First full day in Montreal

I'm doing a Fulbright in Montreal for the year. After day one, I'm thinking that I really, really want to get permanent residency here. The pace is slower, the society more advanced than the U.S. - from recycling to health care to interactions to government organization, the Canadians are light years ahead of the U.S.

Today I did lots of practical things: parking permit, first class (Post-war Montreal culture), library card, returned the U-Haul, moved things into storage, unpacked about 4 more boxes, washed the floor.

I feel so at home here. I love the many people look and sound like my family. I love the more communal feel of the culture. I love that I don't have to fear being raped and murdered every time I step outside my apartment - beautiful, in the best neighborhood, the Plateau.

I want this to be a turning point in my life. The moment when everything came together.

jem

Holding trauma against us

Here's the way it works: women experience trauma at a mammothly huger rate than men in this country, because of the normalcy of daily violence, aggression, hatred, and de-humanization of women. Not to mention the daily instances or rape and murder of women, and, the ever-present fear of being insulted, dehumanized, raped, and/or murdered. Many of us have grown up in households in which women are loathed, for instance. We are dehumanized on a daily basis. Our brothers have all the fun, we get to clean up and are told that we are fractions of who our brothers are.

Then we grow up. No one does an 'intervention' and prepares us for the fast-pace of this culture, no one apologizes for your past treatment and for what you are going to experience on a daily basis for the rest of your life.

We are expected to perform as well as everybody else. If we don't, we are told that we are inherently inferior to the men around us, who have experienced familial and societal love and encouragement, remember, while we were daily insulted and threatened. No one acknowledges that the trauma we went through would prevent any other creature from getting as far as we have. Prisoners of war, natural disaster survivors, on and on, they receive support and acknowledgment of what they've gone through. We don't. We get no help. Yet we persist, because we are expected to.

And if we do as well as everybody else, we are faced with hatred and jealousy: "What kind of woman are you?" they ask us, when we excel at sports and academics and everything. We are expected to be less than we are, to assuage the jealousy and feelings of inferiority of the men. Drop everything for the sake of coddling the men. Make sure you comply with how they want to see you, how they want the world to see you, for no reason other than that it feels better to them that way. To make believe they are superior - this feels nice to them. So let's do everything in our power to make women feel horrible about themselves, to mistreat and attack women, everything we can to make them believe that they are not human.

I think, too, that men see that women are superior - we are more analytical and detailed, more insightful and perceptive, physically stronger (how many men live as long as we do, even after we've been physically and emotionally abused our entire lives? How many men are in their athletic peak for 30 years or more as we are?), more loving and charasmatic...men know this, and so, they do what George Busch does when feeling a little threatened: they panic and lash out with violence.

Men need to learn from the masters: women. Men need to learn how 'to swim' as I did: by patiently, quietly observing the others and then trying it myself. They need to humbly accept reality: women are more evolved, we are their natural teachers, and watch and mimic us.

I will never join a religion unless it has as its head the common sensical and natual leader: a female god. Until that time, oh, I am a content atheist.

Silly men.

Men's hysteria about Hillary

Dear friends,

Good god, I'm having a hard time post-Hillary. When Hillary had a chance of being our president, I felt a hope I hadn't realized I was capable of feeling: I realized, that for the first time in my life, *I* had a chance at being president, all girls/women did. I felt, for the first time in my life, that women might actually be perceived as being who they are, who they've always been - supremely capable, talented, smart, resourceful humans who were beginning to be perceived as people, as truly worthy of serious consideration for any position or achievement - and not simply as something to be fucked and flirted with and to make serve you and to cheat on and violate. This was a dream/desire that had been robbed from me/all girls at birth, because of mass-hysteria surrounding the possibility that women might actually be human and worthy of respect: that women are actually human and all those horrific things done to us on a daily basis hurt and are as insulting and appalling as had they been done to you. That is, nothing 'innate' in us prepares us or immunes us to the daily abuse and horror we are forced to go through on a daily basis.

When the only viable candidate - Hillary - was not allowed to be president, I began to feel the familiar grind of trying to survive on a daily basis, of knowing that my efforts would always be in vain. Yes, that's nice to have dreams, little girl...now get back to looking pretty and being quiet while the men go live life.

