Kelsey Li - A Tale of Three Continents: Coming of Age in CHINA, NEW ZEALAND, and CANADA

By Kelsey Li

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PREFACE This project grew out of a writing course on creative non-fiction.

Drawing on my experiences of living abroad (I have lived in China, New Zealand, and Canada, where I currently reside in Montreal), I wrote a series of vignettes arranged both thematically and loosely geographically and chronologically to form a selective mosaic based on some prominent themes of my childhood. The vignettes —short, vivid pieces based on individual experiences—are the building blocks of the project.

This experience was both challenging and illuminating. I was challenged to embrace uncertainty and messiness in the process of creating. Looking at prominent examples of other creative non-fiction (E.g. Sandra Cisneros’s House on Mango Street) as mentor texts, I learned to work step by step, focusing on the crafting of vignettes while trusting that the form and structure of the final result would slowly come into focus. To my surprise and delight, it did. It wasn’t without considerable editing, rearranging, and deleting, but eventually, the pieces of the mosaic began to come together to create a coherent whole.

In the end, I had to come to peace with a certain degree of fragmentation. Through many discussions with my teacher, I decided that the fragmentation itself is a suitable metaphor for the nature of not only the process of creation but also the nature of memory. This kind of explains the jump-cutting from one scene to another as well as the different shapes some vignettes take. This required a kind of artistic leap of faith on my part as I had to learn to trust the creative process while ignoring the objections of my inner perfectionist.

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CONTENTS PART I: CHINA Lotus Roots…………………………………………………………2 The Golden Child………………….…………………...………..5 Stranger Danger…………………………………...............………..7

PART II: NEW ZEALAND The Kindness of Strangers………………………………………..11 The Landlady…………………………………………………… 12 Belonging………………………………………………………… 14 Maori……………………………………………………………..16 Life Lessons From The Game Of Golf…………………………19 Mean Girls……………………………………………………….. 22

PART III: CANADA A Study in Contrasts……………………………………………26 Bridging the Age Gap………………………………………….. 27 The Hole in One………………………………………………..29 Being Native……………………………………………………..33 Le Flaneur: Observations of Life in Montreal…………………36 

Mount Royal……………………………………………36

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Murray Hill Park…………………………………...38

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The Countryside of Montreal……………………..40

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PART I: CHINA Lotus Roots I remember strolling around the supermarket, randomly browsing the aisles as my grandmother methodically ticked items off her list.

Pausing in front of the vegetable aisle, I looked down at a bunch of thick and muddy potato-like objects. Lotus roots. I immediately thought of one of my all-time favorite desserts, lotus roots stuffed with sticky rice and cooked in a sugary syrup - (糯米藕 nuò mǐ ǒu) My grandma had made them for me to celebrate special occasions. After returning home and unpacking the groceries, my grandmother would allow me to watch some cartoons while she would prepare dinner. I can still hear the clanging of pots, chopping of vegetables, and smell the aroma of sesame oil permeate the house. But most of all I remember the Lotus Rice, that most unusual and tasty delicacy lovingly prepared by my grandmother.

My grandma had reached into her reusable shopping bag, the same one that she had used for 8 years and pulled out the potato-like lotus roots. They could be found underneath the beautiful lotus flowers, beneath the muddy water, lodged in the sticky mud.

Cutting the top of

the root off, she would take out a bowl of sticky rice saturated in water overnight before stuffing the rice in the petal-like holes of the lotus root.

Steam rose steadily from the pot of boiling water on the stove like a snow-clad moor as my grandma sprinkles in sugar. The shimmery 2

substance dissolves slowly at the bottom of the pot. With a light plop the lotus root dropped into the water, and thus began the most painful part of the making of this dish — waiting.

The lotus root itself is attached to an extraordinarily beautiful flower, its tea-cup-shaped pink petals growing out of the murky depths of rice paddies and ponds. The lotus (蓮花, lián huā, 荷花, hé huā) is a symbol of purity because it emerges from the muck pure and unstained.

