He voted on Saturday. For the first time in his life. “I am 18 years old and I had to vote Macron. It’s sad,” he told me as he left the Palais des Congrès.
Posted at 11:00 a.m.
Yet he insisted on this democratic exercise. To express his voice. To contribute, in the most modest of ways, to countering the rise to power of the extreme right. Enough to be in the shower by 7 a.m. the day after a party end of CEGEP session.
The famous The youth fucks the National Front by Bérurier noir, which his mother sang, no longer resonates as it did 30 years ago. But he wasn’t going to let slip the opportunity to annoy Marine Le Pen, even from an ocean away. He was not the only one. The Palais des Congrès was teeming Saturday morning with young French people who are also Quebecers.
I had never envisaged that the first elections in which he would participate would be a French presidential one. But I have to face the facts: he is more French than I think. Even if he does not deny his quebecitude.
The summer of his 11 years, which we spent in France, a trainer from the Academy of Paris-Saint-Germain, where he played soccer, had spoken to him – obviously – about his “funny” accent. “You have an accent too,” he replied tac à tac.
It is binational, as we say at the Parc des Princes. Thanks to his French grandfather, born in Senegal, who voted on Saturday at the same time as him. He listens to French rap, buys vinyl records of French rappers who are practically impossible to find in Quebec. He follows French youtubers, in particular Hugo Décrypte, who has interviewed almost all the presidential candidates for his channel and from whom he drew inspiration to clarify his choice.
If he voted, it’s because he sees like everyone else the trivialization, normalization and rise of the far right, especially in France, but here too. He is not fooled by what underlies the proliferation of euphemisms to describe the far right (populist right, nationalist right, etc.): giving it both a “human face” and a veneer of acceptability social.
If he voted, it is because the scarecrow of wokism, a hackneyed term that no one around him uses, seems to frighten them more, here as elsewhere, than the potential coming to power of politicians who blow on the embers xenophobia and ignorance to achieve their ends.
At her age, Marine Le Pen was already an activist in the National Front, a party founded by her father, with whom she shares the same fundamental ideas, in particular on immigration. That his proposal for an outright ban on religious symbols on French territory – no longer a Sikh, no longer a Jew and, above all, no longer a Muslim visible in its streets – does not provoke more indignation testifies to the path traveled by the extreme right for barely 20 years.
But even under a new administration, even under a better-controlled name, even with a more civilized or watered-down discourse, Marine’s extreme right remains Le Pen’s extreme right. The fantasy of a bleached France whiter than white, “karcherized by its scum”, which its “historical majority” would have reappropriated, as the other would say.
It is not so much the ideas of the Le Pen family that have changed in a generation. This is the general idea we have of it in the Western world. What was considered nauseous when I was 18 – discriminating against an individual on the basis of their origin or their religion – is seen today as acceptable, even desirable, by a staggering number of people.
All you have to do is spend some time in France to see firsthand how commonplace racial profiling is. More than once, I thought about this scene from the series Funnyon Netflix: a young black comedian has her identity checked by the police, with her sister, because they come out of a store with several packages under their arms.
The cops are brusque, suspicious…until they realize they’re dealing with the latest internet sensation (thanks to a viral issue on the petty pleasures of prostate stimulation). Suddenly they are deferential and politely ask for a selfie. They would probably have the same reaction to Karim Benzema. But not in front of Fiston, whose middle name and face betray Arabism.
“This time it really sucks,” headlined Release following the first round of the presidential election. It was this real threat that convinced me in turn that it was worth trying my French passport to vote against Le Pen.
We went there as a family. As soon as the polling station opened, the outside line went through the Palais des Congrès all along rue Viger. Nearly two hours later, with the ballot box within reach, Sonny and I were told we had been directed to the wrong place. Alphabet confusion. I was afraid of being caught cutting a line. I was even more worried about having to wait in line.
We finally found. “As it is his first time, it would be interesting for him to attend the counting. It’s only going to last an hour and a half,” the scrutineer suggested to me, speaking of Fiston. “We’ll think about it,” I replied. “You are one of those nice people who don’t dare say no! he told me, insightful.
It reminded me of Sonny who, very young, had already understood what this sibylline formula meant. “When you say you’re going to think about it, that means no!” It was he who explained to me that it was necessary to take two ballots, each with the name of a candidate, as well as a small blue envelope in which to deposit the chosen ballot. All that was missing was the quill and a wax seal. “I would be surprised,” I replied. What do we do with the second bulletin? »
I soon understood. In the voting booth, you could dispose of the rejected ballot in a trash can. Mine was already full of Le Pen bulletins. I liked the symbolism of the gesture. In front of me, Fiston put his blue envelope in the ballot box, and I was suddenly moved. “If she comes in anyway, I’ll be disgusted!” he said as he left. Disgusted. I told you he was French.