Why do I tell the Franco-American Story?
What other story would I tell? The Franco-American story is the one I know, the water I swim in. It is me and I am it.
We all operate from a place of intersectional identities. I am a sixty-two year old woman of Franco-American heritage, born and raised in Maine, fifteen miles from Québec. I continue to live in Maine, carving out a living as a writer and performer. (I’m sure there other identities in there, too.) Being Franco-American is one of the lenses through which I see the world. Without that lens, things would be out of focus. I would be out of focus.
I tell my Franco-American story for the same reason I tell all stories: to understand the world and my place in it. By knowing and reflecting upon my past, I can own my present and create my future.
A more important question for me is, “Why do I tell people I’m telling the Franco-American story?” To that I answer, Because they need to know.
Not all of what I create is overtly about the Franco-American experience, but that influence is always there. As a writer and performer, I have a unique platform from which to educate, and I see that as both an opportunity and an obligation.
When I’m being interviewed, I always self-identify as Franco-American and talk about our rich history and the ongoing vibrancy of our culture. As an author, when delivering a book reading, part of my presentation is about the deliberate choices I made and continue to make when creating my Maine humor character, Ida LeClair. Though she speaks English with a Maine accent, she’s Franco-American. I draw a distinction between the Yankee culture traditionally associated with Maine humor, one of both financial and emotional frugality, and Ida’s joie de vivre. I speak about how intentional I am when choosing names for Ida’s fictional world of Mahoosuc Mills, making sure the French names are represented in proper proportion to the English, for that part of rural Maine.
I remember the first time I performed Ida: Woman Who Runs with the Moose! at the Public Theater in Lewiston, ME (an old mill town with a large Franco-American population). It was for a sold out crowd of 300. At the end of the first act, I’m telling the story of Ida’s wedding reception. She says, “We knew our marriage was official when Emile Dugal got up and sang, ‘Prendre Un P’tit Coup’. Every wedding in town, the minute he’d get a buzz on, he’d sing the same song, and everyone joined in.” As Ida, I began to sing, and the audience started, first softly, then louder, to sing along. That memory still brings tears to my eyes. Franco-Americans, so often referred to as the “silent minority,” desperately need to be seen and heard. We are thirsty for it.
Opportunities to self-identify as Franco-American are all around us, and I believe we need to profiter du présent (seize the day) and say something. If we meet someone with a French name, ask them if they’re Franco-American, where they’re from. If a person says to you, “I speak French but couldn’t understand anyone up in Quebec,” gently educate them about the history of our language and how it changed upon arrival to these shores (not unlike American English). If another hyphenated American is speaking about their culture, and you’re Franco-American, jump into the conversation and share about ours. The Franco-American experience is important and the world needs to be aware of that.
We are all ambassadors for our culture. It is our job, our privilege to make the invisible visible, to claim our place on the stage, on the page and wherever we live. Fellow Franco-Americans, let’s speak up and be part of the global conversation.
Selected by Portland Magazine as one of the “Ten Most Intriguing People in Maine,” award winning writer and performer Susan Poulin is a leader in bringing a female voice to New England storytelling and humor. She is the author of eleven plays, six of which feature her alter ego, Ida LeClair, “the funniest woman in Maine.” Susan writes the popular Maine humor blog and podcast, Just Ask Ida, and is the author of Finding Your Inner Moose: Ida LeClair’s Guide to Living the Good Life and The Sweet Life: Ida LeClair’s Guide to Love and Marriage published by Islandport Press. Check out Susan’s popular TEDxPortsmouth Talk about her Franco-American experience at poolyle.com
Why do I tell the Franco-American Story?
Why questions are ambiguous. The question “Why do you tell this story?” can mean “What was the impetus that gave rise to you telling this story?” Or “why” can mean “What is your purpose in telling this story?” I’ll speak first to how I started telling the Franco-American story and then to what might be some purposes in telling it.
I have always been interested in the origins of things. When confronted by anything from a style of music, to the X/Y coordinate system in algebra, I would wonder how it came to be, how it developed, and who was involved. I’m unclear on the origin of this interest in origins. My mother’s storytelling and her interests certainly influenced me.
I’ve been a storyteller since I can remember. I imagined my own stories and was both the creator and the audience for them. Eventually, I wrote them down. I started writing when I was 11. I wrote about 100 pages of a sci-fi novel around that time, believe it or not. My interests turned toward nonfiction in high school, philosophy and history in particular. I read, researched, and scratched naïve notes in loose leaf notebooks. I’d write, and I did, when the only one who read it was me.