***

Almost without exception, every Hillary conversation I've been involved has begun with someone insulting Hillary - and I'm talking really horrible insults, which have nothing to do with her impeccable, superior credentials and everything to do with mass hysteria surrounding the fear that women might be human - and me very quickly interjecting that I was devastated when Hillary, the only viable candidate this election, was forced out of the race, and that I cried like a baby during her last 2 concession speeches. They usually don't get the hint - their terror about the possibility that women are human is so strong. "How'd she get the working class white-male vote? She must have been showing cleavage" (this at a "Drinking Liberally" event, from a woman adequately indoctrinated into the art of hating herself and anyone like her...and I'd thought I was safe here, I thought people would agree with me in this venue that women are human); "You're just voting for her because she's a woman!" (this from a 20-something boy [don't throw pearls at swine, I tell you] on whom I wasted the time explaining in detailed fashion why Hillary is the professional superior for the position - and who carte blanche is voting for Obama because he's a man.

God these are tame examples. I've seen man after man after man - journalists, famous, powerful men - betray their hysteria about *almost* having to admit that women are truly human. The latest was on "The Big Idea" with Donny Deutsch - what a pig - who was interviewing Jon Bon Jovi (a decent human). "I'm just not sure that the country" - this said while holding his glasses in a faux-sophisticated/professional pose - "is ready for a woman president. I'm just not sure we're ready to see a woman as commander in chief." While he said this, he looked at Bon Jovi with desperation - "Please, please affirm what I just said, please, please! Tell me that I'm still going to get all the unfair advantages that I'm used to! Please, please tell me I don't have to speak to my wife, daughters, sisters with respect! Oh, please tell me the time hasn't yet come!" - it was all over his face, his terror that he might now be forced to see women as human, that perceiving a woman as veritable authority, worthy of complete respect was possibly, possibly being asked of him...and he just didn't want to have to change his lazy-arse thinking, not today, please Bon Jovi?

It's everywhere and it's exhausting and violent.

jem

Scott Mcclellan's book

Dear friends,

Scott Mcclellan's ridiulous new book tells us nothing new or insightful about a White House we already knew was corrupt, dishonest, and undemocratic. The book simply attempts to position Mcclellan as a naive and conscientious employee, who had no culpability in the disastrous reign of this administration.

Of course, Mcclellan is as culpable as the rest for the lies, the unlawful actions, the devastation here and abroad. He is scared, and now that he was fired and cannot go back to the White House, now that his buddies in the White House are increasingly being uncovered for what they are, he wants to strategically position himself in the public's eye, so that he can get a job, and so that he won't look as doltish as the rest of them in the history books.

Too late, Mcclellan - the time to speak up was years ago, when you were happily, willingly a part of the corruption...be an adult and take responsibility for your horrible mistakes. The sequel to the book should be _I Knew All Along_.

jem

Descents

My last day in Fort Kent was good. Only spent about an hour that day, taking pics of my mother's mother's birth and baptism records. I'd stayed at a horrible B&B the night before, in Edmonston. I barely slept, maybe 2 hours. So, I was up very early, and finished everything I needed to do in Fort Kent.

The descent downward from Fort Kent to my home town, Biddeford, was very nice. About 6 hours. Lots of fields, and small towns. I finished listening to 'The Corrections,' on Cd...and am properly amazed by the book. So insightful, and wise, and moving. I loved it.

I got home to my parents' and showed them both pictures of their parents' hometowns. They were really impressed. My mother and I went to dinner at our favorite seafood restaurant.

That night, following a funny and unexpected episode with a bat in the house, my mother, who has a faulty heart, went into atrial fibrillation, which we didn't know until she was in outpatient. she knew something was wrong, and so i drove her, and long story short, she had an IV in her jugular vein, was on oxygen, and had had 3 ekgs within an hour. ('Are you okay seeing me like this, Jane?' was the first thing she said to me when I saw her.) i was up all night with her in the er. i think this was the least amount of sleep i'd ever gotten in my life - 2 hours in 2 days. she was admitted into the hospital, and given, the next day - today- a medicine that 'converted' her heart, finally back to normal rhythym. She's home again.