Some people say that the flower is like nature’s welcome, reminding us that beauty often comes from surprising places, breaking through the murky surface and blooming into a beautiful flower. Poets admired and praised how tall it stands, unashamed despite its less than visually pleasing background.

Yet when I think of the lotus flower, I am reminded of the squat, potato-shaped, homely root that is hidden from view underneath the murky water. When I think of the lotus, I am reminded of the sweet, sticky, warm, aromatic dessert lovingly made by grandmother so long ago. The roots of these happy memories anchor me, blessing me with a sense of domestic bliss and security that have sustained me throughout my travels these past eight years. China, lotus flowers, roots, and my grandma--these words denote the images and ideas that form the tendrils anchoring me in the muddy origins of my early childhood. Like the lotus roots, the memories attached to them are often hidden beneath the murky 3

waters of time. I roll up my sleeve, plunge my hands into the muddy waters, searching in the dark until I feel the contour of one; I wrap my fingers around it and pull it up…

After dinner, the perfectly sliced dessert sits in front of me, a little puddle of the sugary water pooling from under the lotus root. I stare down at it, impatiently waiting for my grandma to take the first bite before digging in. Pretty pink flowers floating on the surface hiding squat, potato-like stems underneath, reminding me how varied the forms of beauty are, how surprising life can be, and, as I would later discover, how memories, like those precious pink flowers floating in our own gardens back in my home in China, are rooted in the depths of years.

Sometimes to get our bearings and discover the source of who we are and where we come from, we have to roll up our sleeves and muck around in those dark waters, tracing the roots until we strike the soft bottom.

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The Golden Child Having genius for an older sister has not been easy. Especially when your sister is 12 years older than you and at the top of her class in nearly every subject. It was as if my life had already been set out for me. I started piano at the same age as Brooke and was even taught by the same instructor. I don’t remember much about those early lessons except the occasional exasperated sigh and the rueful shaking of his head when I struggled to master some skill. Her ghost always haunted these moments.

We even went to the same elementary school. I was expected to accomplish the same if not more than she did. Brooke was called “the little math genius” as she gobbled up math competition prizes like I inhaled fruit jelly sticks. As if living in the shadow of the resident math genius wasn’t bad enough, I also received frequent doses of humble pie every time I was reminded of her prowess in chess competitions or her mopping up academic accolades on a yearly basis. Vainly and awkwardly stumbling in her footsteps wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the fact that people’s expectations for me didn’t shrink with every futile attempt to duplicate her success. At every family gathering, everyone would stop by my seat after visiting my sister, gushing about how lucky I was to have a sister like that. My sister and I weren’t close at all when I was 5, and she was 17 and that gap only widened when she left to go to the US for college a year later. Now that the beautiful flower in full bloom was transplanted in South Bend, all the attention was focused on the shrinking violet whose inherent aversion to attention was directly 5

correlated to the amount of attention she received. One of the few people I could lean on during this time of insecurity was my grandma. She never compared me to my sister, not even once. Instead, she helped me develop my own interests. My grandma was the one who encouraged my talent at solving puzzles and building Legos.

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Stranger Danger

I was hanging upside down on some rusty monkey bars when three elderly ladies walked over to my upside-down figure. As they approached me, I felt the blood rushing to my head and my heart pounding in my chest as I hurriedly tried to untangle my legs from the metal bars before I would have to say anything. I had always been a very little girl, driven by a strong impulse to explore the world. My desire to get to know other people has been a corollary to this curiosity. But I simply didn’t know how to. This wasn’t helped by the fact that I stayed home more than other kids my age in my early years due to allergies.

Whenever I spoke to strangers, I felt like there was a wall between us, perhaps one that I placed there myself purposefully, but nevertheless an obstacle that prevented me from socializing. But they passed by my thrashing self and headed towards the person behind me, my grandma.