As I recount in the introduction to my book A Distinct Alien Race, it was at age 19, while I was in college, that my father died. He was buried with my mother’s family in Biddeford, Maine where there is a vast Franco-American cemetery where almost all of the text, on almost all of the gravestones, is in French. At least it was at that time. It’s not just a few gravestones, either, but many thousands, spreading out over acres. When the priest who came to read the prayers at the burial asked if we wanted them read in French or in English, I knew I had to explore these origins.
After getting a college degree I slowly developed a career as a researcher, writer and editor for academics, authors, businesses, and consulting firms. I have a small number of academic citations in some of the areas I researched and wrote about for my clients. It seems obvious, in retrospect, that I would combine my interest in Franco-American origins with my profession. But when I started learning in detail about the Franco-American story, I didn’t conceive of myself as a public storyteller of that particular story.
Starting around the turn of the 21st century, I occupied myself at almost every possible moment at the New England Historic Genealogical Society library in Boston. I filled notebook after spiral bound notebook with handwritten scrawls of genealogical and historical information, extracted from the library like impacted wisdom teeth. My notes dealt with history as much as with genealogy. On the Number One bus between Comm Ave., Boston and Harvard Square, Cambridge, I would pour over what I had written in my notebook that day, often typing up and organizing the notes once I got home. I was telling these fragments of Franco-American stories to myself, and then to my sister, and to one or two other people in my family. I wasn’t writing a book yet.
It was only when people asked if I were writing a book, or suggested I write one, that my interest began to go public. I wrote a couple of articles for publications like Le Forum out of the University of Maine, Orono, and I had a website, and then a blog. I read every year at the gathering of writers and artists under the auspices of the Franco-American Center at the University in Orono. It was the response to these early forays into telling the story that encouraged me to make my research and writing on these topics public, leading to speaking engagements, a book, articles in mainstream publications like Smithsonian and TIME, and more speaking.
That’s a sketch of the series of events that led me to tell the Franco-American story. But why bother telling Franco-American stories?
Why do we tell any story? Because stories make meaning of our lives. It looks as though humans can’t live without making meaning. If anything, we have a glut of meaning. We tell so many stories about ourselves and others that we populate the universe with our meanings.
Let’s not understate the weight of storytelling. The Epic of Gilgamesh, The Iliad and The Odyssey, The Bhagavad Gita, The Bible consist, in whole or in part, of stories. Of such are derived entire civilizations and worldviews. Stories bring worlds into existence.
I heard a vague story growing up about my Acadian great-great-grandfather Joseph Doucette and his involvement in the Tenant League Riots on Prince Edward Island. The story, as sketchy as it was, conveyed volumes. The story situated my ancestors in a hierarchy and taught me that there was some “we” who had a prescribed relationship to that hierarchy. It also conveyed the perception that our ancestors were the underdogs, struggling against a perceived injustice, and that the “bad guys” were the English. This was different from most of my friends in the good ol’ USA for whom the English were friends and allies, as most Americans in the generations born after World War II regard them. The story also suggested that there was a difference between what was legally binding and what was morally right.
Along with the story came the emotionality of it: we were the ones fighting. There was conflict, loss, hope, pride a whole set of feelings that came along with the story.
I’m also aware of the potentially dangerous limitations of any origin story, storyteller, and storytelling. No telling is comprehensive, none definitively true in an apodictic sense or even in an emotional sense. I have no illusion that my telling of the Franco-American story is complete or definitive.
To craft a narrative is like carving a statue out of marble, a great deal is left on the scrap heap. Stories thrive on omission, on emphasis, on juxtaposition of this detail placed like a diamond in this setting rather than that one. Their incompleteness – the narrative equivalent of negative space – gives them form and life.
There are so many Franco-American stories that I’m unable or incompetent to tell them all. It is impossible to tell it all and remain coherent. The truth of Franco-Americans is not the fragments I happen to have told, but all of the stories, the sum total of all tales – both real and those we imagined to be true.
So, why do I tell the Franco-American story?
Because my father died when I was 19 and I never had a chance to have an adult relationship with him.
Because I’m a storyteller from way back, and I’ve found a juicy yarn, that I thought I could tell well.
Because it makes meaning for me and, it seems, for others, too.
