A family reunion in Montreal

It was a cold, sunny day. We wore winter jackets and fur hats purchased in Hong Kong, but the Chinese-made clothing was inadequate for an authentic Canadian winter. The image is now permanently etched into my memory as being our first encounter with snow.

After we arrived in Saskatchewan, I regularly spent time in hospital because I would get motion sickness from riding in cars, buses, boats and airplanes (eventually I conquered this childhood condition). I can only remember fragments of those days. I was alone but well cared for by the nurses 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.

After five weeks with my grandparents in Laporte, we were off to Montreal to live with my father’s sister.

My aunt and uncle had four children, just like our family. Although my cousins were similar in age to us, we did not bond in any way, perhaps due to the language barrier: at that time we did not speak much English and they did not speak enough Chinese.

My first few years in Montreal were like living in a surreal TV show. The very little bits of English I had learned in Macau were both helpful and confusing. Understanding only one or two words in a sentence did not help in many situations. Still, as the second oldest, I was designated the family’s translator.

School was a daily challenge. I would follow my cousins there and then, 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. I was 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, planting the seeds that would lead me to become an artist.