I moved to Montreal seven years ago. I live in the famous Plateau — the famous district of Michel Tremblay, Jean Leloup, the Portuguese and, for a few years now, the Parisians. A district long known to be that of the working class and which has now become gentrified.
I moved to the Plateau for many reasons: the proximity of services, the demographic mix, its location in the heart of the city and its eccentric side… Characteristics which, let’s say, stand out from the average city or the suburbs. Americans where I have lived most of my life.
I was born and raised in Manchester, New Hampshire, four hours south of Montreal, in a French-speaking neighborhood called Little Canada. My friends and family spoke French there, and I didn’t start speaking English until I was five.
Before emigrating to the United States, and this, since the XIXe century, my family took root in the heart of Mauricie, in Grand-Mère. I often feel the call of this region, which I carry within me, even if I have only spent a short time there… It takes my “dose”.
When we were children, my sister and I spent many of our long weekends visiting our grandparents and my uncle Réal, who lived in Grand-Mère and Shawinigan. We never missed an opportunity to go to the snack bar “Chez Auger: L’ami du gourmet”, which is still located on the main street, 6e av. This restaurant, which once belonged to my grandfather, was sold to Mr. and Mr.me Auger, who have owned it for over fifty years.
From our village in New Hampshire, on the way to the Canadian border, we waited with excitement for the radio stations to switch to French. When our parents stopped to fill up with gas and the Americans understood us and answered us in French, we knew that we were approaching Canadian customs. I have an inexhaustible memory of it.
Grand-Mère, Shawinigan, Trois-Rivières. Three Mauritian cities where I still recognize the streets of certain neighborhoods, those of my memories. The street where my sister and I played, the one where I had my hair cut at a barber who knew my grandparents, or even the street of my grandparents, or that of our uncle Réal. We felt like at home. These streets were our roots, and in my eyes as a child, it represented a country.
When it was time to leave, I was sad to leave my grandparents and sad to leave Mauricie, which I loved very much. I knew I was going back to Manchester, New Hampshire, to my home country. But what is the difference for a child between the country where he was born and the country where his heart is? I felt as much at home, if not more, in the Mauricie region, where I spent less time, than in my own hometown.
My family and I are Franco-Americans. I am Franco-American.
Today there are still a few families from the Mauricie region in Manchester, and when we ask them where they come from, people answer with pride and with a Jack Kerouac accent: “Trois-Rivères” or even “Three- Rivers”.
I am an immigrant who returned to his native country. Country which, without giving birth to me, allows my heart to find its roots. My neighborhood is the Plateau. My city is Montreal. Even though I have never lived there, my village will always be the small town of Grand-Mère, near Shawinigan.
My family and I are Franco-Americans. I am Franco-American. As Gaston Miron said, I did not come back to come back, I arrived at what is beginning: in Quebec.