During the summer, The duty crosses the waters of the St. Lawrence River, this giant “almost ocean, almost Atlantic” that Charlebois sings. Today, we’re on the lookout with a writer who tells us about her relationship with the river as a Montrealer, resident of Hochelaga-Maisonneuve.
It was in San Francisco that I really understood that Montreal was an island. At eighteen, with a backpack and hungry eyes, I was amazed by the presence of water in this city. I discovered several beaches and a large park along the bay, not far from the center. ” What luck ! I had thought then just before realizing, the next moment, that my own city was itself bordered by water.
Of course, I had already learned that in geography class. I also remembered it every time I took the Notre-Dame bike path or crossed one of the large bridges, I saw the river. However, it was not until visiting San Francisco that I realized that even though I lived on an island, there was a lack of water. Even today, I tend to forget the presence of the river when it is only a few minutes from my home.
So I want to talk to you about the river and the city: this apparent contradiction for anyone who has in mind the wild shores of the North Shore or the picturesque villages of Haute-Gaspésie. The river and the city: this combination is so logical, however, when we remember that humans almost always choose to settle near water. A few years ago, someone wrote on a wall in my neighborhood “Caged: the river behind the port. »
When you live in Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, you can try to reach the river, but you will quickly be stopped by huge fences, factories, a railway and by noisy Notre-Dame Street with its clouds of dust. Luckily, there is always the west of the island and to the east, Bellerive Park. In times of heat wave, I often cross the city to jump into the coolness of the river, from the quays of Verdun.
My friend Coralie will never leave this area, because it is unthinkable for her to go far from the banks. In the summer, she observes the birds at the Lachine Rapids and, in the winter, she snowshoes on the frozen shores. The river is also the one my great-grandparents used to row across to reach Île Grosbois. They had built a rudimentary hut there, their poorhouse. Memories of times spent on the island still wet my grandfather’s eyes.
They say that you only protect what you love and what you need to know to love. Most Montrealers know next to nothing about this river that surrounds them. He gave so much, he still gives, and we, what do we give him back? Would it be enough to recognize its rights, to grant it, like the Whanganui in New Zealand, the status of a legal person? And do you really need a court decree to understand that the river is also alive?
Should we not go deeper, change the very language by which we designate it or seek to enter into a relationship with it under the sign of reciprocity? What if we got into the habit of visiting it more often, of placing it at the center of our communities? What if the economy ceased to be—for a time or forever—our holy grail; that we choose instead to value the happiness of algae, belugas, sturgeons and humans? What if, instead of rejoicing when whales come to die off the coast of the Old Port, we take the time to listen to the messages of distress they bring us?
Who better placed, moreover, to guide us towards this change of perspective, than those who have known the river before knowing the St. Lawrence? Those who still call it Wepistukujaw Sipo, Moliantegok, Roiatatokenti, Kaniatarowanenneh, Magtogoek.
Even though I grew up near the river, I feel like I’ve had my back to it all my life. I have not been told any legend about him. I will therefore content myself with those told by my grandfather who, barely a month old and curled up in his mother’s arms, was experiencing his first crossing in the direction of Grosbois Island.
I will content myself with the magical feeling that runs through my little body when it joins the big body of the river, several times a summer.