«Est-ce parce que j’ignorais tout de leur vie, de leur passé ou de leurs aventure, mais pendant que jouait la musique, ils me faisaient penser à des nuages, ces grands morceaux de silence capables de révoltes, de rages, de destruction, aussi de secours, de construction et de charité, qui s’arrêtent un moment parfois pour écouter et repartent quand on les observe.»
− Félix Leclerc, «Pieds nus dans l’aube»
[Was it because I knew nothing about their lives, their past or their adventures, but while the music was playing, they reminded me of clouds, these big pieces of silence, capable of revolt, rage, destruction, and also of salvation, construction and charity, that sometimes stop to listen and leave when you look at them]
I was only nine at the time of the 1995 referendum, and the solemnity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. It had been all that people were talking about. It had taken over everything. Lampposts had their opinion, “Yes” here. “No” there. Neighborhoods swayed one way or another. Blue here. Red there. As my parents explained to me what referendum meant, I imagined La Belle Province drifting away from the country, becoming an island of its own.
Though my parents were saddened by the result (the No won by a 1.16% margin), I couldn’t help to feel some relief. The world as I understood it, my world, would not change more than it already had; unlike Canada, my parents had recently decided to separate.
Fast-forward 20 years and despite my parents’ cultural allegiances, and perhaps slightly out of defiance, I have come to identify with the whole of Canadian culture. I feel at home in Vancouver, Ottawa or Toronto. I introduce myself as ‘Lawrence’ or ‘Laurence’, depending on the setting. I’m at ease in either language, sometimes even more so in English. Still, when I read the simple and beautiful prose of Félix Leclerc - author of “Pieds Nus dans l’Aube” (Barefoot at Dawn), the story of a frontiersman’s son coming of age, or listen to contemporary folk-songs written and performed by Mes Aieux, I recognize myself, my upbringing, and my kin in their words.
In the summer of 2015, I walked over 850 kilometers along the shore of the river whose name I bear and down which Jacques Cartier sailed to found Québec. During these 42 days, I crossed 54 villages and met dozens of Québecois. What united them, more than the province they inhabited, was a certain life philosophy, one best described by the local expression pelleteux de nuages (people who shovel clouds). As I wandered the countryside roads, the expression used to speak snidely about pipe-dreamers, took on another meaning, celebrating the visionary, rebellious, independent and unyielding nature of my compatriots. A nation long ruled by the church, it overthrew their authority peacefully during the 1960s Quiet Revolution, but kept traces of it throughout, unwilling to forget that part of history. “Je me souviens” goes our motto. Small villages that stood up to the government’s decision to forcefully close them in the 70s continue to fight for their survival. The work of the défricheurs will not be dismissed easily.
Pieds nus dans les nuages
Photos Laurence Butet-Roch
Quebec
Summer 2015