I look at a photo album from my childhood and I stumble upon those from the holiday season. Looking back and in light of the pandemic, I realize that these holiday seasons were, for our family, closed holidays.
The holidays of my childhood, I lived them in Sept-Îles, territory of the Montagnais, name which was given to the Innu. My parents fled the Duvalier dictatorship after a migratory journey that took us from Morocco to Chad and finally to Quebec.
My parents left their island to find seven.
Like many immigrant families, my parents went into exile far from their country, from their extended families sacrificed in the search for a better life under better skies. These sacrifices, including that of friends, salt of life, which, according to some studies, are the secret to happiness and longevity, have not been easy. Their motivation: a better life for their children.
To integrate into our land of exile, our family suffered losses. Today, we have theorized these losses as the loss of social capital. Social capital is defined as the various kinds of actual or potential resources that an individual can mobilize by virtue of having a lasting network of social relationships.
We have long been the only Haitian family in Sept-Îles, the only black family. Our community: our nuclear family. The Haitian community had taken root in Montreal, the metropolis, as is still the case for many immigrants. Our immigrant community was Italian.
Land of welcome
Many Italians fleeing the poverty of Sicily had come to work in the mines in Sept-Îles, Schefferville, Gagnon and Fermont, also seeking a better future for their children. I also remember that the Italians mobilized their resources so that a truck full of Italian food could come to the North Shore before Christmas when the roads were still passable. This is how the Milano grocery store came into my life with its risottos, nougats, barley syrups, prosciuttos and panettones. This is how the recipes and desserts from southern Italy came into our lives.
Our parents shared the same nostalgia: that of the life before, that of the country which over time became the dream country. This nostalgia which allows the immigrant to recreate his native country after having left it, this country which ends up only existing in the minds of migrants.
I remember the more difficult holidays that my parents were able to make happy. Today, I consider it a miracle. My father did not work for three years, he had to sue the school board which did not want to renew his contract because his work permit had not arrived before the start of the school year. Three years without working for an administrative deadline, how is that possible? How did we survive?
Immigration is not a long quiet river.
Today, I live in Montreal, I am confined for the holidays with my family. But this confinement is different, I am with my family, which remains nuclear, but I see the luxuries that dot it and for which I can only express gratitude.
I know that not everyone has my chance, but all the same many of us have access to these luxuries: I can go buy the nougat of my childhood at Milano, I have virtual access to my friends, Zoom, Zoom , Zoom, and digital books in the library. Thanks to the books, I have access to many countries, many recipes, many cultures, and many readings from around the world.
Granted, I’m not claiming that this replaces human contact, but it could be a lot worse.
Children, we were happy, my sisters, my parents and I, because we were together, and it is in this spirit that I live the confinement.