Amid challenges, life in Montreal has instilled an open-mindedness
NOV. 20, 1972: We Arrive in Laporte, Sask. The primary reason my family and I immigrated to Canada was to reunite my father with his parents, who were in Laporte, and his sister, in Montreal.
There is a photograph of our family in front of my grandfather’s general store in Laporte, at the time a rural settlement of fewer than five people. In the photo I am 12 years old, standing next to my eight-year-old sister on one side; my brothers, 15 and six, are on the other side. In the centre are my grandparents and my father and mother.
It is a sunny, cold day, and we are dressed in our winter jackets and fur hats purchased in Hong Kong. The Chinese-made clothing was inadequate for an authentic Canadian winter. This image is now permanently etched into my memory as being our first encounter with snow.
Shortly after we arrived in Laporte, I spent some time at a hospital in Saskatoon, a much larger place, because I would get motion sickness from being in cars, buses, boats and airplanes. (Eventually I conquered this child- hood condition.) I can only remember fragments of those days. I was alone, but I was well-cared-for by the nurses on duty, and shielded from the cold of the outside prairie world. I passed the time watching cartoons on an early colour television and reading old comic books.
The family reunion with my grandparents lasted five weeks. Then we were off to Montreal to live with my father’s sister. Dec. 25, 1972: Montreal. My aunt and uncle had four children, as in our family. Although their children were similar in age to us, we did not bond in any way. Perhaps this was due to the language barrier; at that time we did not speak enough English to play together with them, and my cousins did not speak enough Chinese to get to know us.
My new life began with going to school in this strange new land called Montreal, and in a foreign tongue, English. That language was only a small part of the education we had received in the former Portuguese colony island called Macau, where I was born. The few English words I had learned before I left Macau were both helpful and confusing in Montreal. Understanding only one or two words in a sentence does not help in many situations.
The first few years in Montreal were like living in a misty, surreal reality TV show. I would follow my cousins to school. Not knowing what was going on in class, I would go home at the end of the day and try to figure out what I needed to do for the next day’s classes. I was an earnest student and eager to adjust in this new world. I clearly remember how one particular day the door to the school was locked when I arrived. Later, I found out it was a holiday.
It was during this period that I began drawing, or rather doodling, to look busy at the back of the classroom — perhaps planting the seeds that would lead me to become an artist.
School was a daily challenge. As the second eldest, I was designated to be the translator for the family.
December 2012 will mark 40 years that my family and I have been living in Montreal. Today I am a Montreal-based printmaker artist and a regular member of Atelier Circulaire, a centre specializing in the creation and exhibition of etching, lithography and digital printing.
I will always call Montreal home, even though I was not born here. It is the place I feel most comfortable, where I can communicate in Chinese, English and French all in the same breath, almost in the same environment.
Within the past five years, I have learned to function in French at work and in life. It is a constant challenge to improve my three languages. No matter how well I may be able to speak French in the future, I will always have an accent, because it is not my mother tongue.
Forty years of living in Montreal have instilled in me an open-mindedness touching all aspects of my life. I look forward to the next 40.