A few years ago, your mom and I were going to visit our friend who had moved to Outremont. As we were driving, we passed schools, parks, police
stations, bakeries, and all I could think was that it all seemed
familiar. As cliche as it sounds, it was the most distinct feeling of
deja vu that I have ever experienced. I couldn't help but feel as though
these were the sights, sounds and smells of my past. But they were not
my own. What I was recalling was actually a collective past. Not simply
because I had grown up listening to the legends of Outremont high and
its surroundings from my mom, aunt and uncle. Those, often tall, tales
certainly left an indelible mark on my consciousness. But what I was
feeling as I drove further down Van Horne than I ever had at that point,
was a distinct feeling that I, not as a person but as a people, had not
only been here before, it was where I belonged. Now this all seems like
a prelude to an eventual move to outremont but that was never in the
plans. Instead, Hutchison street became the symbol of a history that was so
within reach that I had an obligation to myself and to my past to
revisit it from time to time.