Swiveling my head, I could make out her smile as she greeted them cheerfully. Unable to move, I was stuck with watching them talk about the weather and random things for a good 20 minutes. I had always run away successfully whenever someone came to speak to her on the streets, it never occurred to me to watch her. It amazed me how my grandma was able to converse so naturally. Her hands were peacefully resting at her sides instead of fidgeting around. Her ears didn’t erupt in a violent shade of red either. To someone who couldn’t do either of those things, it was 7

admirable. The conversation was nothing like the curt and formal conversations that I saw my parents have on the phone, but a conversation between friends.

My grandmother was a calming, reassuring presence to me. She never lost patience with me, not even at my silly antics. From her floral shirts to her curly hair, she radiated a gentle aura. I have always thought the flowers on her shirts represent the way she interacted with people.

Coaxed by my grandmother’s warm smile and sunny eyes, even the shyest of flowers would bloom. And whenever someone felt as if they didn’t shine as much as the others around them, she would help them bloom in their own turn.

A year later, I would be moving to New Zealand, leaving my grandmother and everything familiar and safe behind. I would spend the next seven years living on two continents, learning two languages, and experiencing much that was foreign at first but that would eventually become familiar. While I would return to China for the occasional holiday to see my family, I would have to learn to live without my grandmother’s reassuring presence. Yet during this time, I would learn to draw on her shining example and discover and develop my own inner strength while meeting new mentors and making friends along the way.

The experience of living abroad gave me ample opportunity to reflect on my own culture and identity. What does it mean to be Chinese, or Kiwi, 8

or Quebecois? What makes a person a true “native” --is it the way you look, your skin, or hair color? Is it being fluent in the native language, or is it just some elusive sense of belonging? While I may not have found answers to these questions (I am only fourteen after all), I have learned that success in life often depends upon our willingness to learn, to be open to new experiences, to make foreign things familiar. This is my story, though it’s only just begun...

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PART II: NEW ZEALAND The Kindness of Strangers In New Zealand, people were unbelievably friendly. Especially the elderly. I remember one time, my mom and I were at a McDonald’s, I was about seven years old. While I was stuffing my cheeks full of fries, my mom suddenly poked my waist and turned me gently towards the opposite table. There, an elderly couple was waving at us. “Your daughter is so cute!” the lady told my mom. Soon, they asked us to join them at their table, where they ordered me ice cream to keep me content as they talked to my mom. The elderly me had called man “charming” although I can’t recall doing anything worthy of that superlative. After all, I had just moved to this strange country where people spoke English in a funny accent. Although I couldn’t understand everything they were saying, I do remember being struck by their warmth and friendliness. I remember feeling that this display of unwarranted openness left me slightly confused; it just seemed strange. In China, age practically made up the hierarchy. Everybody knew their place. China was also in many ways a very traditional, conservative culture. Hence, there was always a formality and etiquette that governed relations, especially those between the elderly and children. It is not to say that the elderly weren’t friendly in China, but it wasn’t exactly in our tradition to invite strangers to dine with us. On the contrary, virtually everyone in New Zealand was friendly.

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Strangers on the road would often say hi when they passed by our house.

As a result, the warmth and openness of the Kiwis helped to coax me out of my shell. I now can strike up a conversation with a stranger without my ears turning red and often recall my first experience with the kindly couple in the McDonald's who led the way.

The Landlady I vividly recall our landlady, Julie, her perfectly filed nails, the ones that had always poked my back as she leaned forward to give me a hug.

Something I never had the heart to tell her about. Expensive and cloying perfume, a fragrance I could recognize from a mile away that announced Julie’s presence, the comforting smell of vanilla and firewood enveloped me as she wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug. The little stray pieces of Boo’s white fur that stuck to her fancy clothes; due to my allergies, made my nose itchy and runny, but I didn’t mind because Boo was Julie’s pal. The small yet wide dimples that spread across her cheeks whenever she smiled, the little indentations that she would let me gently poke before bursting into laughter along with me. Her gentle yet loud laughter that was never malicious, the kind that resonated throughout the park as her dog Boo dragged me across the park, almost like I was tubing, except through mud and without a tube. Her ring-clad hands, the ones that she used to hide water balloons behind her back, encouraging me to join in the fun as we ambushed her sons. The leather handbag that she kept with her at all times. The one that she grabbed the tickets for Disney 12

on Ice from when she wanted to surprise me. Her wavy blonde hair that fell in folds over my face as she bent down, noticing my untied shoelaces before tying them for me.

