French Tongues, other foreign things in me,* my big confession AND a joke – and it all connects

I have a confession to make. And it’s a biggie. But you’ll have to read on...

Pop Quiz. How do you pronounce “Ruttan”?

As I suspected. You’re all a bunch of failures.

Seriously, this is one of the bizarre quirks of being Canadian. We are sometimes more defined by where our ancestors came from than the country that we live in.

I think this is why we don’t have as much recognized crime fiction as other parts of the world, and why much of our homegrown talent leaves. We are, in short, oddities. It isn’t like we’re Australians, who have a distinctive environment and culture. We’re so close to the US that the subtleties of what distinguish “us” from “them” are eroding over time, and to many in the rest of the world, they can’t see the difference.

Now, before anyone gets offended, I am speaking in generalities.** See my note below.

I am often asked about my ancestry. Particularly with the name “Ruttan”. The one nobody can say right. One day, I was driving home and a song came on the radio. “When You Come Around” by Deric Ruttan***. The announcer, after it was over, said the name of the song by “Deric (insert noticeable hesitation) Ruttan.” And he said it right. But then he said, “Did I say that right?”

Host 2: “Yes, that’s right.”

Host 1: “Really? Because it looks more like ruttin’. You know, like rhymes with nuttin’.”

And on went the joke. I nearly drove off the road I was laughing so hard.

Because you have to have a sense of humour about this stuff.

Back in high school, in the days when Deric’s hair was longer than mine. There were too many of us, too well known, for mispronunciations.

We had Deric doing CCR in The History of Rock ’n’ Roll and winning songwriting competitions. J.P. Ruttan has always been a phenomenal talent as well, earning a trip to the vice-principal’s office for a rendition of “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” that got him into hot water. Mick would’ve been proud.

And then there was me. Known enough. Another musical member of the Ruttan clan, but no, I’m not telling you what I play, that’s not the confession. If anyone guesses, I’ll own up to it.

It’s pronounced RUE-tan. Rue rhymes with Sue, tan rhymes with fan.

It isn’t really French either. But we say it is. For simplicity.

The original Rutant left what was then The Duchy of Lorraine in 1670. The town, Metz, has since lost its affiliation with Luxembourg and become part of France.

So, like I said, it’s just easier to say its French.

But that line left Europe in 1675. Yes, at the age of 18, Abraham Rutant set sail for America and married a German girl.

Now, my ancestry is primarily Irish, Scottish, English, a bit of German and Swiss…

And I have a French name.

Which means I get away with insulting the French. At least, more than the average person. Which still isn’t very much.

But what does that all have to do with me? With who I am? Am I nothing more than the sum of my heritage, or am I, in fact, Canadian?

A few years ago, there was a commercial that was one of the most popular ever on this side of the border. The infamous Molson’s Beer ad, featuring Canada Joe, dubbed THE RANT**** Please give it a few seconds to start uploading – you’ll find it interesting.

You know, I never do spell tuque right. I’ve been Americanized! Argh!

And, of course, some Americans didn’t like The Rant very much. Unfortunately, the ones griping didn’t seem to get that it wasn’t ANTI-AMERICAN but rather PRO CANADIAN.

Seriously, I’m on this little kick about the quirks of language in part because I was told that there were Canadianisms in my manuscript. I’ve since been trying to locate them. What have I learned?

1. Americans don’t listen to Bruce Cockburn.
2. A double-double is a Canadian term.
And that’s all my American readers have told me. Which seems minor indeed, but I’m just so darned excited that there are Canadianisms people pick up.

Although, that being said, I know an Americanism when I hear it.
Now, I am going on a soap box for this one. Because I’m pissed. I go over to the site for a Canadian magazine and what do I find?

The region I grew up in, Muskoka, being referred to as “The Muskokas”.

It was always a common joke when I lived there that anyone saying “The Muskokas” was obviously American and you know what? I’m offended.

Not because of another Americanism creeping into our dialect.

But because we allow our culture to be eroded over time and then we complain that nothing identifies us as Canadians. This is supposed to be a Canadian magazine. Some fine fucking example it is of our culture.

We aren’t supposed to get upset. Polite Canadians never kick up too much of a fuss. We aren’t supposed to feel patriotic, yet I still get a lump in my throat when I hear The Rant.

You know, I’m proud of my Irish heritage. I’m thrilled that I was able to spend some time living in Ireland.

And I’m proud of my Scottish and English heritage too, and that I’ve spent a fair bit of time traveling to both places over the years.

I’m proud of my Swiss, pseudo-French, German and Luxembourg contributions as well. How many people say it’s important to them to go to Luxembourg? But when I went to Europe, it was the first place after England that I visited and spent time exploring.