Because history is for the present. The fact that we never learn from the past doesn’t mean it’s useless to tell the stories.
Because if we don’t tell the stories the people who said “it’s the rabble who are leaving” Québec; the people who said we were a “low and sordid people,” that we had been kept “a distinct alien race”; the Klan, eugenics advocates, and their ilk, will win. Can’t have that.
Because my forebears lived and died in those mill towns and their spirits won’t let me not tell the tale.
Because, now, there’s someone out there listening.
Because it’s mine to tell.
David Vermette is a Franco-American writer and researcher originally from Massachusetts. He is the author of the book A Distinct Alien Race: The Untold Story of Franco-Americans (Montreal: Baraka Books, 2018). His blog is French North America.
Why do I tell the Franco-American story?
University of Maine – Franco American Programs
Am I a Franco American? Yes, of course I am. My mother is a Bouchard, my grandmothers were Clavettes, Bosses, and Michauds. I have lived the paradigmatic story of generational language loss. I grew up surrounded by cousins, uncles and aunts, and grandparents as my parents maintained and cultivated extended familial networks. I can trace my family’s genealogy and have visited the churches in France where my ancestors were baptized and married in the 1600s before they moved to North America. I have gone with my family to pray in the Basilica of St. Anne de Beaupré. I come from a family that values work of the hands and spends its free time together doing manual labor on “projects.” Yet despite this identifiable ethnic life, perhaps Jacques Derrida articulates my experience of this “French fact” best, “there is no right of property over inheritance. That’s the paradox. I am always the tenant of an inheritance” (Derrida, Echographies of Television, 112). I live this ethnic identity, though it is not mine alone to own. Maybe it is this sense of being a tenant — of “inhabiting” rather than “owning” — that draws me to listening to the Franco-American story rather than to telling it. Or, perhaps as a Franco-American woman, my reluctance to “tell the Franco-American story” in public is itself a deeply ethnic and gendered stance. I find I am much more comfortable behind the scenes, and I see this in others as well. Or, possibly my preference for listening is motivated by the deafness of so many others. Despite constituting one of the largest concentrations of French speakers in the United States and one of the largest French-Canadian heritage communities outside of Québec, Franco Americans could be defined by their lack of recognition. Franco Americans have been referred to as the Quiet Presence (Dyke Hendrickson) and one of the Hidden Minorities (Joan H. Rollins). Franco Americans are rarely included in literature dedicated to the teaching of white ethnicity or in studies of white ethnic communities in the United States. Not a single Franco-American text, for example, is included in Werner Sollors’ The Multilingual Anthology of American Literature even though the first Franco American text Jeanne la fileuse was published in French in 1878 in Fall River, Massachusetts. And because many Franco Americans are no longer fluently francophone and now reside outside Canada, Franco Americans are often absent from work on the “francophones hors-Québec.” Whatever the cause, I find I am called to listen to the Franco-American story rather than tell it.
At University of Maine in Orono where I work with Lisa Michaud and Jacob Albert, we have sought to make the Franco American Centre into a place where people are heard and seen as Franco Americans. I watch my aunts and uncles; I see how different they are with their family than the way they are public. We want to make the Franco American Centre into a place where Franco Americans can come and feel at home even though it is a public space. Lisa organizes events, is developing a genealogical library, and edits Le Forum, and we work together to organize each year a gathering for Franco American writers and artists. Jacob Albert and I are working with a team of scholars and archivists from Assumption College, St. Anselm’s, USM, and UMFK to develop a portal to Franco American documents and sources. As we build this web-based tool, we want to make sure that Franco Americans can access this information in culturally appropriate ways. We all recognize the unique ways Franco Americans organize information and want to make sure that items in the portal are accessible via the categories that are important to Franco Americans, like family surnames or places. We all strive in our work to recognize the unique ways of being of Franco Americans and provide spaces where those ways of being are recognized and heard. We strive to make the Franco American Centre a place where we can be our ethnic selves together.
