Isabelle Bourgeault-Tassé is a franco-Ontarian writer.

A French-Canadian and franco-Ontarian, I was born a classic Canadian hyphenate: an identity proudly rooted in the French language, my mother tongue, and French-Canadian culture, intertwined with my national identity.

But I was also born a literal hyphenate. Among the first of my generation to have a hyphenated family name, a name shared with two younger siblings. Bourgeault-Tassé, two names woven together by a dash, a “trait d’union” – loosely translated, “a union dash.” How apropos, when what I consider what transpired between my parents when they decided to both give us their names was a special union forged in the unique vision they had set for themselves as parents. Young, thoughtful, sometimes politically radical and always socially aware.

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Bourgeault, my mother’s name – with its quirky linguistic exception (an "e" after a "g" is always pronounced softly). Often mispronounced, even in France, the birthplace of French, where I once patiently half-listened as a Parisien condescended to explain to me that I was mispronouncing my own family name. That it should be pronounced with a hard “g,” instead of with the softness of my grammatical exception.

Tassé, my father’s name – with its accent aigu. An accent, the dramatic flourish of French’s compelling inflections, ending my name with a cheerful and Canadian sounding “eh.” Sometimes, a dropped accent transformed my name from Tassé to “Tasse,” the French word for cup. Other times, the accent would be tilted in the other direction, an accent grave, inverting the inflection at the end of my name.

My name has its admirers. Friends who gleefully goad me into repeating my name, en français, because it’s so much fun to pronounce, or who lovingly greet me as “Bonjour-Tassé!” with an upward, exploding intonation of joy on the accent aigu. Even TVOntario’s Steve Paikin once paid on-air tribute to my last name when I appeared on The Agenda, declaring it “beautiful.”

But I am not without my detractors. This name of mine: So French. So feminist. So unwieldy. “Is it even legal?” I was recently asked by a cashier. Pick a name, some have told me, preferably the short one, ideally your father’s name, but naturally, sans accent.

Among my detractors, the Government of Ontario. On my Canadian passport, an all-caps Bourgeault-Tassé looms large, my graceful accent aigu proudly floating above the "e" of Tassé. But on my Ontarian identifications, my name is bereft of its accent.

The absence of accented letters in French names on Ontario ID cards is something that NDP MPP France Gélinas is trying to change. With the government set to issue an update of Service Ontario’s computer systems, the possibility of French accents is again within reach for franco-Ontarians. Gélinas has launched a petition that would push the Ontario government to include accents by Dec. 31, 2020.

And there is political support: Health Minister Christine Elliott and Transport Minister Jeff Yurek have reportedly expressed openness to the idea. However, while the province recently indicated that it thought it could add accents to the Ontario driver’s licence, it does not intend to explore the option until 2022 for Ontario health cards.

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That’s not good enough.

Accents matter, first for practical reasons. Both my sister and I have narrowly avoided being marooned abroad due to various identifications that did not specifically match up (to say nothing of the complicating factor that is a hyphenated name). These foreign governments and international airlines weren’t wrong: Our name is inaccurate without its accent, after all.

And it’s not just about francophone names, but for Ontario’s collective, for any community that uses accents, from fellow Canadian hyphenates from Portuguese-Canadians to Vietnamese-Canadians, as well as Indigenous communities seeking to reclaim their traditional names.

Beyond these practical and cultural reasons, French accents are rooted in the imagination of Franco-Ontarians as an expression of our identity. In 1989, franco-Ontarian and franco-Manitoban artists Paul Demers and François Dubé wrote Notre Place, or “Our Place,” a song to celebrate the French Language Services Act passed by Premier David Peterson’s Liberal government. The song quickly became francophone Ontario’s official hymn.

“Pour mettre les accents là où il le faut, Faut se lever, Il faut célébrer notre place,” instructs the song. In English: “To place accents where they belong, we must rise, we must celebrate our place.”

The lyrics’ allusions to placing accents where they belong were reportedly a reference to the francophone community of Orléans, a suburb of Ottawa, which in 1989 asked that the city’s name formally integrate an accent aigu on the “e” in Orleans.

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Notre Place is a deeply felt toune, or tune. And its inspired lyrics have been predominant in franco-Ontarian forums since Gélinas introduced this petition. Through these lyrics, we find our purpose and voice. We find community, and strength in the collective. We are claiming our very names from our government. To truly represent Franco-Ontarians and be “for the people,” our government must honour our accents. It must grant us our names.

“I want to be called Gélinas, not Gelinas,” France Gélinas says.

Like her, I want to claim my own accent aigu, and place it where it belongs: as the joyful inflection that dances off your tongue as you gleefully pronounce Bourgeault-Tassé.

After all, if it’s an identity card the Ontario government wants us to hold, then let it speak to our identity: Place the accents where they belong.

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