ON ROOTS AND CULTURAL IDENTITY

One of the subjects I like to raise with strangers when I meet them is their ancestry.  If I hear a last name that sounds Polish, for example, I’ll ask whether I’ve got it right.  If the person is Canadian, I’ll ask how many generations the family has been in this country.  In Europe, I wanted to know why the Serbs had it in for the Croats and vice versa, and why the Turks and the Greeks had such a hate on for one another.  People gritted their teeth and gave me the best explanations they could.  While in Central America I met many locals, tour guides for example, and asked them about their ancestry.  I received all manner of answers, ranging from “I don’t know!” — which I took to mean “I don’t much care!” — to a comprehensive history lesson about the Maya.

My own roots are decidedly Acadian.  I’ve traced the ancestral lines of my eight great-grandparents.  The first of their ancestors to arrive in Nouvelle France were: Pierre Arsenault, Jean Pitre, Michel Haché dit Gallant, François Blanchard, Jean Gaudet, Pierre LeClair, Robert Cormier, and Antoine Bourque.  The only one who wasn’t French was Jean (Benèque) Pitre, born around 1636, and of either Flemish or English origin.  The women who married seven of these eight men, Marie Guérin, Marie Pesseley, Anne Cormier, Marguerite Caret, Rose Belliveau, Marie Péraud, and Antoinette Landry were of French ancestry.  We don’t know the name of Jean Gaudet’s first wife, the mother of my direct ancestor, but it’s safe to assume she was French also.

Growing up in an English-French community like Wellington, I considered my Acadian identity confusing at best and, at worst, a negative attribute.  Those who spoke English with a French accent were made fun of by English playmates that, ironically, could hardly put three English words together themselves.  In turn, we mocked our classmates at École régionale Évangéline who’d had little occasion to speak English before high school.  Having a mastery of English at that age made me feel superior.

I was fortunate to hear English spoken around me at a very young age, and was fluent in both languages by the time I started school.  One day, when I was about five, I visited two neighbour boys who happened to be English.  Back home, I walked in the door and announced triumphantly that I’d learned new English words: “Goddamn” and “Jesus Christ”.  My mother and grandmother were not impressed!

All through elementary and high school, I much preferred English subjects to French.  After five years at École régionale Évangéline, my spoken and written French remained at a very basic level, just enough to get me by in my own community.  I chose to attend an English university in Fredericton, partly because I had no interest in studying in French. 

Acquaintances began calling me “J-P”, simply out of convenience, and because many of us had nicknames.  Early in my career, I tried to use my given name but soon tired of being called “John Paul” or worse, “Gene Paul”, by English people who wouldn’t even try to pronounce it correctly.  None of this did anything to strengthen my Acadian identity.

 

Four life events changed all that.  The first was a concert Elva and I attended at the Confederation Centre of the Arts, probably in 1978.  We had returned to the Island after a two-year stint in Toronto and had heard that Angèle Arsenault and Les danseurs Évangéline would be performing on the Centre’s main stage theatre.  I didn’t know quite what to expect but decided to attend out of curiosity.

I’ll never forget walking towards the Centre and seeing École régionale Évangéline school buses lined up nose-to-tail in front of the Queen Street entrance.  Inside, people from my home community milled about in the entrance foyer, many of them wide-eyed in amazement at the grandeur of the place, most of them in the Centre for the first time in their lives.  I got caught up in the buzz and looked forward to the concert.

Angèle was a big star, almost too big for us to call our own, but well-suited to the Centre’s main stage.  I remember her giving a fine performance; it’s what we expected.  But when Les danseurs Évangéline, a group of young people de par chez-nous bounded onto the stage, there was a noticeable change in the audience reaction.  The fiddles played our tunes, our toes started tapping, and we saw the old familiar dance steps being performed.  You could feel a sense of pride, wonderment and sheer joy emanating from family members and friends.  Needless to say, the dancers earned deafening applause and a standing ovation.

I got caught up in the atmosphere, and I still get goose-bumps from the memory of that magical night.  For the first time, the Confederation Centre of the Arts belonged to us.  Our own were good enough to be on the main stage!  I consider this single event to be the genesis of my Acadian identity.

The second key life event was the first annual meeting I attended of La Société Saint-Thomas d’Aquin, the province’s Acadian and Francophone organization, in 1979.  At the time, I was very much opposed to a radical political element within the SSTA that advocated a confrontational approach as the way to promote the French language and culture.  I was named to the Board of the SSTA in 1979 and became its President in 1987.  For twenty-five years, I was a director of provincial, regional and national organizations that promoted French language and culture.  These experiences contributed greatly to my understanding of the history of my people and encouraged me to improve my spoken and written French.

The third was my discovery of Acadian history through researching family genealogy.  As an only child raised in a single-parent family, I became curious to know where I’d come from.  Although it took me several years, I managed to piece together my eight family trees.  Along the way, I learned much about my people’s triumphs and struggles, and became especially fascinated by how each of these families made it through the terrible years of the Deportation, the 1750s and 1760s.

The fourth key event in my life was having children.  Without a doubt, this is the most important thing that’s ever happened to me.  With the help of my life partner, Elva, I raised three beautiful children: Sylvie, Clément and Jacques.  I give Elva and her wonderful family much of the credit for instilling in them a strong dose of the essential Acadian identity at a young age.

Although each of them may express it in a different way, it’s an important part of who they are.  My children have given me many examples of how personality traits and values associated with the Acadian identity have influenced their lives in the workplace and elsewhere in a positive way.  The best of these are the strong work ethic, the ability to seek and find compromise, the ability to work with others, and the Acadian sense of humour.

I believe in genetic memory, also called racial memory, defined in psychological terms as memories, feelings and ideas inherited from our ancestors as part of a “collective unconscious”.  We’re all born with genetic memory.  Some of us choose to seek it out and learn from it; others don’t.  I’m the sum of the genes of all of my Acadian ancestors.  I therefore believe I can better understand myself by getting to know them.

I shudder to think of where I’d be today if I hadn’t discovered my roots, listened to what my ancestors were telling me, and nourished my Acadian identity.  As I enter my seventh decade, the foundation is stronger than ever although, as always, I have a foot in each of two worlds: French and English.  I’ve tried to adopt the strongest elements of both cultures and I’m thankful to be able to live in a country that favours this.  While my Acadian identity was slow to take root, my voyage of self-discovery has served me well and I’m a better person for it.