I sent the Director out for a photo shoot, impromptu to capture a different kind of Quebec man.
We were at the bank, about to get some cash when I spied a pick-up truck with a confederate flag on the back window. His truck had Quebec tags. A curious thing. I squinted harder at the old man in the cab. Was he American? Why was he taking such a hard stand way up North, past yankee territory to something much worse?
“Go and get a photo of the flag on that guy’s truck,” I pointed.
She looked ahead and emitted an I don’t want to noise. “Why?”
“Because it’s racist,” I said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain later.” I pointed furiously at the truck. “Just get it.”
A few more tense exchanges and she reluctantly and protestedly exited the car, camera in hand, took a few snaps, and went to the ATM.
“These are of just the flag, and they’re blurry!” I yelled when she got back in the car.
“I wanted the context. The flag and the license plate. You never see that, it’s something to see.” I was exasperated.
“Why didn’t you sa…” she sputtered.
“In America. A lot of people in the south, in Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Georgia, Alabama, they fly that flag to show their allegiance to a time when America allowed slaves. It’s definitely a white southerner thing. Black southerners don’t like to be reminded of slavery.”
“Imagine,” the Director said.
“And I’ve never seen that flag anywhere up north or another country, even.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked.
She exited the car and went to talk to the truck owner in French.
She came back. “I told him that the flag was a symbol of white racial pride in the American south and where did he get it? He told me he bought the truck from an American friend. The sticker was his.”
He drove off soon after.
“Did you get a better photo?” I asked her.
“I forgot,” she said.