his shoulders, pouted his
lips, and, flashing his eyes at me, with a big smile on his boyish face, said,
“Bên, it’s okay now. I’m very ’appy now.”
[1] Joual for bien. “Well”