I’m Trying to Learn French. Quebec Isn’t Making It Easy.

Early in 2020, I met my future spouse, Matthieu, online. I was living in São Paulo, working as an English teacher and translator. A year into our long-distance relationship, Matthieu came to visit me in Brazil and, a few months later, I flew to see him at his home in Sherbrooke, Quebec. In the winter of 2022, I officially moved in with him and his son, Noah, and we became a family.

Going from the biggest city in Latin America to a town of only 175,000 was a big change. There were no Ubers or food-delivery apps and barely any public transit. Businesses closed early. And then there was the language barrier. I speak Portuguese as well as English, so I could communicate with Matthieu, but not with his family or most of his friends, who only spoke French. He constantly had to translate between us. They’d be laughing at a joke, and I was often asking what it meant, or we’d play games but I couldn’t follow the rules. Things that were supposed to be fun became stressful. Even though I loved Matthieu, there were days when I just wanted to go home. But we persisted and entered into a civil union in 2023. At that point, I received a Quebec Selection Certificate, the document needed for permanent residency. With it, I decided to learn French for real.

My certificate gave me the right to attend francisation classes—free government-funded lessons designed to teach newcomers French. They were ramped up in 2023 after the passage of Bill 96, which expanded the use of French in the province. For newcomers like me, that meant government services would now shift entirely to French after a six-month settling-in period. I signed up at the Centre Saint-Michel, where I studied for three hours each morning, five times a week. I liked my teacher because he taught us how to handle everyday situations, like a trip to the hospital, ordering at a restaurant or looking for an item in a store. My French got better. I started speaking it in my daily life and even with Matthieu’s family. 

Last fall, I found out I was pregnant. That same week, my French classes were cancelled. Quebec’s funding hadn’t kept up, and hundreds of courses shut down, while over 200 teachers lost their jobs, and thousands of students were put on an already long waitlist. I was furious. The province insists that immigrants must learn French to integrate. But how can we when the very programs we rely on disappear? My child’s first language would be French—I worried that I wouldn’t master it in time to navigate his school life or speak confidently with his teachers.

Then, in November, I had a miscarriage. It was a devastating experience, made worse by the language barrier. At the hospital, I was shuffled between three different rooms. Some staff only spoke French, and I couldn’t understand them. I broke down in tears. Eventually, someone stepped in, drew my blood and promised to send it where it needed to go. I was in the emergency room, bleeding, for more than 12 hours.  The inability to communicate made a painful situation much worse. 

Reduced access to francisation has been terrible for other students I know, too. Two men from my classes returned to their home countries because employers were asking for a level of French they could no longer reach—the programs to teach them aren’t there anymore.

Earlier this year, I finally became a permanent resident. I can start working locally—but only if I reach a higher level of French. After nearly four months on the waitlist, I found someone to help me, and in April, I was able to enrol in Level Four, which teaches more advanced comprehension and conversational skills. A job-placement agency told me I need to reach that benchmark before they could help me. Now, I’m back at the Centre Saint-Michel for eight hours every weekday while working at night. It’s exhausting, but I’m happy to be learning French again and hope to be conversationally fluent at the end of the year. I’m lucky to have access to francisation—but for many newcomers in Quebec, the shortage of classes remains a major barrier, leaving us feeling excluded from the very place we’re trying to call home.

—As told to Caitlin Stall-Paquet