As time went on, my time with Julie has receded further and further in the distance, but my appreciation has come into increasingly sharper focus. We rarely reflect on a moment while we are experiencing it; it is only in hindsight that we truly are able to “see” the experience for what it is; experience precedes meaning. So when I close my eyes and try to re-see Julie, these sights, sounds, smells, and moments come into focus.

When I moved to New Zealand, I had no conception of the challenges that lay before me. Moving from one’s native country, leaving one’s family and friends at the age of seven to start over in a different country, learning a foreign language was something I had no time or ability to make sense of at the time. But looking back, as I think about Julie’s unfailing kindness and generosity to that scared, overwhelmed seven-year-old Chinese girl, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I cannot be sure if she realized at the time what a difference her actions would make in my life. For me, she was one of the few faces that consistently greeted me with a warm smile. The raised eyebrows and sidelong looks from my classmates that made me feel so out of place vanished along with that shrinking, anxious feeling whenever I was with Julie. While most memories fade over time, my memories of Julie remain as bright and colorful as ever.

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Belonging The sun filtered through woven straw hats, decorating the cement with bright spots. The sound of the soles of dress shoes pattered against the ground. Lined up in pairs, little figures in plaid skirts walked forwards, hand in hand. Some of them clasped cans in their hands whilst others held small bags filled with coins. I gripped my own can of tomato beans tightly, my fingers slightly scrunching the label that contoured it.

My walking buddy tugged at my hand and broke into a run towards the front of the line. It was a typical Thursday morning at my school in New Zealand. At the ring of the bell, everyone would gather at the entrance of the classroom, trying to wrestle the large cylinders out of their pockets. It was a tradition to go to church every Thursday, people often bought along canned food or donations voluntarily. Wiping my sweaty palm on my skirt, I looked around. Outside, the blue sky featured puffy, cauliflower-shaped clouds bunched together in large masses. It almost looked like they were hiding something behind them; my friends and I liked to think that there was a floating island in the sky.

My shoes

clacked on the stone staircase leading up to the entrance of the church where the thick wooden doors stood open wide. Before entering the chapel, we deposited our offerings on a side table filled with cans and Ziplock bags filled with coins from the previous grade. As I crossed the threshold, my eyes were caught by the web of kaleidoscopic light reflected through the stained-glass and resting solemnly on the pews 14

closest to the windows. I would often return to that spot where the soft, colorful light filtered through the stained-glass windows blended with the soothing quiet to create a safe, quietly happy place I could retreat to whenever I was having a hard time. Later, after the service, I felt a warm feeling in my chest. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this moment was one of the stones I was slowly laying to form the foundation of a sense of belonging and community. While most of my memories of New Zealand have faded, I will always remember that moment as I walked hand and in hand with my classmates, greeting the strangers that passed us on the road on a sunny day toward the Chapel as a moment of belonging, as being part of something larger than myself.

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Maori When I think of New Zealand, the words openness and equality come to mind. One notable difference between New Zealand and other countries is its treatment of indigenous people. The Māori people there make up 16.5 percent of the total population in New Zealand. You could feel the importance of them there. Most museums include multiple ancient Māori artifacts and there are also museums dedicated solely to Māori history. Initial relations between Māori and Europeans at the beginning of their arrival were very good. The Europeans didn’t wage war on the Māori people like many Europeans did to the other native people who lived on the land that they found. There was even a treaty that protected the lands of the Māori people. I think that this really shows how inclusive New Zealand people are. They didn’t force Maori people to completely abandon their culture but instead integrated some of their cultures into theirs. In New Zealand, alongside an English greeting, the words “Kia Ora” can often be seen next to it. Kia Ora means hello in Maori.

