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The Montreal Challenge: a French-speaking anglophone perspective with digressions into the concepts of job hunting, following your heart and growing up

«Bonjour, Nous avons le regret de vous informer qu'il nous est impossible de donner suite à votre demande d'emploi comme traducteur ou traductrice pigiste. Nous vous remercions de l'intérêt que vous nous avez manifesté et vous prions d'agréer nos salutations distinguées.» (received via email two days ago in reply to my interest in translating from French to English)

Hello, We regret to inform you that we are unable to pursue your job application for freelance translator. We thank you for your interest and send our regards. (correctly translated by me from French to English)

Hello, Even though you're obviously competent but may lack the credentials that I paid through the ass for in order to become a recognized translator, although this does not mean I actually am more or less competent than you, I cannot take a chance pursuing your interest or capabilities because no one took a chance on me (please see comment about paying for my chance through the ass). Nonetheless, we are polite enough to take the time to reply because this is what accredited professionals do, although real professionals would probably send a more detailled reply outlining the main reason for not pursuing your job application, thus giving you something concrete and positive to work with if you truly wish to achieve the lofty linguist heights of translation, a craft that can only be truly learned in a school environment and not outside the strict parameters of the expensive translator school, but we beg you to agree or understand why we have to do things in this particular manner, a perhaps undistinguished but professionally acceptable and accredited manner. (colourfully mis?interpreted by me from text to subtext)

Interesting, isn't it? No one knows English better than a university-educated lifelong lover of language anglophone. Seriously. I've yet to meet a native francophone who translates from French to English without difficulty and a certain degree of awkwardness. Just take a walk around Montreal and look at the signs. There are more orthographic and grammar mistakes visible in this bilingual city than any other city I've been in. The challenges of walking between two cultures and two languages is no more evident than in Montreal.

About two weeks ago, I looked at my bank account balance and shuddered. Not being a trust fund brat, I knew the time would come when I would once again put myself to a test of mental stamina and confidence: the job hunt. Not my or anyone's favourite game unless the potential of repeated rejection makes your eyes sparkle with visions of challenge and opportunity.

You could look at it that way. The entire process of finding a job is a challenge that inevitably presents certain opportunities for one to embark on or further a career. Except those aren't the jobs I've been looking at now that I've surmounted the bigger challenge of determining what I want out of life. Shuffling paper, avoiding office politics and bowing to a dictatorial Monday to Friday 9-5 schedule, which invariably becomes the salaried employee's nightmare of working until the job gets done no matter how much overtime is required. You wouldn't want to drop the ball, or walk away from the team now, would you?

Years from now, I want to look back on my life and know that I remained true to my ideas of who I am. There hasn't been much of that in the last decade. I've compromised, struggled with my compromises, tried my damndest to fit into a professional corporate straitjacket, only to fail horribly. Except I don't mind being that sort of failure. In fact, I'm relieved. Relieved but broke.

What happened? I misdirected my energy. I believed my parents when they said this was the way to do things. I stifled my basic impulses because I knew that being a smart, confident, intelligent woman unafraid to speak her mind, make decisions or accept the consequences of her actions has no choice but to go it alone. Supervisors eventually become threatened, or they pile on the responsibilities and accountability but deny your judgement or call you a bitch if you happen to be just as aggressive as them. Lovers eventually challenge your intelligence, denigrating all the strong, independent traits they initially loved.

When I was eighteen, my father said to me, "You're smart. You're strong. You're going to have a hard time in this world. And god help the man you get involved with." What he didn't say was "god help you, my bright, trusting, independent daughter; follow your heart always; trust your instincts; and come to me when things get too big or scary." My father liked to think he was being helpful and funny. The hurt I then felt still, over ten years later, brings tears to my eyes. Basically, I was being told my life would be a challenge because of who I am. My immediate response was to prove him wrong. I knew he was wrong.

Yet, with every independant decision I made, thinking I was proving him wrong, I caught myself eventually fulfilling his prophecy. Why? I was afraid to be who I am; I was afraid to lead a difficult life. This fear found me unconsciously making decisions that found me sublimating my personality so that I would not be such a threat to men or this world, but most specifically to myself. I didn't want a hard life, so I chose the easier options. I struggled with this unconcious compromise, cracking my head on glass ceilings and becoming known for being a kickass project manager who faced problems, solved them and got results. Yet I became utterly miserable. I have never been out to win a popularity contest, nor have I ever desired to provoke such hostility from what I have begun to understand as typically insecure, incompetent, irresponsible office workers, and emotionally damaged or manipulative men.

I've had many more pleasant work experiences. In fact, the pleasant ones far outweigh the bad ones, except the pleasant ones were rarely challenging, nothing more than stopgaps as I tried to figure out what my problem was. I honestly thought I had the problem although I was certain that part of my problem was the world I lived in. It took a severe case of burnout for me to understand that my problem was essentially not me but my choices. Every time I chose the "safer" or more predictable route, the more lost I felt.

No one picked up on this vicious self-negation. All of my employers were happy with my competence as long as I toed a certain party line. Supposedly, they believed I could go far, if only I weren't so difficult or had such integrity and standards of quality.

