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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2008-05-29, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, MAY 29, 2008. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Simply fine So I’m trapped behind the chip dip at this soiree in Kitsilano. Planted firmly before me in high heels and a low top is this woman I barely know who is reciting her resume, not that anybody asked. She lets it drop that she speaks four languages, including French, then adds with a sniff: “Parisian French…not Quebecois. They speak horrible French in Quebec.” And I know it’s uncharitable and certainly un-Christian, but my first instinct is to reach for a bowl of crème glace and dump it all over her pretentious tete. I don’t, of course – I’m a Canadian (as is she). But the atmosphere cools and I start planning my getaway, though I’m not sure why I’m suddenly feeling protective and defensive about Canada’s French. God knows they don’t want or need my (assume defensive position: French word incoming) -- patronage. Besides, our Canadian French confreres have been under assault from another, more unlikely source of late: France. At a recent convention of historians and politicos in Quebec City it was revealed that, contrary to what we learned at school and what every separatiste believes in his heart, Quebec was not a tragic concession cruelly torn from the breast of France and awarded to Britain back in 1763. According to modern historians Quebec was more of an unprofitable pain in the derriere that the French couldn’t wait to unload. “We heard that we weren’t conquered” says Quebec senator Serge Joyal. “The British just waited for the French to give us away. That’s shocking to many people. The French didn’t want us”. Such a revelation goes a long way towards explaining the sniggering and supercilious attitude the European French have long reserved for Quebec. The French, who centuries ago raised snobbery to an art form, have always been especially disdainful of the Quebecois. They regarded them as bumptious colonial rubes who dressed badly and talked funny. Especially talked funny. ‘Joual’ is the name of the Montreal dialect most commonly associated with French Canadians – the word is a corruption of the word for horse – ‘cheval’. In the old days, the French hid behind their fans every time a Quebecois moved his or her lips – tres drole. Now it seems the French may have to learn to laugh out of the other side of their mouths. It’s because of a movie that’s taken France by storm. It’s called Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis – which translates as Welcome to Ch’tisland. The movie is about a typical southern French urban snob, a postal worker, who gets sent – exiled – to the far north of France where the inhabitants are, well, hicks. They come off as stupid, backward, malingering drunkards. Ch’tis is the dialect they speak, and it’s incomprehensible to outsiders – even other Frenchmen. The snob’s opening line to the first Ch’tis speaker he meets: “Is there something wrong with your jaw?” It’s a feel-good movie that exploits a hackneyed theme: cultivated sophisticate from the Big City gradually learns something about the real values of life from an encounter with unvarnished sons of the soil. He and the audience come to adore and respect these loveable, honest, surprisingly canny country folk. Kind of a Gallic version of Corner Gas. As a premise for a French movie Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis should have gone over like a bowl of poutine at the Ritz. In fact, it’s a smash. More than 20 million French citizens have lined up to see the film. And they’re attending not to make mock of the rustic characters on the screen, they’re coming to admire them – and the funny way they talk. Some French observers are mystified – and more than a little worried. Michel Wieviorka, a Paris sociologist, frets that the film “celebrates a France that is inward-looking, fearful of the future and lazy.” He also describes the characters as ‘franchouillard’ – which is to say ‘redneck’. Heck, we Anglos can help him with that. No need to fret – the French have simply discovered their inner Don Cherry. If they work at it real hard, they might someday be ready for Bob and Doug McKenzie. Wonder what the French is for “Beauty, eh?” Arthur Black Other Views Comment dit-t’on ‘beauty, eh?’ W hat is it with white, male, middle- aged and older Progressive Conservatives and guns? John Snobelen, a controversial former education minister famed for riding the range at his ranch in Oklahoma, has admitted having an unregistered handgun. A judge gave him an absolute discharge, which was lenient when guns are causing so many deaths in Toronto. Randy Hillier, a Conservative MPP since October, was accused by Aboriginal Affairs Minister Michael Bryant, of shooting deer out of season. It caused an uproar in the legislature. Hillier had warned that farmers in his area might shoot deer destroying crops and threatening livelihoods. Some were shot, but the MPP retorted not by him, although he says he shoots wildlife and often it is necessary. A senior Ontario Provincial Police officer, in a conversation he did not know was being recorded, which was played at a public enquiry three years ago, described former premier Mike Harris and some of his ministers as “barrel-suckers – in love with guns.” He made the criticism after an aide to Harris said the premier wanted Native demonstrators moved out of Ipperwash Provincial Park, which they were occupying as an ancient Indian burial ground. In the eviction a demonstrator was shot dead by police. When Liberal Premier Dalton McGuinty brought in legislation to ban shooting of wildlife penned in game farms in 2004, arguing it was unfair because the animals had no chance to escape, some Conservatives spoke against it. The Liberals said such so-called hunting needed no skill, because the animals would always run into a fence, and those shooting simply were buying the right to kill an animal. Many letters to newspapers derided the hunters as unwilling to put