The Hope and the Light

'The Convoy, oh my God, it's amazing. I never again find that same feeling.'

Photo taken by me, Sept. 2024.

In small town Quebec, an hour east of Montreal, a young mother named Bianca is living quietly, raising her children. After her cousin tells her about the trucker Convoy, the two francophone women make the three-hour drive to the nation's capital on the first Friday, prior to the arrival of the majority of the trucks Saturday.

Speaking in English, Bianca explains that her cousin resides in Granby and "wanted to go for just one day." By the time they arrived in Gatineau, the cops had closed the bridge to vehicular traffic, so they had to cross into Ontario on foot.  

For two years, Quebec politicians and French-language media had behaved like those elsewhere. Obey the government. Do as your told. Pretend not to notice the endless absurdities. But in Ottawa that night thousands of people were instead raising a ruckus. They were laughing, partying, honking. With no face masks in sight.

Bianca was thirty-one at the time. She describes the energy as intoxicating, otherworldly, almost a different spiritual plane. "The Convoy, oh my God, it's amazing. I never again find that same feeling. It's not just the hope, it's the light."

That evening, she felt reassured. Everything was going to be OK. Change was in the air. She didn't want to leave. She needed, she says, to be around humans who were behaving like humans.

Back at home, she made a decision. "I don't sleep. In the night I just start packing my car and I go back to Ottawa." As she walked amidst the parked trucks, she noticed other people finding ways to be useful. She spoke to some of them, including a man who was distributing free cups of coffee. In retrospect, not everything she was told turned out to be accurate. But an idea had taken root.

Bianca is a professional event planner; she knows how to throw a party. Graduations, birthdays, holidays. As she looked around at the protest, what seemed to be missing was a kids' corner.          

"I'm mama," she smiles. Her two sons, then aged seven and eight, spend half their time with their dad, her ex-husband. One of the boys had been receiving speech therapy prior to COVID. Since children learn to speak by observing facial expressions, when everyone slapped masks on their face, youngsters like him lost ground rather than made progress.

"When I go there, in Ottawa, my life is not happy," she explains. "I'm a French woman with no self-confidence. But it's just too amazing, this place. The love, the love." Although she's normally shy, she says the stars aligned.

"My mission is really family and kids. And this time, I know why I'm there." Instead of doubting herself, instead of overthinking matters, she boldly forged ahead: "I just do."

Soon she was making phone calls and posting messages online, "If you have games for the kids, toys, whatever, I will bring to Ottawa." Clown costumes or bouncy castles would be welcome, she added.

The response was so enthusiastic that keeping up with the electronic replies became difficult. Within hours she had a carful of donations, including oversized games, puzzles, and building blocks suitable for mitten-clad hands.

Amongst the first things Bianca brought to the nation's capital were fireworks - impressive, expensive ones available at discount prices on a nearby native reservation. Her intent was to thrill the children, to leave a lasting impression. "I buy a lot of firework, oh my God, I don't know how much. Because," she pauses, searching for the words in English, "the brain remembers what the heart likes."

Her father suffers from Alzheimer's, she explains. On days when they go for a walk and nothing happens, he forgets the experience quickly. "But if we walk and we see the butterfly, he remember. Or we see the dog, and he sniff my dad, he remember."

On the occasions in which she set off fireworks near Parliament Hill, she was aware she was doing something risky. "I know the police don't want," she admits. Five or so people at a time would conceal a firecracker inside their jacket, head in separate directions, ignite the fuse in a safe location, and then depart quickly.

"Go. Run there, there, there," Bianca remembers. "And then you return. Nobody knows who start them."

next installment: Here Come the Bouncy Castles