The author is a historian, sociologist, writer and retired teacher from the University of Quebec at Chicoutimi in the history, sociology, anthropology, political science and international cooperation programs. His research focuses on collective imaginations.
We had in our family an old uncle brought up on land which he helped to clear until adulthood. But he could not establish himself as a farmer, the arable land being then all occupied. He found a job as a carpenter in Jonquière, which gave us the opportunity to get to know him well, because he regularly came to our house to see our parents.
He was a very small man, stern, angry and surprisingly strong (“narfé”, as they said). He had hardly attended school, it was the great misfortune of his life. He nurtured a cult for education and suffered from having been deprived of it. But he worked very hard to compensate. He had procured an old encyclopedia in which he spent all his spare time, except those he reserved for reading the Dutymore specifically editorials by Henri Bourassa.
He was his hero. He memorized long excerpts from his texts and, while visiting us, he recited them as Bourassa could have done, in the tone of a harangue. Very gifted, he had a memory that never betrayed him. He skilfully played with voice, look and gesture. He sometimes recited long passages in a very soft tone while closing his eyes—we knew then that the storm was coming. And indeed, he burst suddenly, very angry, but always with a perfect control of the syntax. They were usually passages evoking the thousand and one ways in which French Canadians were cheated by the English.
Ah! the English ! It was the uncle who made us discover their dark perfidy, their fatal intrigues, awakening very early in us the nationalist fiber. He was very eloquent despite his small size, a handicap he had learned to overcome thanks to a range of tricks he had perfected: he knew, at the right times, how to raise his voice, stretch his gesture, raise his gaze , lift your chin, lift your hat. All this gave him the impression of dominating his audience. But he remained hopelessly small.
His performances, always in a refined language, impressed us and he appreciated the benevolent public that we were. Our mother was the most attentive, but it wasn’t free, she always had a little repair to do—a shelf to straighten, a drawer that got stuck, a rickety step. The uncle came back the next day with his big toolbox on his shoulder and did it. He was a jack of all trades, even acting as a dentist on occasion. He had procured an enormous forceps of which my brother Lucien was one day the victim. We were given the chance to witness a long, fierce, fascinating fight, a formidable hand-to-hand fight between the torturer and a rebellious molar that ended up yielding with a big “crack” (the uncle was operating cold…) .
Tensions arose as we progressed in our studies. He became less pleasant, a little grumpy. He became jealous of us because of our education. When we got to college, things took a turn for the worse. One day, he called out harshly to us: “Don’t forget you people that literacy includes the word stupidity.” »
In his old age, he made two or three trips to the “old countries”. He extended his knowledge: the dimensions of the doors of the Saint-Pierre basilica (which he had measured himself with his “pied-de-roy”), the number of cannons used in the construction of the Vendôme column, the length of the Seine and the flow of its water (in cubic meters/second). He had estimated the weight of the Eiffel Tower and had done many other equally fascinating surveys. Returning to Jonquière, he made the rounds of relatives, looking for an opportunity to show off his knowledge. But he had little success. He was sorry about it to my mother: “Not even a question! All insignificant…”
He was small, but had a long memory. One day, shortly before his death, I went to see my parents. The uncle was there. Unfortunately, he had just come from a long trip to the holy places and some surrounding countries. Stuck, I wanted to be a good player. For nearly an hour, I questioned him, choosing my questions carefully (“The Nile, my uncle, is it as big as the Seine?”, “The pyramids, are they quite old? “, etc.). I was lucky. Once again, he had observed everything, learned everything.
I left quite happy. Later, mum called me to tell me that after I left, the uncle had exclaimed: “Gérârd, he’s well educated, but he knows r’guian! »
Why Uncle Henry?
I imagine that there were Uncles Henri in many Quebec families. Before the 1960s, our society was very backward in terms of schooling. Us, what we have kept from the uncle is an emotional, painful memory. It is hard to imagine a more extensive cult of education. He had to do without it and never got over it. And he suffered from it all the more because he was exceptionally gifted. How he would have liked to live in our time!
In our time ? This brings up a few questions. Wouldn’t there still be some potential uncles Henri today? Teaching has become a very complicated business: dropping out, overworked teaching staff, insufficient resources, and children who are no longer the same as before, neither are parents. We are constantly talking about a crisis. Is the man currently at the helm of our system in his place? Does he have the finesse, the tact, the wisdom, the expertise to exercise this heavy responsibility so loaded with stakes?
Maybe I worry for no reason. After all, barely taking office, our Minister has already established a beautiful harmony with the teaching staff. He even solved the thorny problem of the three-speed school (“I don’t believe it”).