The Café in the Basement of an Auberge de Jeunesse, Montréal, Québec

Thursday, July 2nd, 2009
The little café in the basement, le sous-sol, of the Auberge de Jeunesse de Montréal was dimly lit and pop rock scratched in the background, like an old bar. But the place was polished and new, and I ate my breakfast of croissant, cereal, apple, and tremble-inducing green tea in peace, and scribbled observations on the cook/server of white t-shirt, shaved head, and strong Québecois accent and his crew at the counter. Since I am researching the struggle for the French language in Montréal, I had an eye fixed on this bilingual cat and his interactions with the clientel.

Interesting how, while speaking to the fat woman at the counter with great anima, he responded to the bold kid who strolled downstairs and greeted him in the language of the oppressor with a bland "Good Morning". Our man here made a side glance at the young Anglophone but kept right on talking to the fat woman at the counter in French for a moment, before turning to respond to the kid in excellent English. The American ordered a coffee and our man served it up lickety split with no fuss, but it was worth noting how he refused to recognize the existence of the young man for a moment, because, I think, the young man didn't even pretend to respect the quickly decomposing linguistic rules of Montréal, hailed as "the largest Francophone city in North America".

Moments later, a young lass in hippie-looking garb bounded down the stairs and greeted the fat woman in her forest-green shirt with a small kiss on both cheeks, and said something in tough Québecois accent. When our man, whose name I discovered is Philipe, poked his head out from the pantry and shouted something, she called him over with louder excitement, and they did the same kiss on both cheeks thing. Their excited speech of reunification climbed into the Australian-sounding vowels and R's of heavy Montréal French. Cool.

After two madly strong cups of green tea that made me sweat and a perch at the counter, I finally got to talking to Philipe. He graciously responded to every interrogating question I hit him with, even when I fumbled in French. The discussion was gold. When I asked him if he had the habit of responding to clients at the Auberge in English, ad felt comfortable speaking this tongue of the late-coming colonizers, he said Yes, and that bilingualism is necessary for almst all work in Montréal, except maybe for a few of the menial gigs, but even some of those require English. He said it without a flinch, but I gripped my heart at the reality of the situation he claimed. When I asked if he believed that's because all the supervisers or bosses are Anglophone, he shot back "No, no, it's a mix", drying dishes with a towel and hanging distant from me in the back of the tiny kitchen. The most striking thing that prompted a new and complex branch in the coversation was how he responded when I told him my French professor, who is die-hard Québecois, is a separatist (meaning someone believing Québec should seccede from Canada), and that my professor believes that all the rich powerful people in Montréal are Anglophones who oppress the Francophone majority. He said he thought that view was only held by old people in the city, and my professor's a pretty spry young guy, as far as professors go. Philipe said he voted for separation in the last referendum concerning the matter, which took place on October 30th, 1995. A historic event, which seemed to end, in a way, the radical force behind the Québecois independence movement. 93% of the eligible voting population came out on that day, never before seen. The result: 49% pour, 51% contre. So close and so many people participating, I think it knocked the wind out of the Québecois separatists, and thats why, as he recounted, his eyebrows were low and he frowned while speaking like "What can you do?" He told me "I'm a separatist, but not like a fanatic. Not the anti-Christ". Whew, that got me going, and I spent a good chunk of time trying to explain that I felt words like "fanatic" are used as weapons against the legit complaints of the colonized by imperialists who want to kep everything juuuust like it is. I brought up the example of Africa but he quickly dismissed it. C'est pas pareil, it's different, he told me. The argument went on, and there was a long silence. I sipped my tea in the styrofoam cup, he scrubbed dishes in back like a good worker, and finally I said OK une dernière question, and asked if he had ever, at any moment or in any place, found himself asking "Why continue to speak French?" It took a bit of rephrasing to really get the question across, but once he got it, he said blurrily "Yea, all the time". Despirited, I asked why. "Uh, I dunno. Yea I just don't know" he slurred while wiping some plastic tablecloths. A moment passed, I gave him my name and thanked him for speaking with me, and hunched over with melancholy at his resignation to the forces of monoculture, I slid from my seat and hauled body and brain upstairs.