And I am also very proud to be Canadian.

We aren’t perfect, but we have a wonderful country. I’ve been to the Bay of Fundy, and I’ve been to the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Vancouver Island. I’ve swum in the Arctic and seen beluga cut and smoked and stored for food. I’ve ridden horses across the prairies on a moonlit summer night, and in the dusk in the Yukon. I’ve photographed grizzly bears and black bears, wolves and moose, fox, snowy owls and humpback whales. And I do own two sled dogs that do nothing more than pull kids on toboggans. The kids I know have names like Ravdeep, Sunata, Zenaira, Zane, Roisin and Griffin.

This is a country not about colour but about principles and values. We value our freedom. We commit ourselves to helping others. We don’t live in isolation or shut our eyes to the rest of the world.

We aren’t perfect. But we’re still okay. I’ll tell you one of my little travel horror stories, then make my confession.

We were in Tunisia and a group of us were having lunch. Our server was trying to understand where we were from.

“British Columbia.”
Puzzled look.
“Canada.”
“AH! Quebec.”

Yes, the Tunisians know Quebec. Having a long affiliation with France, Quebecors have been going to Tunisia for holidays for a long time.

“No,” we tell him. “British Columbia.”

I finally used my hands to say, “Tunisia” - “Morocco”. “Quebec” – “British Columbia”. He seemed to finally get it.

“Big country.”

Then another group of people came in to eat. Same conversation starts over there – where are they from.

“Quebec.”
“Ah,” the server says, eager to apply his new knowledge. “Canada.”
“NO. QUEBEC.”
Poor man walked away so confused.

So, yeah, we aren’t perfect. But I still love my country. And nothing makes me more aware of the things that define me as a Canadian than when I travel. I love the world – I’ve been to North Africa and all over Europe, saw the Berlin Wall come down and have been to southeast Asia, have tried seaweed in Japan and fresh coconut milk in Costa Rica.

But this is my still home.

Despite my confession. What is it that, in my discussion of heritage, I neglect to tell people?

That technically, my ancestors in the Rutant-Ruttan line were also Americans. It wasn’t until the revolution that the Ruttan’s went north, to Quebec, remaining loyal to Britain.

Now, isn’t that ironic? Moving to Quebec made them officially loyal to Britain.

But there’s a part of me that’s proud of that chapter of my heritage too. Because hundreds of years ago, when the Huguenot’s were fleeing religious persecution, there was a place they could go and be safe. America. And they had a chance to start new lives and achieve independence and practice their religion without fear.

We see the abuses of that freedom, with Waco and Jonestown. But let not the few who misuse the great privileges they have – that others would kill or die for – undermine how wonderful it is that there are places on earth where people have freedom.

And as much as I might tease y’all, I love America too. You are my neighbours, and you are also my kin.

Immigration Policies*****
Mujibar was trying to get into Canada legally through Immigration.

The Officer said, "Mujibar, you have passed all the tests, except there is one more test. Unless you pass it, you cannot enter the Canada."

Mujibar said, "I am ready."

The officer said, "Make a sentence using the words Yellow, Pink and Green."

Mujibar thought for a few minutes and said, "Mister Officer, I am ready."

The Officer said, "Go ahead."

Mujibar said, "The telephone goes green, green, green, and I pink it up, and say, 'Yellow, this is Mujibar.'"

Mujibar now lives in a neighborhood near you and works at a Sympatico help desk.

I talked to him yesterday.


* You’re all sick, you know that?

** I’m not anti-American. I’ve been to Ohio, Kentucky, Georgia, Florida, Tennessee, Alabama, Illinois, Indiana, Washington, Minnesota, Maine, Alaska… Likely some other states I’ve forgotten at the moment. And I have good friends from coast to coast. New York. California. I’m dying to go to Baltimore.

*** We’re distant cousins, like 3rd cousins. We were in home room together in high school. And we might be legal in Alabama but still, in my mind, we’re too related for that. Blech!

****'m not a lumberjack, or a fur trader, and I don't live in an igloo or eat blubber, or own a dog sled, and I don't know Jimmy, Sally or Suzy from Canada, although I'm certain they're really, really nice.
I have a Prime Minister, not a President. I speak English and French, not American, and I pronounce it "about", not "aboot".
I can proudly sew my country's flag on my backpack. I believe in peacekeeping, not policing; diversity, not assimilation; and that the beaver is a truly proud and noble animal.
A tuque is a hat, a chesterfield is a couch, and it is pronounced "zed"; not "zee" – "zed"!
Canada is the second largest land mass! The first nation of hockey! And the best part of North America!
My name is Joe! And I am Canadian!

*****It’s a joke, people. Just a joke.