In my scholarly work, I study Franco American writers. I read all that I can by Franco Americans — from the classics like Canuck by Camille Lessard-Bissonette and Jeanne la Fileuse by Honoré Beaugrande to the more contemporary writings written in English. I think that seeing these writings as Franco American – even if it is written in English –is key to understanding them. Sometimes, writers make it easy to see how they are writing a Franco-American story. They not only take Franco-American experience as the content but they also write either in Franco American French or include it in their dialogues. Other writers, even though write in English, still take as their subject matter Franco American lives. Still others, though not necessarily concentrating on the Franco American story, make space for it in various ways. In the United States, for example, Franco-American ethnicity is conceptualized within a narrative of assimilation that places the relevance of ethnic identity into a past gone by. I think that Franco-American writers interact with this narrative by signifying their ethnic identity in class terms. Alan Bérubé in his autobiographical essay, “Intellectual Desire” finds his father’s ethnic agency in the active identification with a working class status: “my father was offered a low-level management position at work, which he turned down… But there was more to his refusal than class panic over becoming ‘one of them.’ The distance he had traveled – away from his French working-class family, their farm, their land – was now so far from where he’d started that he began to lose the ground beneath his feet. He wanted to go home” (54). In many Franco-American texts, ethnic identity is signified through the intentional identification with a working class status; the refusal of upward mobility signifies an active embrace of an ethnic past and creation of an ethnic present. As a literary scholar, I focus on the way these issues are explored in literature, and I believe that literature offers insight into the interplay between the social and the personal not available through other means.
Susan Pinette a Professor of Modern Languages and Literatures and Director of Franco American Programs at The University of Maine. She was born and raised in Maine and received her doctorate in French at the University of California, Irvine. Her research examines contemporary Franco American literature.
Why Do I Tell the Franco-American Story?
I believe it is important to know your roots. I believe that you have a better chance to know who you are if you know where you come from, if you know how you got to where you are today. Why is it important to know who you are? I believe you will lead a more fulfilling life if you have a sense of how you fit in the larger flow of humanity. It’s about what I call coherence, which I take to mean having a unified sense of being, a feeling of being whole in body and soul and mind. It’s the opposite of being alienated, the feeling of being disconnected from society. Knowing who you are and knowing something about where you are gives a person a better chance of feeling a sense of community, a sense of belonging to something larger than your individual self.
Who am I? has the simplicity of the old Baltimore Catechism question, Who made me? In Catholic elementary school a lot of answers were provided. Just memorize what’s in the book. Just listen to the priest at Mass. Just do what Sister Therese de L’Enfant de Jesus says. They offered a lot of answers after providing the questions as well. But in all those school days in a French Catholic school, I don’t recall any of the authorities telling us how the French Canadians wound up in Dracut, Mass. There was no local history in school. They customs, yes, like singing the Canadian national anthem in French, and the flag of Quebec in the classroom next to the red, white, and blue U.S. flag. Sometimes the Mass was in French. Early on it was in Latin in my day. Then it was English with the priest facing the faithful in the pews. “Pray, pay, and obey,” was the unspoken game plan. We had a few “French” items in the school cafeteria like Chinese Pie or Pâté Chinois, the regional concoction that is a twist on Shepherd’s Pie from Ireland and Britain. Until the canonical law changed, we were not served any meat on Fridays. Gooey mac and cheese, tomato-rice soup, fish sticks. We had French language day on Thursdays and French courses, grammar and conversation, all the time. At home my parents spoke French to my grandparents and their siblings (not all the time). We visited relatives on New Year’s Day, which is special for the French Canadian-Americans. The older generations told stories about the immigrants and subsequent generations. My ancestors on both sides came to Lowell, Mass., in 1880. Despite all this, my generation turned out to be highly American in identity.
As someone interested in history, I always had a sense of my past and was curious but not in any extraordinary way. I had lost my ability to speak French fluently, even semi-fluently, after high school or likely before public high school. One of my brothers attended a French Catholic high school, but I chose not to. As the years went on, I began to think more about my family’s origins. When my son was born in 1995, the sixth generation of our line in Lowell, he came to my wife and I with her 100 percent Irish roots stretching back to 1870 in the city and my 100 percent French background. I realized that he would be far from his ethnic origins. It would be up to me to give him some grounding so that he would have an understanding of where he comes from. His arrival heightened my commitment to tell the French Canadian-American story in my writing, both the Lowell French story and my family’s place in it. I’m still reconstructing the family experience. Fortunately, two of my aunts had researched the genealogy of the Marion and Roy lines as far back as the mid-1600s in Normandy, France. The paper trail doesn’t go back farther, so far. I’ll keep at it.
