Community

We take a lot of things for granted about where we live. Like what food you can find at the local grocery store. Can a brutha get some diced green chilis? Apparently not here in the (soon to be) frozen North. Of all the difficulties (real and imagined) involved in moving to Quebec City (like, for example, how to tell a Canadian Tire employee in French, “My right rear tire has a slow leak caused by a screw embedded in the tread“), the dearth of satisfactory Mexican food ingredients is in some ways the worst. During our first two weeks here, the struggle to find our place in the community was real. Between language barriers and wearing that super awesome name tag (and no, my first name is not Elder and no, my name is not JESUS CHRIST either, but thanks for asking), sometimes I felt just like the guy in the picture above. Well, not exactly a creepy one-eyed pumpkin man, but you get my drift. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning. Or, at least, a beginning.

We arrived here in Québec City on September 18th. We moved into our apartment (it’s nice), figured out the parking situation (it’s awful), and began the process of “moving in.” We didn’t have much to do our first week, so we spent it making several trips to Walmart (they have several Walmart Supercenters here–a lot has changed in 40 years), IGA (haven’t seen or shopped at an IGA since I left Missouri) and playing “tourist” to get acquainted with our area. During these travels, we got a nice taste of the alphabet soup that Québec City has become: bits of Spanish, English, Portuguese, Tagalog, Chinese, and Japanese–all, of course, simmering in a fine French bouillabaisse. This is reflected in the 12 full-time missionaries serving here: although eight are native English speakers, three are native Spanish speakers and one’s native language is Swiss German (not your garden variety German–Swiss German; and yes, there is a difference). These latter four now speak fairly fluent English and all of them speak French to some degree.

On our first Sunday here, we attended both a Spanish and a French branch. Not that that means much here, as you hear equal amounts of Spanish, French and English in the hallways. In the Spanish branch we sat in a pew with the teenage daughter of the District President. She was born in Venezuela, raised in Montréal and Québec City, and is perfectly trilingual. It’s not without reason that many people, when you meet them for the first time, greet you with a “Bonjour, Hello!” and sometimes even followed by a “Hola,” in order to give you an opportunity to identify yourself lingually. For two people like us trying to learn one or two foreign languages, it creates a certain amount of language confusion. For example, I found myself breaking into French while talking to the Branch President of the Spanish branch, and had him politely remind me–in English–that he didn’t really speak French. To make matters worse, one of the sister missionaries we work with is from Switzerland, and I find myself biting my tongue to keep from greeting her with a “Guten Tag! Wie Gehts?” I have lost count of the times that Sister Bates has injected a “pero” into an otherwise grammatically correct French sentence.

It’s even worse with the youth. At a meeting with the District Presidency, we asked them what their greatest need was. They were unanimous in indicating that they would like us to help with the young single adults. So a week ago on Friday night we went to the church and attended a potluck dinner and Institute class with the YSAs. They are a fascinating mix of French, Spanish and English. One young Hispanic girl, trying to answer a question in French, just finally got flustered and stopped talking. When her friend leaned over to her and told her (in Spanish) that she could do it, she laughed, blushed, and said “no quiero, no quiero.” Other class members just switch flawlessly from one language to another. One of the Institute teachers is from Brazil, and has only been in Québec for two years, but she taught the class in flawless French. We spoke to her afterwards, and she is in the process of learning English. But I am so jaded by now I was actually surprised when I found out that she did not speak Spanish. The nerve! The other institute teacher is originally from British Columbia, but has lived in Québec long enough that she speaks excellent French. I didn’t dare ask her about Spanish because I didn’t want to be disappointed. And would it kill her to at least try and learn a little Portuguese or Tagalog?

Recently we had opportunities to help teach two young women with the missionaries. I will call them Jane and Pearl. Jane is a native English speaker from the Maritimes. She was baptized as a teenager, but as a result of incredible opposition from family and friends, left the church. She recently moved to Québec City and, away from the toxicity, began meeting with the missionaries and the branch president in preparation of being re-baptized into the church. We accompanied the sister missionaries when they taught her about the Plan of Salvation and we invited her to attend institute with us (which she did). Later, we got a call from the zone leaders asking us to help them teach Pearl. They didn’t know anything about Pearl, other than she had visited once with missionaries about a year ago, but then they stopped contacting her because she was always too busy to meet with them. When the zone leaders recently reached back out to her, she agreed to meet them at the church building for a lesson. When we met with Pearl the next day, it turned out that some of her family were actually members of the church. She was born in South America, but her family had emigrated to Québec when she was just six. Member of the church had helped them move in and get settled, and many of her extended family had subsequently joined the church. Even though she was only 7 when her family was baptized, she did not want to be left out, so she was “unofficially” baptized (don’t ask). We were able to locate some of her family’s records that were actually in the Spanish branch records, although it appears that none of them remained active after their baptism. And, of course, Pearl is perfectly fluent in Spanish and French and speaks very good English. Why would I have thought otherwise? She is going to begin attending church. She indicated that her fiancé is also a (inactive) member. She came to institute with us last night, and we located a Spanish and French Book of Mormon and a Spanish Bible for her and her fiancé. After Institute, we had a long text conversation about her desire to join the church as soon as possible, because it was obviously “God’s plan for her.”

Speaking of Institute last night: most of the “regulars” were gone because they were attending a jazz concert in Montréal. Only three members were in attendance. The other three attendees were all non-members who are in the process of meeting with the missionaries. In addition to Pearl, there was a young man from Martinique and a young man from Haiti. Both of them live here, far from family and friends, and in a much different culture. But there they were, at Institute, actively participating in a lesson about how we should use the Book of Mormon when sharing the gospel with our friends! Fun fact: Pearl had never even heard of the Book of Mormon before stepping foot into the Institute class. But there she was, studiously taking notes, asking questions, and participating in the discussion.

All of these experiences got me thinking about the meaning of “community.” (Maybe not as much as this guy, but still.) Québec City is in the throes of a transition from an historically culturally and linguistically homogenous community to a more heterogenous “melting pot.” As has been pointed out by professors of the obvious (from Harvard no less), socialization is typically reduced in “racially or ethnically fragmented localities.” Language barriers, even if we don’t want them to be, are usually exactly that: barriers. Barriers to communication, barriers to integration, barriers to understanding and, even more importantly, barriers to appreciating–appreciating not only the differences but also the commonalities. However, every time I am around the members and friends of the church, I am amazed at how they refuse to let language or cultural differences prevent them from interacting, from communicating (and yes, “communicating” comes from the same Latin root as “community”), and from creating a community based on shared beliefs, a love for the Savior and a desire to help each other along the path. And who wouldn’t want to be part of that?