Cultural cross-currents in Canada's only bilingual province

We lose out when we stay in our own cultural cocoon

Canada’s only bilingual province

My wife and I live in Canada’s only bilingual (French/English) province, New Brunswick.

Not to be confused with New Brunswick, New Jersey which, in turn, should not be confused with the hamlet of New Jersey, New Brunswick. You can’t make this stuff up.

For a million reasons, we love it here. But what we’ve learned about living in a bilingual province has been very telling. Not so much on the language side as on the cultural side, as I’ll explain below.

Growing up appreciating languages

I’ve always loved knowing more than one language. Growing up in Winnipeg, I knew Ukrainian, and still do, but I’d always had a particular affinity for French (even though you wouldn’t know it from my mediocre marks in that subject over the years). After all, French is one of Canada’s two official languages, and I’ve felt a soft spot for it ever since the throaty bigots railed against it in the wake of 1969’s Official Languages Act.

And, for whatever reason, I’d always loved the idea of someday living at least part of my life in that language. Except I had no clue how that would ever happen, so I plodded along for many years without giving it a second thought.

Fast-forward a few decades and a couple of “wife-times.” My current (and final) wife, who is also English-speaking, and I decided 11 years ago to move from Alberta, where we’d lived for 40 years, to New Brunswick. I’d fallen in love with the place over the many years we’d visited, and she has family here. Seemed like an excellent plan for the “last quarter” of our lives.

Embracing life in French

Now, one of many reasons I married her is that she has a spirit of adventure and generosity, so we didn’t shy away from looking for properties in French-speaking areas. Neither of us was fluent in the language — not even close, but this didn’t matter — we would manage. We eventually found a place that overlooked the ocean (another dream come true for me) in a small French-speaking Acadian fishing village not far from where much of her family lives. Jackpot.

However, we weren’t ready to move right then for various reasons. In fact, it would be five years before we did, so we had some time to prepare for this geographically (4,200 km away), culturally, and linguistically challenging relocation.

We did things like have “suppers in French,” where we would invite our French-speaking friends over and converse in French as best we could. I also coached basketball in French in the Alberta Francophone games for three years and even served on the executive of the local Franco-Albertan society. All to prepare for living part of our lives in French in our adopted home, like I’d always dreamed.

Living partly in French has worked out well

And, after moving here in mid-2019, we’ve done just that, for the most part. The language transition has been more difficult than expected, mainly because of the difference between “proper” French and what is spoken here. Over time, I learned to read basic “proper” French relatively well, but Acadian French, with its unique words and the amount of English mixed in with it (“Chiac”) in some places, has been its own challenge. And, just to add another layer to the linguistic and cultural complexity, spoken French differs from community to community.

However, none of that has really been a problem because the people here in our little corner of the province have been as warm and welcoming as my wife and I could ever hope. They appreciate our effort to speak their ancestral language and will, in turn, switch to English (at least those who know English) when they see that we’re struggling to understand something.

Cultural duality is a sweet spot

It’s really a linguistic sweet spot built on mutual respect. Couldn’t ask for better. And it’s a sweet spot in another way besides, as my wife and I have discovered, because New Brunswick is very much a province of not just two linguistic groups, but of two cultures. So, in some ways, we get double the bang for our cultural buck.

For its part, the Acadian culture is lively, joyous, and vibrant, with no shortage of festivals, concerts, and activities to attend. There are also many “English” festivals, although none has the same unifying cultural and linguistic element as the Acadian events.

My wife and I take in everything our calendars and pocketbooks allow, including the Miramichi Irish Festival, the Quinze Août (August 15 — Acadian National Day) celebration, the Miramichi Folksong Festival, the Sea Shanty Festival, and various concerts in either language, even the French ones where we don’t understand all the words. We partake of a cultural extravaganza!

And why wouldn’t we?

Yet, among New Brunswickers, there’s not nearly as much cross-cultural participation as one might expect. Unsurprisingly, I have no stats to back this up, but it’s rare to see members of one cultural community participating in the other’s events. My wife and I seem to be more the exception than the rule.

So many reasons for cross-cultural exploration

I understand that not everyone is interested in a concert or show where a person can’t understand a single word, but there’s always the music, there’s always the atmosphere, and there’s always that window into your neighbour’s cultural soul. You may not get all the jokes but, boy, your presence at events like that can go a long way in building community bridges.

By allowing ourselves to participate in each group’s cultural offerings, my wife and I are endlessly more enriched. And, by mingling with that community instead of just casting sideways glances at it, we experience a whole other level of connection. Real connection. The kind where our Acadian neighbours show up to give us a condolence basket the day after Russia invaded Ukraine, simply because they know I have family there.

We moved to a bilingual province, specifically to a French-speaking Acadian area, not to stand outside of it but to be part of it and embrace all the linguistic and cultural opportunities that come with that. We’ve never been disappointed with that choice and doubt that others would be either, were they to take that step.

We lose out when we stay in our own cultural cocoon and choose the safety of the familiar instead of the adventure of the inconnu.

We are one, even when we think we’re two. Or more.