I it was during one interview that I sensed I could go very far as long as I did it my way. A film producer looked at me and saw the person I am. Smiling, he said, "You remind me of me at your age. You get bored easily, don't you? You need challenge, activity and life..." I didn't get the job. The job was for a position that I knew was below my ability and qualifications. But I did receive the nicest "rejection" letter to date explaining that if the company grew beyond the 3 person affair it was now, they would look me up. Instead of sticking around to find out, I decided to chart my own course. I moved to Montreal.

The move didn't burn my bridges. Every single one of my previous employers have stated they would provide me with a great reference after determining that no, I would not be moving back to (blank) city. Except for two. An appropriately named "Dick", who had a penchant for harassing his employees, falling asleep on the floor under his desk or slamming doors in everyone's face when he was stressed and having a tantrum, which eventually resulted in most employees quitting and his being charged with embezzlement, and "Peter", who hounded and second-guessed his employees' every move, screamed at customers and employees, allowed the kitchen to scream at the waitresses 'til they cried, usually during the busy periods when everyone needed to focus on the job but couldn't because the owner was an inconsiderate, controlling, absolute stress-case with a penchant for sexual innuendos, condescending comments and physical domination (imagine the looming bear-like aggression stance but with an eye tic).

Ludicrous. I wouldn't even ask for their references.

Yet, as difficult as those work experiences were, I have fond memories of most of the people I worked for or with. Except for Dick and Peter. That last one caught me at a vulnerable time after my burnout when I really needed a positive, low-key work environment. I hadn't waitressed in years, but it was supposed to be the perfect mindless stop-gap solution until I sorted out my life.

So the job hunt once again begins. Except now I have specific criteria: part-time, low-key, friendly and flexible. Something to pay for the basics of life so that I can focus on my independent projects, which include photography, writing and a return to school this fall to improve my French language skills and design knowledge. I want the design, but I need the French. The perfect compromise is to study design at a French school. Having once nearly been fluent in French, I know that daily exposure and practice is all I need to feel more confident in the language. Living in Montreal demands a mediocre understanding of French. Working in Montreal and taking advantage of ALL the opportunities demands an almost perfect fluency, especially if you are what they call an "anglophone".

Montreal is the largest French-speaking city after Paris but with the perceived disadvantage of being in a predominantly English-speaking country. I admire that Montreal manages to maintain the French language. I question any coercive laws that infringe on the rights of general Canadians. But I am big fan of "fairness". What I don't admire is this false idea that people are actually bilingual or fluent in both languages. The general population is not. The general population is fluent in their mother tongue and barely passable in the second language. If you are French with a tiny bit of English, then that's okay. If you are English, with a tiny bit of French, then good luck on your job hunt. If you are English with a solid background in standard French but a hesitant verbal manner, than good luck. Even though I find myself correcting other people's written French, because my spoken French is not "fluent", this job hunt is a micro-version of hell.

You don't have to believe me.

"Quebec’s Anglos are the only official language minority that lives under a provincial law designed specifically to limit the use of their language, to restrict access to their schools, to make it difficult to work in their mother tongue, to keep them from being too visible, to prevent immigrants from melding into their community." (Source)

There is much evidence of discriminatory legislation and some questionable behaviour in Quebec, and not just against anglophones but most groups who don't fit into the idealized French Catholic heritage. A woman once told me her story about trying to get an Italian passport because her parents were born in Italy and she wanted to take advantage of the E.C. connection although she was born in Quebec. Her two older siblings were born in Italy, so they were able to receive Italian passports. She was not. This infuriated her, but what really irked was that most Quebeckers didn't accept her as being a Quebecker even though she was born here and speaks fluent French. Her Italian heritage denied to her by the Italian government also denied to her a certainty that she is by birth a Québécoise. She didn't seem to belong anywhere, or that was how she seemed to feel.

For the most part, I can't say that I've experienced much negativity in that respect. Maybe because I don't aspire to being anyone other than who I am: a made-in-Canada anglophone with functional French, whose mother tongue isn't English because her parents' tongues aren't English either.

There have been silly incidents here and there, but they are very rare and tend to be attributed to someone's attitude and not discrimination per se. When it comes to working in Montreal, there is a very real differentiation based on language. There are laws requiring that businesses hire French-speaking employees. So it is easier to hire someone who is highly bilingual or predominantly French-speaking. There is even talk that proficiency tests may be implemented, and I'm sure that there are plenty of native francophones who would fail a grammar test in their own language. We may not see those tests anytime soon.

But that is only part of the battle of this anglo finding work in a city such as Montreal. When you go for an interview, the nerve-wracking experience of "selling yourself" is difficult enough in your native tongue, but excruciating in a second language. Time and time again, a person's personality seems to be diminished when expected to express or communicate in a second language, whatever it might be. There are hesitations, self-conscious mental gymnastics over vocabulary, verbal flow and grammar, and a general feeling of ineptitude that almost diminishes your chances of getting the job.

Add to that my "over" qualifications for the type of work I've been looking at, the type of work more malleable or meek kids or university students are vying for - the kind of employees that wouldn't threaten the, erm, intelligence of, say, a floor manager at Chapters, and I'm almost ready to fall back into that easier rut.

But I won't. Not after all the work of finding exactly what I want. What I want is to write and work with words, pictures and design - the communication arts. Any other Canadian city would have found me happily on my road to what I want. In a city that demands a linguistic agility few truly master, the challenge is great. It would be much simpler if I'd chosen to be a visual artist, minus the challenge of words and linguistic difference. But then, the simplicity of it all might just bore me.
by a.j.duric,
trying to keep it real