I cried for 2 days straight, when she was in the hospital. It crushed me to think of her not in control of her situation, panicking, uncomfortable, scared. It crushed me to come home to her house and spend the night here among her things, the things she likes to arrange and rearrange, and simply exists among, and for her not to be here. It crushed me to think of a life without her, and to know that was inevitable. I want her to always be safe, and comfortable, and in control. I love her so much, and want her to feel happy and safe.

Haven't, therefore, had much time to process my trip yet. I still have to drive back to Michigan, which will be the conclusion of it. Tomorrow, actually, I will go to city hall here in Biddeford, and look up my grandfather's birth certificate, and on Friday, I'll interview my last remaining great aunt.

in the er, when my mother's heart rate and blood pressure were dangerously high, when she was shaking from the medicine, when she had an IV in her jugular vein, she told me she was proud of me for taking this trip, alone.

Life is comprised of shifts, moves, changes. This can be difficult.

jem

Au revoir Quebec

Spent another night in St. Simon, on the gaspe, because I really loved the people who were running the gite where I stayed. The gite was full, so they had me, both nights, staying in a mobile home thingy, which was really fun, in their back lawn, which basically was the beginning of about 3 farms that extended beyond their land – wheat and corn fields. Mountains in the distance. The shower was an outside shower, closed but for the back, so I could see the fields in the buff. Alain, the owner, has 3 kids, each from a different woman. One of his daughters is a contortionist in the Cirque de Soleil. His partner, Sylvie, works as a masseuse for the Cirque de Soleil.

They also own a private beach, which we had access to. It’s about 5km from the gite, and gorgeous. There was a writer friend of theirs tenting on the beach there. He just wrote his first book of short stories, and is going to work on his first novel…while doing his PhD in Philosophy. He’s about my age, maybe a bit older. He’s legally blind, which I had absolutely no idea about until he told me at breakfast yesterday. Amy, my new little Canadian friend from Halifax then got up (she lives/works there this summer, in a French-immersion program), and we talked a lot about her having quit school, and her trying to decide what to do next in life, etc. She was at the same school that Sarah McLachlan went to for a year – the art school in Halifax. She even sort of looks like a younger Sarah M., her hair and coloring. We made plans to go to a waterfall later in the day.

I then made an appointment with Sylvie for a massage on the beach, but went first to Parc Bic, a gorgeous park in Bic, not too far from Rimouski. Hiked on a few trails, took a few pictures.

The massage with Sylvie was wonderful, though I felt a bit stressed yesterday about all the plans I’d made, and having to rush around to fulfill them – the first time I felt this sort of familiar pressure on the trip.

Amy and I went to the waterfall, and we talked about Sylvie and Alain, and about school, and travel, and learning French, and which expressions or words messed us up. It was really cool to speak to someone going through the same phenomenon of learning French, and feeling the pain and exhilaration both of that. The waterfall was majorly strong – stronger, she said, than when she’d been there last – but we got in by a safe area anyway. It was freezing, but fun. We then got an ice cream and asked the guy working there about the difference in pronouncing ‘sel,’ ‘seule,’ ‘salle,’ and ‘sul.’ it was pretty funny, and he really seemed to like little Amy, who’s pretty adorable. I feel like she’s my little Canadian sister.

We then checked out this other beautiful lake – lac Mathieu – but it was dark and cold out, so we didn’t swim even though the water was beautiful and warm. We hung out at the gite, and had pizza from Alain and Sylvie, and tea, and Sylvie showed us her pictures taken with Delerium and Cirque de Soleil, and from the Dominican Republic, where she works in the winter.

Today, I collected my things – almost leaving behind my cell and pajamas – and had a long goodbye with Alain and Amy. I took some pictures of them. They were perhaps the hardest people to leave, though St. Cuthbert was the hardest place to leave. I really connected with little Amy, a braver, better adjusted version of the younger me. She’s fun, laughs easily and is into organic this and that, conscientious this and that. Made me wonder more, of course, about the paths I never took, and how my life would be different now if I’d done things differently. What if, at 21, like Amy, I’d done the sorts of things she’s doing, like I’d always wanted to, gotten it out of my system. Where would I be now? Would my life be better or just different? I need to live in a different culture now. It’s a burning need. What if I’d done this earlier in life? Would I be a French citizen? A Canadian citizen? Would I be a human rights lawyer?

