End of Book One
29 Apr
When I first came to Canada, I was six. My parents and I shared one room with no furniture except a double mattress on the floor. We shared the washroom and kitchen with six other tenants of the house. We had a third-hand bicycle, which my father used to get to school (he was studying his PhD at the time). My mother and I would walk everywhere because even public transport was considered a luxury. We’d walk four miles round-trip to Chinatown for groceries – traditional supermarkets were far too expensive. Those first two years also happened to be two of the coldest Canadian winters in recent history. I had no gloves, but I wanted to help mama, so I would always carry two grocery bags, and my little fingers would quickly become pink and frozen. I never complained, but mama knew how cold I was, and on our way home we would duck into a supermarket to warm up. Just inside the doors, they had those gumball machine candy dispensers, and I would avert my gaze because I didn’t want mama to think I wanted any. Without a word, she would give me a quarter. I would look uncertainly at her, and she would give a subtle nod, as if to say “Go on.” I would drag out my time deciding what type of candy I wanted, even though I already knew. I wanted the multi-coloured gum tabs, because gum lasted the longest. I would dump my handful of candy into one of my coat pockets, and all the way home, I would have something to chew on as we walked.
Even though we were poor, my parents didn’t want me to miss out on North American traditions, such as Halloween and Christmas. For my first Halloween, I dressed as a garbage bag. You see, my parents thought that the point of Halloween was to be as ugly as possible. So they cut out some holes in a garbage bag, smeared my face with something black. and I was off. I was a six year-old girl. I could have been a princess, a fairy, a Disney cartoon character, but no, I was a garbage bag. I didn’t care, I was overjoyed that perfect strangers were giving me candy – for free!
At least my parents got the Santa Claus story right. They told me that I could write a letter to Santa, asking for what I wanted, and on Christmas morning, it would appear in my stocking. Since I had seen with my own eyes that people here give out candy for free, a fat jolly man coming around with free presents didn’t seem like a far stretch either. North Americans sure were generous! So, I wrote a letter to Santa, asking for toys that I never asked my parents for. At that age, I didn’t understand the concept of money, but I did understand the shadow that fell across my parents’ faces on the few occasions when I pointed to something I liked in a store. I was a smart kid, after the first few times, I never ever asked my parents for anything again. But Santa Claus was fair game, right? All the books and commercials seemed to make his generosity seem endless. I saw picture after picture of stockings filled with toys, and I could hardly wait for Christmas Day to check out my own stocking!
Christmas Day came, and I got up extra early. When I ran into the living room, I saw that the stocking was as it had looked the night before, flat. I felt around in it, but it seemed empty. What had happened? Did Santa Claus forget about me?
I woke my parents up and told them that Santa Claus didn’t leave anything for me. “Check again,” my mama said. So, I checked again, more carefully this time. And I found a shiny gemstone ring deep inside the stocking.
I was angry.
How come all I got was this one stupid ring? I thought heatedly to myself. All the pictures I saw showed stockings overfilled with toys. All the other kids must get tons of stuff. How come this was all I got?
I remember that moment vividly. Every time I think about that memory, I want to cry. Because, ten years later, after the Santa Claus myth had been dispelled, my parents told me how they had gone into a big department store to look for a ring for me. They didn’t know what I had asked from Santa, but they knew I liked rings. And I did, I loved rings (I still do). They spent $20 on that ring, which was a lot at that time – $20 could have bought a month’s worth of groceries for our whole family. When I remember how cheated I had felt, how angry I was when I found nothing but a ring in my stocking, I feel so utterly ashamed. I was six, I didn’t understand, I couldn’t know the lengths to which my parents had gone to make Christmas special for me, but I still feel so ashamed to have been ungrateful in that instant.
Our family has come a long, long way from those days. We moved from one room in a house shared with six other tenants to an apartment to a house in the suburbs with two cars and a dog. It’s a typical immigrant story, I’m sure.
I think my life could be a series of novels. And this entry would be the first chapter of the first book. And everything since then, elementary school, high school, and university – my life as a student – would be part of that first book. Now, it’s the summer after graduation, and I’m going to travel and see the world, that could be a second book. And four months from now, when I start my first real job halfway around the world, that will be the beginning of the third book.
So how would I like the first book to end?