any effort into hunting and preferring to drive somewhere they could spend a couple of hours killing animals and speed back to their comfortable city homes. The Conservatives argued the animals, mainly deer and elk, were not taken from the wild, but raised on the farms and harvested there more humanely than in abattoirs. When the Conservatives were in government in the early 2000s, a party insider, Glen Wright, senior enough to be appointed chairman of the giant utility Hydro One, used its money to take party strategists and people he wanted to influence on a $750-a day hunting trip at a game club. The public even paid for their ammunition. Al McLean, an MPP who liked hunting, was a resources minister briefly in 1985 until he was found to have been convicted and fined a decade earlier for being in a truck at night with friends and with a loaded rifle not in its case. McLean said the gun was not his and he did not know it was in the truck, but he was convicted under a law aimed commendably at preventing hunters turning on their truck lights at night to stun game so it was immobilized and easily shot. Under the law everyone found in a vehicle with an uncased rifle could be fined for breaking the law. There also was John Robarts, premier from 1961-71, admired particularly for giant reforms in education and human rights laws, building the waterfront attraction Ontario Place and the Ontario Science Centre and giving Ontario a lead role in debates aimed at strengthening national unity. Robarts had a passion for fishing and enjoyed hunting. Throughout his premiership he did both at an elite private club on an island in Georgian Bay, where it was not easy for quarry to escape. He was criticized for it. In 1982, after he retired, he jammed his hand in the mechanism of his gun, it gushed with blood and he said he could shoot no longer. It was the final straw in things he could no longer do. Soon afterwards he took a gun given him by grateful Progressive Conservatives in London, which he had represented in the legislature, went to his bathroom and shot and killed himself. Conservatives and guns have helped shape Ontario’s history and they are still doing it. Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk T he approach, as it makes its way to the intersection is like the tortoise, slow and steady. At odds with most everyday movement on the roads — urgent careening, dust flying in the wake of a fibreglass blur, the sudden, neck-bracing, last-minute braking — it nears the stop sign almost casually. At the crossroad it’s a picture of rural humility. Some may laugh at the relic, the aging curmudgeon mocked by foolish youth. Some may be puzzled as to why it hadn’t been replaced by a sleeker model. It is, after all, not up to the standards of today. There’s none of the demonic high-gloss black that characterizes its modern, monster cousins. No bold decals proclaim its power. Yet, its weathered appearance is there without apology; it’s utilitarian and looks the part. Just as a farm pickup did when I was growing up. Spying this one the other day, I couldn’t help but remember my visits to my country cousin and the trips made in my uncle’s trusty truck. It, like this one, was a simple, tired- looking vehicle that exemplified rural living. There were no bells and whistles, no embellishments. It worked hard, starting early in the day and ending late at night. It was a multi-tasking piece of equipment, one that journeyed through field lanes, down back roads and into town. It pulled things, moved them, carried them. It rarely stopped, and seldom hurried. Vanity was not an option. No one gave a thought to whether the truck looked pretty or tough. No one cared if there was dog hair on the seat, a paint chip on the side, or straw in the bed. These were the marks of labour and living. So here it was again before me, this throwback to a modest time and if its presence wasn’t enough to guarantee nostalgia, the manner in which it moved was. If this little red truck became my metaphor for the simple life, I realized how far away from it we’ve travelled. There’s nothing, not even our pace, that’s simple anymore. Be honest. Even ‘country’ folk nowadays are like their urban counterparts. We often have to have. We want more, bigger and better. We fill already full days with activities and are usually in a hurry to get to them. Seems to me our daily pace, and I’m guilty, guilty, guilty, is a flurry of flying seconds, our lives a lot of unnecessary extras. It all got me thinking of something I read recently. The story goes of a wealthy man who takes his son to the country to see how ‘poor people’live. At the end, he asks his son what he learned. The son answered: “I saw that we have one dog and they had four. “We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden and they have a creek that has no end. “We have imported lanterns in our garden and they have the stars at night. “Our patio reaches to the front yard and they have the whole horizon. “We have a small piece of land to live on and they have fields that go beyond our sight. “We have servants who serve us, but they serve others. “We buy our food, but they grow theirs. “We have walls around our property to protect us, they have friends to protect them.” The boy’s father was speechless. Then his son added, “Thanks Dad for showing me how poor we are.’” Just in case you forgot exactly what are the finer things in life. What is it with Tories and guns? Rare is the person who can weigh the faults of others without putting his thumb on the scales. – Byron J. Langenfeld Final Thought Letters Policy The Citizen welcomes letters to the editor. Letters must be signed and should include a daytime telephone number for the purpose of verification only. Letters that are not signed will not be printed. Submissions may be edited for length, clarity and content, using fair comment as our guideline. The Citizen reserves the right to refuse any letter on the basis of unfair bias, prejudice or inaccurate information. As well, letters can only be printed as space allows. Please keep your letters brief and concise.