Left the gaspe, then, and drove to New Brunswick, where I am now, typing this in a cool coffee shop owned by a cool woman about my age who grew up here, lived in Montreal, and traveled the world. We talked about that burning need to travel, and how staying put brings about agitation, and how this project – the coffee shop, which just opened up this week – is a new idea for her; i.e., the idea of staying put in one place.

It’s just that, why on earth didn’t I see traveling, living elsewhere as a real possibility before now? I was scared, horrified, was convinced I’d die if I did it. Where did that fear come from? Major depression in my late teens/early 20’s. But why didn’t I have faith in myself that I was strong enough?

Part of me feels like I waited until it was ‘too late.’ I’m as fluid and free as I was at 21, I suppose. No house, loans, etc. Nevertheless. Something about doing everything at 21 when I’m nearing 40 seems less something.

I think that’s convention speaking. And, I do know it won’t stop me from doing it.

I visited Fort Kent, Maine today, about 15 minutes from here. It’s where my mother’s mother was born. Going into the U.S. felt awful, industrial, harsh. In fact, it was the first time on this entire trip – other than in Marquette, Michigan – where I heard a car honking at another car. Loud, bossy, entitled, ignorant old U.S. Ah, yes, I remember you.

In any case, Fort Kent is gorgeous, quaint, an intriguing amalgamation of Canadian and U.S. Many people have dual citizenship there.

I am en route to getting out of the U.S. As soon as I get home, I’m sending in my application for Canadian residency. I really don’t want to be American anymore. It’s not representative of who I am, its violence, arrogance, ignorance, sense of entitlement, its lack of accountability to its citizens. I don’t know that I will give up my citizenship, but I want to move, get out of the U.S.

Will go look at my grandmother’s birth certificate at the Fort Kent town hall tomorrow a.m., and then will descend down to southern Maine to be with my parents. Long drive. 6 hours. I’m listening to “The Corrections” on cd. It’s truly brilliant, and flies in the face of all sort of obscene, useless rules about writing that are drilled into our heads in workshop.

I so hope I hold onto the things I’ve felt and learned here. I don’t want to be deluged by less important and more overwhelming quotidian stresses.

jem

The Gaspe

I’m in a small town on the Gaspe peninsula, St. Simon. I wasn’t sure if I was going to do the Gaspe, but I didn’t want to go back to the U.S. yet, and I thought I’d do the very beginning of it. It’s very pretty – ocean and fields. Yet, still, my favorite place is St. Cuthbert. The topography spoke to me like none other I’ve ever been to.

Left Victoriaville today, and was a bit sad, but not really, to do so. I ended up liking my little B&B there. The woman owner warmed up to me, after a few funny exchanges between us. She gave me the name of a couple of places to stop at here in the Gaspe.

The ride was pretty, and I realized I’m also very close to Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and am considering driving through one or the other of these. A girl who works here is from Halifax, and this made me realize the proximity of here to there. She’s cute, maybe about 20, with a nose ring like mine, and was very friendly. She’s doing an ‘immersion’ here, to learn French. When I arrived, I began to speak to her in French, and she began responding in a way that was very familiar – sorta flustered, stumbling, and then finally saying she didn’t really understand what I was saying, and then I heard her accent – English speaking. ‘Oh, you speak English!’ I said. We laughed a bit after about being able to speak English fluently, and how that felt after speaking French for so long. She told me about a waterfall nearby, which, because of my newfound love for waterfalls, I may try to go to tomorrow. Can’t decide if I like the place where I’m staying or not. I’m actually staying in a mobile-home thingy parked in the back of a B&B, a sort of extra room they have. It’s in a lovely field, and this sort of thing is exactly the quirky kind of experience I love. But, I actually met the woman who lives here – who’s a masseuse for the Cirque de Soleil in the winter – and she divides her time here and at another place like this right on the ocean. And suddenly I felt weird about staying in someone else’s ‘room,’ essentially. Anyway, I may leave tomorrow for either New Brunswick, or further up on the Gaspe.