The word “native” has multiple meanings. To some, it simply means to be indigenous to a place. The word for native in Maori is actually “Maori,” which means “normal”, “natural” or “ordinary.”

Presumably, it was the Maori’s way of understanding themselves (and perhaps differentiating themselves from other, non-Maori people). For immigrants, “native” is like a secret password they constantly strive for but never seem to grasp. How do you become native? This was the 16

question that I had asked myself constantly during my time abroad.

Paradoxically, the older I became, and the more comfortable I became in my environment and the more fluent with the language, the more I became aware of the subtle differences and slights that set me apart from the “natives.”

As a Chinese girl, it’s harder to blend in with a majority white population as in New Zealand and Francophone Canada. Yet, historically, the irony is that these white majorities aren’t native either, at least not originally, as they were preceded by indigenous peoples whom they conquered or subdued. So, what does it take to earn the official designation of “native”?

If it’s totally dependent upon where one is

born, then things like skin color and ethnicity shouldn’t matter. But they do matter, at least according to those in power. If you look into the (often ugly) history of this word and the way it’s been used as a political weapon to marginalize people who don’t meet a certain idea of what those in power or those who feel threatened want to hold up as the standard for belonging, you can easily become demoralized.

When I step back from the maelstrom of these voices, a still, quiet voice in my head says, “Is there anyone who perfectly embodies the definition of what it means to be a native? Someone who embodies the culture of a place perfectly? I think the answer is no, and I’m not sure if it’s very healthy to try to limit our concept of what it means to be Kiwi, or Québécois or Chinese to a narrow set of cultural, ethnic, or racial stereotypes. How do we choose which culture is native to a place? Is it 17

the Maori in New Zealand and the Indians in Canada? The truth is that, if we go back far enough, there was probably a group that preceded even these “indigenous” peoples. And this is by no means to delegitimize their claims of being native. It seems to me, however, that whether you were born in a place or share the same ethnic background as a dominant group should be less important than the role you play in the community regardless of your origins or ethnic makeup. If you want to make your home in a particular place, then the best thing is to go out and form relationships, get involved in the community; in other words, set down roots.

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LIFE LESSONS FROM THE GAME OF GOLF The flat shiny steel clubhead once again thudded straight into the grass, stray pieces of dirt and grass flying away into the distance, my patience soaring away alongside them. I looked up at my coach with an accusatory and annoyed look, questioning why this was happening to me.

The golf ball with its little dimples, sat there, perfectly untouched after dozens of swings. A few centimeters behind it sat an expanding divot, a deepening rut that threatened to bury me in frustration. My patience had started to drain out, my inability to successfully make contact with the ball annoyed me beyond measure. My coach, Emma, repeated the same thing that she had told me from the beginning of the lesson, “You’re using your arms, which explains the hole behind the ball. If you turned with your body, there would be a divot in FRONT of the ball. Don’t forget to use your waist, Kelsey.” My eight-year-old self angrily gripped my shiny, brand new club in a desperate attempt to at least graze the ball.

The sun glared down at me, projecting rays of unreasonably hot light onto my Nike cap. My hair had started to stick to my forehead by then, the insufferably hot air seemed to be stuck in my cap, the heat slowly driving me insane. I shook my head, trying to focus before reattempting again.

Turning my shoulders and raising my eight iron into the air, I

glared at the ball as I tried to will my body to turn before striking the ball.

But it was the dull thud of the club striking the turf. “Aaaarrrggghhh!” I groaned. I was on the verge of tears, desperately looking at my parents in 19

a futile gesture for help. I was so excited before the lesson. “How hard could it be?” I thought to myself on the drive to the club. As it turned out, much harder than I realized.

