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As I watched thousands of Montrealers belting out “O Canada” on my TV screen during a hockey game at the Bell Centre a few months ago, I felt something unfamiliar rising in my chest: genuine patriotism. For a Jewish Montrealer who grew up resenting French Quebec and sometimes feeling ambivalent about Canada as a whole, this was nothing short of remarkable. I’d never expected that the part of Canada I once felt most alienated from would be what finally inspired my own patriotism.
The game had made the news for all the right reasons. The American national anthem had been heartily booed before the international match between USA and Canada. This wasn't surprising given that the US had just initiated a trade war against Canada with tariffs that were sure to hurt, and Montrealers have flirted with booing “The Star Spangled Banner” in the past.
What shocked me was what happened next: the crowd erupting in passionate, deafening, unified love for the Canadian anthem. These weren't just polite claps. This was raw, unapologetic patriotism. When I heard replays of that moment, goosebumps traveled up and down my neck.
Given Quebec’s long, ambivalent dance with Canadian unity, you'll understand my astonishment.
This province, which has twice held referendums that came perilously close to separation from Canada (most memorably in 1995, when the “remain” side won by a razor-thin margin, 50.5% to 49.5%), has never been known for waving the maple leaf with enthusiasm. July 1st in Quebec isn't even primarily known as Canada Day. It's "moving day," when leases expire, and half the province seems to change apartments.
Yet here we are in 2025, watching Quebec embrace Canadian patriotism with newfound fervour. What changed? It wasn’t some internal awakening; it was the bad orange man. Donald Trump, with his usual mix of bluster and contempt, slapped Canada with harsh tariffs, mocked our prime minister, and derided us as nothing more than the 51st state.
These unprovoked attacks sparked a fierce, defiant patriotism. Even in Quebec. This aggression will not stand, man.
This surge of unexpected patriotism mirrors my own journey: from resentment to deep appreciation, not just of Quebec but, through Quebec, of Canada itself. My relationship with my birthplace has been complicated, sometimes tense, but I discovered something I never expected: genuine pride in being from Quebec. And that pride, that emotional connection to my province, became the foundation of my love for Canada as a whole.
I was born in Montreal in 1972, growing up in the aftermath of Quebec's Quiet Revolution and during the rise of the separatist Parti Québécois. Like most other Montreal Jews, I was raised in an English-speaking neighbourhood. This meant that my community felt besieged in the 70s and 80s when new language laws took effect, making French the official language of the province and restricting English in many places.
Those language laws felt like a direct assault on everything we held dear: our schools, our neighbourhoods, our right to exist as English speakers in Quebec. The mood among anglophone Montrealers turned anxious, sometimes angry. I watched as neighbours sold their homes at bargain prices, shuttered family businesses, and fled to Toronto, taking with them not just their livelihoods but slivers of my community's soul. It was during this exodus that Toronto overtook Montreal, becoming not just Canada's most populous city but its undisputed economic and cultural capital.
This change left many of us anglophones feeling bitter. We had witnessed the diminishment of a once great city and the hollowing out of entire neighbourhoods. Because of this, I grew up harbouring animosity toward French Canadians, toward the Québécois. We used to refer to them pejoratively as Peppers, though I never really knew why[1].
My perspective began to shift during my university years at McGill. Taking psychology courses with the legendary professor of psychology Donald Taylor on intergroup relations forced me to examine my own biases and try to understand the Québécois perspective. (Fun fact: Donald Taylor is the reason I am a social psychologist today). Taylor didn't just teach theories; he challenged us to confront our own tribal instincts, to recognize how easily we slip into us-versus-them thinking.
So, what changed? I began to see Quebec as a tiny island of French speakers in an ocean of over 350 million English speakers. Without protective measures, the French language and culture in North America would inevitably erode through sheer demographic pressure, much like countless Indigenous languages have disappeared.
When viewed through the lens of cultural preservation rather than suppression, those same language laws began to make sense. Some policies go too far—like the crackdown on “bonjour-hi,” a perfectly Montreal greeting. But even that defensiveness reflects a fierce commitment to self-definition, one I’ve come to respect.
Once I stopped viewing Québécois culture as my adversary, I could finally appreciate what made it special.
