Over 65,000 deaths in
the U.S. from the coronavirus and mounting.
Nameless and faceless people until one of them is a relative or a
friend. For me, that barrier of anonymity was crossed last week.
Claire Quintal died from the virus on
April 29, only days after turning 90. She is mourned all over New England by people
of French-Canadian ancestry like me who admired her for her selfless dedication
to a cause, the Franco-American heritage.
I can relate to Claire. She was born
and raised only a few miles down the road from my hometown, and her childhood
education was similar to mine. She was a brilliant scholar with many advanced
degrees. The ten years she spent in Paris from 1958 to 1968 earning her doctorate
and teaching bracketed my years of study in Europe. Who knows? I may even have
passed her on the street on one of my frequent visits to Paris.
Faced with a choice between marriage
and a career, she chose the latter. And for over 40 years her dedication to her
mission never wavered, highlighted by the founding of the French Institute in
Assumption College in Worcester, Massachusetts.
I met Claire Quintal when she
invited me to speak at a colloquim at the Institute in 1994 and got to appreciate
first-hand her dynamic leadership in the preservation of the culture, values,
and history of the million Canadian immigrants who settled in New England towns
between roughly 1840 and 1940.
I could go on about Claire Quintal,
but my point here is that the virus becomes personal when it takes the life of
someone you know. Worse, I’m sure, when it’s someone in your family. In fact,
there are no nameless and faceless victims, because they all had families,
friends, or at the very least, people who knew them. While the numbers may seem
overwhelming, each death is personal to someone.
No comments:
Post a Comment