And so, as a writer, I have a way to tell the story of my family, my community, my people. The knowledge has added texture to my experience. Embracing the identity has opened up connections to other people in New England, in Quebec, around the U.S., and abroad. I’m part of a larger effort to remember. There’s a transcript of an interview with a French Canadian-American woman from Lowell from the 1980s, I think. In it, she tells stories about the Lowell French in her time, early 20th century, and she sings songs. The lyrics are reproduced. Speaking to the interviewer, she says at one point, “I’m a memory worker.” That captures what’s going on in this telling of the French story in America. Those of us who write, speak, sing, research, and more are all memory workers in the big Memory Bank.
— Paul Marion, March 25, 2020
Paul Marion was born in Lowell, Mass., in 1954. He grew up in French Canadian-American parishes in Lowell (St. Louis de France) and next door in Dracut (Ste. Therese). His ancestors left Quebec in 1880 to settle in Lowell where they could earn a living as carpenters, textile mill operatives, and grocers. After Catholic elementary school and public high school, he graduated from the University of Massachusetts in Lowell (political science) and then studied in the master of fine arts program in writing at the University of California in Irvine.
He worked as an administrator for the U.S. Dept. of the Interior in the development of a national park in Lowell and also managed community relations and cultural affairs for UMass Lowell. In 1978, he established a small publishing company, Loom Press, which still publishes work by authors in his region.
He is the author of several books of poetry including Union River: Poems and Sketches (Bootstrap Press, 2017) and editor of Jack Kerouac’s early writing, Atop an Underwood (Viking/Penguin, 1999). His book Mill Power chronicles the renaissance of Lowell in the late 20th century, a case study of a post-industrial city reviving itself. His poems and essays been published widely in journals and anthologies. For more information, see www.paulmarion.com for more information.
He lives in Amesbury, Mass., with his wife, Rosemary, an art historian and former community and campus program manager. Their son, Joseph, lives in New York City.
Why do I tell the Franco-American story?
Jason L. Newton
Because it is the story of my family but also because it is part of the story of a landscape. When I was growing up I didn’t know much about my French-Canadian heritage. I wasn’t aware that my family came from a part of Canada where people spoke French. I’m not sure that I even knew there was a part of Canada that spoke French! I never learned the language and my family name, Newton, is about the furthest thing from a Franco-American name as there can be.
I started to learn about my French-Canadian roots during annual trips to my family camp in the forests around the village of Tupper Lake in New York’s Adirondack State Park. My family went there most summers and on the way we passed a twelve-foot-tall wooden lumberjack statue. At our family camp, we made campfires, swam in the lake, and hiked up mountain trails that revealed spectacular views of a great forest dotted with little communities. There I met family with the last names Dechene and Delair. I heard stories of my grandparents who grew up in Tupper Lake learning both French and English from Catholic nuns who judged their students’ performances with raps from the end of a yardstick!
In Tupper Lake I learned that my great-great grandparents were part of the large migration of French Canadians to America that happened between 1850 and 1930. By 1901 almost one quarter of the entire population of Québec moved to America. Ninety-two per cent of these immigrants settled in regions next to the Canadian border like the Adirondacks.
I also learned that my family was a little different from other French-Canadian immigrant families, most of whom settled in industrial cities. My family moved into rural wilderness land. They didn’t work in factories but in the forests. They were lumberjacks like the statue that we drove by every summer! My family was part of a class that became symbols of masculinity and examples of the affinity that Americans formed with the natural world through work. Despite their mythical occupation they were not, in fact, native-born Americans; they probably didn’t even know much English!
The lumberjack figure, and references to it were found all over Tupper Lake. There was the predominate statue that I drove by but there was also the Lumberjack Inn on Main street that served up pancakes to hungry vacationers. The local book shops sold books with tales of historical adventures in the old logging camps and the high school has the lumberjack as its mascot. Tourists can buy lumberjack tee-shirts at the local gas stations, and every summer there is a Woodsmen’s Day festival which draws large crowds. For nearly 100 years forest product manufacturing was a mainstay of the Adirondack economy. By the 1930s the wood products industry was in decline. In the 1950s my grandparents moved downstate for jobs, becoming part of a trend of youth outmigration that had been hampering economic progress in the area since the late nineteenth century.