Been thinking more about how I can’t believe that I grew up just hours from all this, and that I’ve never before seen it. The American dollar was very much in our favor for the years I was growing up – it was about $150 Canadian dollars per American dollar…and yet, not even once did my parents take me here. I don’t get it…truly don’t. I think it’s a matter of education, and of what is valued in life. I realized that I grew up just hours from the goddess herself, Sarah McLauchlan, who grew up in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

I’m not sure why, but I can’t shake myself of the habit of ‘what it.’ What if I’d known of all these places, what if I’d known quebec was such an amazing place, and that I could realize my dream of living in a culture of full French immersion that was so close to home. Would I have made different choices? Not waited until now to truly see moving to such a culture as a possiblity? Would I have gotten this out of my system, so to speak, earlier, and now, be back living a different life? A better one? That is, one in which I feel like I’d done more of what I’d wanted to do, earlier in my life? Not sure.

jem

Last day in Victoriaville/St. Norbert d'Arthabaska

I’m very happy I stayed a 2^nd night here. It would have been a bad idea to leave earlier than this. I was very, very sad to say goodbye to St. Cuthbert, which, is on the border of the Laurentian area, which, I just read, is known for it’s European flair. And the area I’m in, is in the ‘Eastern Townships,’ area, which is said to be ‘New England with a Quebec flair.’ So. I’d sized up these two regions exactly as the travel brochures do. Made me laugh. I prefer the Laurentian area, definitely. This area is nice, but feels too familiar to me, since I grew up in New England.

I want to move to Quebec. I’m going to try to get a grant to come study here, either a Fullbright, or maybe the third year award in the program I’m in currently. I love the feeling of living life in a different language. It’s not as hard as I’d always imagined it. Maybe it’s simply that I’m sorely ready for the experience. I don’t mind messing up in this language, because people, simply, understand. At least here they do, because there are 2 official languages, and many, many people in Quebec don’t speak English very well. They do speak, but not as fluently as they’d like, person after person has told me. They are humble, and seem to be very impressed that I’m an American who speaks any French at all. Often they want to know how I learned it. Most don’t seem to care/mind that I mess up all over the place. They are patient with me. I feel comfortable messing up, and being bold in the company of such humility. Perhaps, too, many people in France would be like this, too. I’ve always assumed the opposite, but I’m beginning to question my assumptions.

In fact, at this B&B this morning, there was another family from France, from Lyons. They seemed to be, perhaps, less educated than the other family from France that I met in St. Cuthbert. They were easy to talk to as well, though. They were less stylish, I’d say, than the other family, more sort of middle of the road mentality, though perhaps the two families earn about the same. It’s just that the family I met in St. Cuthbert was highly socially conscientious and intellectual. This family was more common. Anyway, this family here heartened me, because – and this is naïve – I just assumed that *everybody* from France was highly educated and perhaps had a chip on their shoulder (thought the other family I met wasn’t arrogant, either). This family felt like a family I might have grown up with in Maine; except, they’re from France. This was a wonderful experience for me to have. (Too, the man seemed to be very impressed with my French.)

I’ve warmed up to the couple who owns this place. The lawn/grounds are wonderful – gabezo, swimming pool (which I swam in tonight), little pond with many frogs and lily pads, many, many flowers, etc. The breakfast was wonderful, eggs from their farm, homemade creton (as in the other place too!), bacon, homemade jams, toast, fresh fruit before. It was incredible, the breakfast. They play classical music inside, quietly, throughout the day. There is a bathroom with a jacuzzi (I’m not so into jacuzzis), and in the bathroom, are many, many plants. They pay attention to detail here too; Louise and Francine’s home, simply, is perhaps more “worldly,” indicative of perhaps more education, etc. But this place is very much in line with the region/town. It’s very, very nice in general, and certainly, for the town. Extremely comfortable. I’ve laughed several times with the couple who owns it. I have a nice rapport with them at this point. I think it helps that everyone thinks I’m 10 years younger than I am. Maybe not.

Yesterday, I wanted to mention in yesterday’s post, when I first came in and was trying to ask some sort of question to the woman, and it was taking me *forever* to say what I wanted, and I was stumbling, the man, who was at the sink doing something, turned around to look at me, and stood staring, as if at a spectacle of sorts, as if to look at what his wife had just dragged in – something harmless, but very, very curious. It was as if I’d just said I’d perform some odd or impossible magic trick, and he watched on, skeptical but amused. His mouth was open a bit, in a half-smile, in wonder, amusement.