I have achieved a lot in the first twenty-one years of my life. I have come a long way, and my future looks very bright. But there is nothing more humbling than to remember my beginnings, to remember how I got here, to remember what it was like to have nothing, absolutely nothing, except the love of your family.
I think I am at the end of my third book, or at least I should be but I still don’t know how it’s going to end.
That’s the best part of life – everything could change in a day! You get to write your own ending :)
I love this post.
Thank you :)
I sometimes read blogs and don’t realize how the people behind those blogs would have had struggles in their life – but this post of yours reminds me to always look deeper, to never dismiss people as having had an easy life.
SassyGirl, I truly believe that it is your family’s humble beginning and all you have seen in life from those little girl’s eyes that has given you the perspective you have. Your perspective is your greatest achievement leading to all that you have achieved, and above all, appreciate.
My two cents. :)
Thank you very much. Sometimes, I’m surprised at how I turned out given our humble beginnings. Sometimes, I feel guilty for indulging in dinners at fancy restaurants, flying to New York and staying in boutique hotels, and drinking French champagne for no reason. I know these are extravagant indulgences my parents would never engage in themselves. But I also have to remind myself that although this is a life they never imagined for themselves, this is the life my parents wanted to me to have. That’s why it’s important to remember our roots, our reason for being here. And my reason? I guess it’s to make my parents proud.
I too was a garbage bag when I was 7! For Halloween I mean.
My parents didn’t put much stock into Halloween or things like that for us (they just didn’t care) .. and when my mom realized I actually really cared, she panicked on the morning of, and dressed me in a big black garbage bag, and told me I was a hobo.
Haha, well I guess I’m not the only kid who dressed up as a garbage bag! At the time, my English wasn’t great, so when my classmates asked me what I was, I just shrugged, so maybe they thought I didn’t know the word “hobo” :P
I totally relate to your experience, except we werent living in a far off land and I had the love of a gigantic family. My hope for both of us is that we are able to make all the sacrifices of our parents worthwhile.
I have a 3-person nuclear family, so we have to rely on each other. I imagine a lot of immigrant families have similar experiences. I definitely hope to make the most of the opportunity that my parents have given me!
This post is beautiful; a knot in my throat actually formed. All the best for the other chapters!
I’m not going to lie, I teared up a bit while writing this. I wasn’t lying when I said I always cry when I think about that memory!
This was incredible.
Thank you! :)
i loved this. i love your parents, i love my parents, and i hope you and i do them proud and continue to show them our appreciation for their strength, love, and ability to sacrifice for OUR happiness as well their own.
Very well said. Thank you!
An amazing book one! I loved this post because it made me reassess my life and appreciate how things have progressed. I am glad that your parents made sacrifices that ended up working out for the better. I can relate to some of your experiences and I know that in my case, it helps me keep my perspective. Thank you for sharing your story.
I think everyone has an interesting ‘Book One’ – after all, it includes the roller coaster ride that is adolescence. I definitely wrote this entry to keep myself in perspective, I think my parents are afraid of what kind of person I will become in Book Three. I think I’m a little anxious too. Well, we’ll see, won’t we?
I loved this post, and I think it’s so important for all of us to remember where we came from. Thanks so much for sharing :)
My parents also immigrated to Canada, and struggled so that my sisters and I could have the opportunities we have today. They were very poor, and like your parents, they lived in a single room in a six person house in Chinatown. In the winters, they used the window as a refrigerator to keep foods chilled. They used milk crates as chairs and placed a piece of card board over two crates it for a make-shift desk…
Our parents make so much sacrifices for us, and I am sure your parents are very proud of you for being able to look back and be able to understand, appreciate their love and kindness.
My favourite part was your last line:
But there is nothing more humbling than to remember my beginnings, to remember how I got here, to remember what it was like to have nothing, absolutely nothing, except the love of your family.
Ah, we definitely used the outdoors as our refrigerator! It was very good for curing meats actually.
I don’t know if my parents know that I understand. I’ve never explicitly told them, although I try to show it in my actions. We’re not big on emotional talks, our family. But actions speak louder than words, right? In a way, everything I do now, all my actions, are for them, even if they’re for myself, you know? Because even if I’m doing something for myself, if it’s something to better myself, then it’s something that they would want for me.
Thank you for sharing too!
Omg tears.