As I screwed around with the dull firewood axe we had at my camp, I used to wonder what happened to the lumberjacks. The trees were here, but I saw no signs of cutting. Across the street from my camp was a dense forest of mixed second growth trees where there were no houses, camps, or even trails. This was privately owned land, part of the partnership between citizen landholders and the state government that make the Adirondacks unique. While I was thinking about the land and the work, I also used to think about why my relatives chose to settle here, in the woods, instead of in the cities which seemed like they would have presented so many more opportunities for newly arrived immigrants.
These thoughts about my family and the Adirondack landscape stayed with me throughout my adolescents but it wasn’t until college that I was given the time and resources to delve into them. Inspired by my family history and the Adirondack landscape I decided to write my undergraduate thesis on the history of loggers in Northern New York. I hoped this paper would explain the experience of rural people in America during industrialization but I also hoped the research would give me more insight about what life was like for my ancestors. After I finished the thesis, I knew quite a bit about what my family had done for a living but I never really looked deeply into the details of my actual family history. I was more interested in exploring the experiences of the class of people that my family was a part of: rural, working-class immigrants.
While researching, I noticed patterns in American and British-Canadian discussions about French Canadian workers. According to these late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries sources, the French didn’t just happen to work in the woods, they were apparently naturally suited to the forest landscape. This sentiment is exemplified by this quote from Adirondack scholar Alfred Donaldson who wrote in the 1920s that French Canadians “seemed naturally endowed with the agility, recklessness, and immunity to exposure that must combine to make them expert. They have always predominated as a race in the lumbering operations.”
These recurring expressions about the type of work that French Canadians excelled at might have contributed to the high proportion of French in the logging industry. In 1900, 33.6% of New England “woodchoppers, lumbermen [or] raftsmen” were French-Canadian immigrants. The lumber industry was second only to the brick and tile making industries in terms of the highest percentage of French-Canadian immigrants employed. Though I took note of these patterns in my thesis, I still didn’t have the time to explore the issue fully in a one-year project.
These loose ends pushed me to graduate school where I continued to work on the topic. I decided to expand my range of study to include the loggers and the landscape across not just Northern New York but also Northern New England. My new area of study was a multiple state bioregion known as the Northern Forest.
During my grad school research I realized that it was not just Adirondackers who saw a unique connection between French Canadians and woodswork but also sources from across New England and New York. I began collecting these sources while reading more about French Canadian immigration and Franco-American history. I learned about famous French Canadians like the one-time world’s strongest man Louis Cyr and the beatnik Jack Kerouac.
I decided to devote a chapter of my graduate dissertation to the pattern I had found in the sources about the French-Canadian connection to woodswork. It turned out that this wasn’t unique to the French-Canadian experience. American industrialists, government officials, and workers used their naive understanding of immigrant culture and racial features to categorize immigrants depending on the type of work each immigrant group was apparently uniquely suited to perform. This type of racial thinking was responsible for other types of occupational streaming and ethnically based immigrant labor systems like the Italian padrone system, tenement sweating in New York City and, by the 1940s and 50s, a federally sanctioned guest worker arrangement for French Canadians in the woods of the Northeast known as the bonded labor system. This guest worker program paralleled the more famous (and larger) bracero Mexican farm worker program in the American west and southwest. Other historians and I have called this phenomenon “racial management.” I published my work on this issue in the Canadian labor history journal Labour/La Travail in 2016. Personally, this research gave me a sense of why my family might have chosen, or been enticed, to settle in the Adirondacks.
I still have not had time to really dig into my own family history. I have been devoting my time to telling the story of the industrialization of the Northern Forest landscape, and French-Canadian immigration is only one part—albeit and important part—of that story. This larger story is what I’m currently writing a book about. When I am not writing, I am teaching about American workers at Cornell, devoting some time in class to explaining to undergraduates what I learned about immigration and industrialization. My students even read a little about French-Canadian lumberjacks! I do plan to collect more information about my family history over time. Perhaps what I find will exposed new patterns in the Franco-American experience that I can expand on in the future.
Jason L. Newton is a visiting assistant professor of history at Cornell University. His book manuscript, Cutover Capitalism: The Industrialization of the Northern Forest, 1850-1950, is a history of the changing types of labor performed by people, trees, and the landscape in the American Northeast as that area industrialized. He has also published on nature, race, and immigration. He teaches classes on labor and the environment. Jason also appeared on episode 18 where he talked about his article “These French Canadian of the Woods are Half-Wild Folk”: Wilderness, Whiteness, and Work in North America, 1840–1955.