What I came to love about Quebec wasn't just its distinctiveness, but how that distinctiveness manifested in a particular approach to life—what the French call "joie de vivre," a zest for life, a passion for good living.
While the rest of North America seems perpetually locked in a productivity arms race, Quebec understands that work exists to enable life, not the other way around. You see it everywhere: in the packed terrasses on weekday evenings, in the sheer number of bring your own wine restaurants that have never heard of a corkage fee, in the fact that many small store owners close their shops between Christmas and New Year’s to, you know, enjoy the holidays.
Montreal in summer transforms into a city of festivals. I've attended cultural events worldwide, but I've never seen anything that matches the energy and mass participation of Montreal's festival scene. The audiences don't just attend—they participate. They sing, they dance, they respond with enthusiasm.
One summer night captures this spirit of joie de vivre perfectly. Friends from DC were visiting, and after spilling out of a bar on Boulevard St-Laurent, we found a tiny ice cream shop on Avenue Duluth. The woman behind the counter pulled out DJ equipment, started spinning records, and cranked the music. Minutes later, we were dancing on counters, ice cream melting down our hands, lost in bliss.
This is Montreal in a nutshell.
Once, flying from Quebec City to Toronto, I was struck by the number of swimming pools I saw in Quebecers’ backyards. These people enjoy maybe two months of pool weather annually, yet they build more backyard pools than everyone in North America (after steamy Florida), investing in their leisure without hesitation. It’s a small but telling indicator of different priorities. That’s joie de vivre in action.
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It was only after I left Quebec—first to attend grad school and a postdoc in the US and then to settle in Toronto—that I truly appreciated what a remarkable place Quebec is. I’m now proud to be from Montreal, proud to be from Quebec.
In that emotional pride in Quebec, I found my path to loving Canada itself. Not because Canada tolerates Quebec, but because Quebec is Canada: the vital, beating heart of what makes this country worth loving. My patriotism isn't about appreciating Canada's diversity in some abstract way; it's about feeling a gut-level pride in a particular place that stirs passion.
As Canada now finds itself in a patriotic mood, I hope we do our patriotism right. Typically, Canadians define ourselves by what we are not—that is, we are not Americans.
A few decades ago, there was a popular ad for Molson Canadian beer that featured Joe Canada, who proudly ranted "I Am Canadian." The ad was essentially a list of ways Canadians differ from our southern neighbours: we have universal healthcare; we have gun control; we say "zed" instead of "zee."
But a healthy cultural identity can't just be the negative space around your neighbour. Quebec gets this, even if imperfectly. While some of its policies (like restricting English signage) are reactionary in their own way, Quebec's cultural pride goes beyond mere opposition to English Canada. It's primarily rooted in affirmative values, in what Quebecers want to create and preserve, not just what they reject.
Quebec has cultivated its own robust cultural ecosystem. While most English Canadians consume American television, films, and music as their default, Quebecers support a thriving domestic cultural industry. The most-watched shows are Québécois productions, not American imports. The best Canadian films are frequently from Quebec. Denis Villeneuve of Dune fame is just the latest in a list of Québécois filmmakers who've achieved international acclaim, not by mimicking Hollywood, but by cultivating their own distinct voice.
As Trump's tariffs and threats push Canada toward a more assertive patriotism, we have an opportunity to define ourselves by what we love and create, not just by what we reject. We could learn from Quebec's example: embracing our creators, supporting our local industries, designing our cities for people rather than commerce, and, perhaps most importantly, cultivating our own joie de vivre.
As we find ourselves unexpectedly united, let's celebrate what we've built across languages and cultures. My love for Canada didn't come from waving a flag or singing a national anthem I still don’t know all the words to. It came through embracing the very part of my country that feels most alive, most emotional, most willing to fight for what it believes in. In Quebec's fierce protection of its culture, its investment in joie de vivre, and its refusal to be defined by others, I found not just a model for how to live, but a pathway to loving Canada with the same emotional intensity that Quebecers bring to everything they do.
Quebec shows us that the way to build love for a country isn’t to demand loyalty, but to cultivate places worth loving.
[1] Much later in life, I lear