Whenever I think of this moment, I laugh out loud. The thing is, I always imagined such moments would be so painful, humiliating, that they’d prevent me from putting myself in a position where I experienced such moments…but actually, I find that I’m simply strong enough to weather the embarrassment of these, and that, in fact, I really enjoy having ownership of such moments; this is *my* learning another language, and I simply love it. I can join in with others who’ve had the same experiences, and who I’ve admired my entire life for putting themselves in that position.

Visited an organic produce/restaurant/alternative medicine little center in the mountains today. Was nice. I had just a soy ice cream bar (Soy Dream), because I’d already had lunch at a café that had wireless internet which was very, very expensive, but which I was dying to have, and went ahead with. Tried to speak a bit with the person working there, who looked at me in that familiar ‘what’s going on here’ way whenever I spoke, and so, I sat around, ate the ice
cream, walked around the gardens. Then stopped at a little park which, in the tourist map, advertised a waterfall as it’s big attraction. I began the walk, the beginning of which made me a little depressed – something about it feeling *so* familiar – New England all over again – and here it was being offered to tourists as something to see. But then, I found the waterfall, and then, I realized – truly for the first time ever – why people *like* waterfalls, something I never ever before understood (they seemed, again, sorta depressing to me, like ‘wow, look at the water fall’). The reason they’re so popular: the basins, where you can swim, wade, be refreshed (such as on this 95 degree day) by fresh, flowing water! It was wonderful! I didn’t have my bathing suit with me – oh that I had! – but I waded up to my shins, and let the water run over my legs. There were 2 small groups there, in their bathing suits, occasionally wading. How amazing, and now, I have a new interest in finding waterfalls everywhere, with large basins, and perhaps falls safe enough to sit under and have water run over you.

Then I went back to the cemetery by the church in my grandmother’s hometown…and I found my great-uncle’s grave! I couldn’t believe it. I really took my time, and I had a much better attitude today about being here, and I looked carefully…and there it was, not a crappy-ass broken, illegible stone like I was convinced of yesterday, but a decent, well-enough maintained stone, that, actually is shared by 2 other people, who have a newer, shinier stone (for the same other 2 people) right beside it. This was wise of my family; perhaps they couldn’t afford a ‘private’ stone for him, so they did the best they could, and got a respectable, decent stone with 2 others. He died young – 5 – years, of meningitis, my aunt told me. It was moving, and I wanted to buy flowers for him – I felt like here I was, maybe the last representative of my family to ever visit his grave (though I do intend to return), and I should mark this occasion, and take a picture of the grave with flowers for his sister, my one-remaining great-aunt. I couldn’t find flowers in the store across the street, but I did take many photos of the grave for my aunt.

I then tried to find the woman who works – on demand – at the church, Therese something or other. I asked for her at the store again (another woman working there), and this other, nicer, woman, showed me Therese’s house around the corner. She wasn’t home, then, or later, and so, I will try one last time tomorrow. I want to find out if my aunt Alice and Uncle Alfred were born here, or in Marquette, Michigan.

Then went for a walk, again today, in Parc d’Arthabaska. Beautiful. Went deeper into the woods. It’s a big mountain-biking park, apparently, with 18km of trails.

Came back to the auberge, took aforementioned swim and walk around lawn, came out of house to go to car and the woman owner, sitting on the deck, surprised me greatly, giving us both a good laugh. I then went to a real local-looking joint I’d seen en route to St. Norbert, in St. Norbert, actually, and indeed it was. Was awesome, real town-y. I’d noticed it was packed, when I was driving from St. NorbertàVictoriaville earlier in the day. Was great. Had a club sandwich – fresh chicken and tomatoes – with fries. Very generous.

The American dollar against the Canadian dollar sucks right now – worst time in my life I think – so I’m paying dollar for dollar…worst time in my life to take this trip, but hey.

D’accord. Je dois me coucher. A tout a l’heure. (Must figure out the french keyboard so I can do my accents.)

jem