"So, you ski da marathon, eh?"
came the voice out of the back
"You anglos call me Frenchie"
"But, my friends all call me Jacques"
"You ever do da marathon?
That is why you're here?
Sit here with old Frenchie
Barkeep...three more beer"
We sat down with this old man
He looked worn out, nearly dead
He said "You know, to win this race"
"It's all up here in my head"
The beers arrived, he drank his down
Our lips were barely wet
When he signalled to the barkeep
Three more for him to get
"You know, I've been here yearly
telling Anglos like you's two
The way to Montebello
The best way to get through"
"I'm eighty fours years old you know
Believe me now it's true"
And with a little finger snap you know
The barkeep brought more brew
We sat and listened as this man
Told tales of races past
He talked of Jack Johannsen
And he drank his beer down fast
We sat with him for hours
And at ten we paid the bill
We'd spent two hundred dollars
This old man drank his fill
The next day we came in to eat
Before we started out
"You ski the marathon eh?"
We heard that husky shout
We looked into the corner
Three more suckers yet to please
So, we smiled and we left quickly
To our room to get our skis
We spent the day out on the course
Thinking that this wise old man
Knew just what he was saying
He knew every inch of land
We skied each part and in our heads
We heard that old voice say
In a husky, bad french accent
You ski the marathon...eh?
We finsihed up and thawed out beards
That had frozen to our bibs
We were off to see our wizard
In fact we fought for dibs
To see who'd buy the first round
To listen to this sage
To be a student of this teacher
Who'd reached this grand old age
"You ski the marathon, eh?'
Came from the back as we walke in
It was the same old husky accent
We knew that it was him
But, there back in the corner
Sitting at our teachers feet
Were another bunch of skiers
Who'd be buying this mans treat
So, we rounded up some barstools
And we bent the barkeeps ear
He told us that Old Frenchie
He showed up every year
He comes to town a week before
The race itself takes place
He's a regular here in this bar
The whole town knows his face
He isn't from around here
Lachute, is where he lives
But for two weeks every winter
It's free advice he gives.
You buy his beet, and hear his tales
It keeps the old man young
In fact, myself I've been here 40 years
And races...he's sikiied...none
He waits there in that corner
For you anglos to show up
And he drinks what he can handle
He's really in his cups
"Barkeep, three beers...if you please"
Came roaring from the back
It seems two brand new anglos
Were new victims of old Jacques
We finsished up, and paid our bill
We knew that we'd been taken
by an old man with an accent
Who smelled like beer and bacon
The last day, when we ventured out
We dropped by to see Jacques
The barkeep said he'd gone on home
But, come next year..he's back
You boys enjoy your race day
And I'll see you here next year
So, we tipped him ten bucks extra
To buy him and Jacques a beer
That summer, I went to Quebec
To run an iron man
I was down around Three Rivers
I went there with my friend Dan
We went out for an evening
To have some drinks before race day
And when we walked into that tavern
"You run the iron man...eh?"
That voice, you couldn't hide it
That was Frenchie in the back
He said hello, you anglos..bon soir my friends
...Now you can  call me Jacques!!!

I write to the only people who can commit genocide and get away with not writing it in their own history books.
To the "winners".
To you, Anglo that support military intervention that destabilize entire countries just so you can keep a cheap labor force to come clean your **** every two weeks or whenever Ms. Smith thinks is adequate.
To you that split my continent in two.
To you that still assassinate our leaders.
To you that incite violence in foreign lands.
To you that have been breaking in and looting our homes for centuries and then complain when we move in next door.
To you that blindly follow uncle Sam.
To you that rise walls instead of bridges
To you who close your doors to the land of our cousins Navajo.
To you, who sit in every corner to stuff your faces with food made by the hands you hate.
To you, who sit in the sun for hours to have our skin color, but without the prejudice.
To you, who still gets offended because we're not separated anymore.
To you, who still seek to divide us.

This is for the cowboys that tip their hats to tell you good morning and when twilight falls they put their hoods on and kneel on a black brother's neck.

And that's another thing.

You turned your back on half of your people.
People who have been forgotten for decades living in projects.
People who are rotting in jail for committing a crime that could've gone unpunished if only they didn't have so much pigmentation in their skin.
Did you forget already that it was them who looked after your home?
Did you forget that it was them who sowed your cotton fields?
Or that they built all your monuments?
Did you forget that they fought beside you to stop a genocide in Europe all while still silently crying theirs?
Did you forget that it was them who raised your ancestors? And if it wasn't for the lumberjack they would've raised you too.

But I do not speak to all anglos.
There's some I want to thank.
Those who have helped me more than my own brothers.
Those who welcomed me with open arms
Those who without letting out a laughter, tried to decipher what I was trying to tell them.
Those who wants us here because they get it.
Those who use their privilege so injustices reach the ears of the ignoramus who sits on the left wing of the house that was once the home of the lumberjack.

Those are the real sons of Washington.

You are just a bunch of sons of *******.