“Some of this material has appeared in print elsewhere. Please see, Newton, Jason L. ‘”These French Canadian of the Woods are Half-Wild Folk”: Wilderness, Whiteness, and Work in North America, 1840-1955.’ Labour/Le Travail 77 (2016): 121-150; Newton, Jason L., ‘Forging Titans: The Rise of Industrial Capitalism in the Northern Forest, 1850-1950’ (2017). Dissertations – ALL. 794.
Why I Tell the Franco-American History
We’ve only scratched the surface.
With six syntheses in as many decades, hundreds of academic articles, a vast field of memoirs and oral interviews, documentary films, a number of thought-provoking blogs, and now multiple podcasts, one would think that the Franco-American past has given all of its secrets.
I wouldn’t claim perfect originality in all of my research; I am refining and incrementally adding to the body of research as much as I am unearthing long-forgotten stories. Still, I know of archival collections and published sources that have hardly been touched by contemporary scholars. Vast digitization projects have revolutionized research and now highlight just how little of the past we have explored.
For history nerds like me, that’s pretty darn exciting.
But will these sources substantially change how we view the Franco-American past? Naturally, time will tell—the answer you would expect from a historian. At the very least, the last half-century has shown that this past is infinitely more complex than certain early histories indicated.
Standard narratives organized around survivance and mill work, as in the aptly-titled Steeples and Smokestacks, remain. Yet, we are now more aware of women’s essential role in the household economy, more attuned to the gendered aspects of everyday life in Little Canadas. We have begun to look beyond Woonsocket, Fall River, Lowell, Manchester, and Lewiston in order to understand the variety of Franco experiences from Putnam to Salem, Barre to Brunswick. We are recognizing that there was more to these experiences than food and fights over pew rents. (Don’t get me wrong: I do like my meat pie and altar-cations as much as the next person.)
Older histories often portrayed the Little Canadas in terms that echoed their nativist detractors. Clerical authorities depicted the Little Canadas as small citadels, insulated from American materialism, where Francos followed their priests in all things and preserved a “clannish” spirit. More recently, we have come to appreciate the many points of connection between immigrant communities and mainstream U.S. society (whatever that may mean).
We can now study diverse Franco experiences and honor those different journeys without alleging treason—whether this woman fell for an Irishman or that man spoke English to feed his children.
We can now question les vaches sacrées.
As we open up all of these definitions, the field of Franco-American history becomes even wider. This is an incredible time for all things Franco—in research as well as in the realm of cultural programming.
My own foray in this field began at the University of New Hampshire, when I decided to pursue something I vaguely recalled from classes taken in Quebec—something about nineteenth-century emigration. Vague indeed: outside of academic works, the diaspora receives little attention, even less now that a generation with personal ties to Franco-Americans is passing from the scene.
Of course, this is an American story: Franco-Americans’ experiences tell us a great deal about religious conflict, nativism, immigration policy, labor activism, political mobilization, and economic development in the United States. But, still today, theirs is also a Canadian story. The few sentences we find about la grande saignée in Quebec textbooks fail to do justice to nineteenth-century economic woes, repatriation efforts, half-baked colonization schemes, continuing attention to Franco communities in newspapers into the 1950s, the influence of the sovereignty movement, and the availability of Quebec funds for Franco initiatives.
I have sought to emphasize French-Canadian immigrants’ place in both of these national sagas by contributing articles to academic journals. From upstate New York in the 1780s to Fall River and Barre more than a century later, I have followed compelling stories with little regard to time or place. This, after all, is not a story that begins in industrial New England in 1865 only to end there three generations later. The story must be so broad as to include Revolutionary War soldiers and those who disregard doctors’ orders and travel to Manchester every June.
Although this whole business of academic journals may seem like the stuff of ivory towers, they are an important medium for reaching the next generation of researchers, communicating with teachers, and influencing textbooks-in-the-making. I have no grand illusions about the value of own my research, but I do believe in the significance of the Franco-American
story stories. Every avenue ought to be explored in making that case.
It is in that spirit that I launched my blog, which offers a taste of my findings with less jargon and without the unwelcome paywalls. Perhaps yet more people, Franco-American or not, will join the conversation and the effort as a result.
After all, we’ve only scratched the surface.
Patrick Lacroix is a native of Cowansville, Quebec, and spent many years in New Hampshire, where he earned a doctoral degree in history. He now teaches in Nova Scotia. You can follow his research on Franco-Americans at his blog.