Eventually, I overcame this rocky (or rather dirty) start and learned to hit the ball, eventually learning the techniques that allowed me to channel my energy and desire. The result was a young girl gradually getting the hang of the deceptively simple game and, more importantly, learning to love it. Still, if you’re looking for a high success rate, then golf is probably not for you. In fact, I think as much as anything, it’s been this ability to tolerate failure and to stay steady and poised through the rough patches that has proven most valuable to me. As my coach often reminds me, you’re lucky to make one excellent shot out of ten.

The other four might be just ok, imperfect shots, and the remaining five are failures. This is true even for the best players in the whole world.

Learning to embrace and ultimately love a sport that requires such a high threshold and tolerance for failure has forced me to redefine success.

Understanding that progress (with its emphasis on the learning process) rather than perfection (which prioritizes finality and results) is the best one can hope for helps take the pressure off the perfectionist in me. Golf allows me the freedom to fail because failure is simply built into the game. Failure is just a necessary part of the learning process, not something to be feared or shunned at all costs, but something that helps me improve and, ultimately, become a good golfer. And being good, at anything, is no small achievement.

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MEAN GIRLS I had never truly understood how people could run without breaking into sweat in the first three minutes. As I panted after the race, I wiped the sweat streaming down my forehead with the end of my t-shirt. A game of tag has always been an exhausting activity for me. The sound of shoes thumping on the grass alerted me of the danger and I broke into a run, ignoring my burning lungs. The wind rushed against my face, forcing me to squint my eyes. The sunlight showed me no mercy as it continued to cast its burning rays of light onto my head. Bulging beads of sweat began surfacing on my forehead once again before rolling down my face and onto the grass. No wonder some people called me a human sprinkler.

By the end of the run, my hair was completely disheveled and stuck to my face in the form of damp curls. I trudged towards the benches, completely exhausted when I heard a snicker behind me. Turning my head, I saw two of my classmates, Zara and Charlotte, giggling together as they clung onto each other’s t-shirts. I cast a wary smile towards them, feigning a friendly demeanor As I could barely string together two sentences in English at the time, I did my best to avoid interactions that would mire me in confused and embarrassed attempts at broken dialog.

They circled me like wolves, snarling to me in words I couldn’t quite understand. Zara poked my forehead with their index finger before wiping it frantically on her skirt. She let out a torrent of words, staring at me with her icy blue eyes, her face contorted in an expression of disgust 22

before grabbing Charlotte by the arm and running off, a cacophony of cackles trailing behind them as they ran away.

I have always been able to entertain myself. My favorite activity was to climb the tree behind the bench in the park. Standing on the edge of the backseat of the bench, I could lift myself onto the branch.

Shimmying my way up required some courage and effort and sometimes resulted in a few scrapes and bruises, but it was always worth it in the end. Lying on the thick and sturdy branches, I would gaze up at the sky through the holes in the foliage that shaded me from the sun. I would stare at the clouds trying to find hidden shapes in them. I had always wondered about the purpose of clouds. If they weren't hiding a land floating in the sky, what could they be for? The rough bark scratched my arms as I lowered them slightly, my thoughts shifting back and forth before finally stopping at my grandma. I wonder what she would say if she saw her me precariously perched up high in the tree, like a bird hiding from a snake slithering through the branches. She would most probably ask me why I wasn’t playing with my friends. I wished I was home with her, listening to the soothing sounds and smells of her preparing a meal for me in her kitchen or feeling her arms wrapped reassuringly around me. In the comfort of her arms, I would find the courage to ask her what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I make friends? Why did Charlotte and Zara look at me with disdain? Was my smile not welcoming enough? Why didn’t you come with me, grandma, I wondered to myself? But the ring of the bell snapped me out of my consoling daydream and, slowly and carefully lowering myself from the 23

tree and dropping onto the grass below, slightly stumbling from the fall, I ran back to my classroom, leaving my questions hiding in the branches with my lonely self as I ran toward the building toward the teachers who spoke too rapidly in a language I did not yet understand and toward the Zaras and the Charlottes and their cruel laughter and conspiratorial whispers.

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PART III: CANADA A Study in Contrasts Learning Quebec History was always a pain. My fourth-year self could barely understand French, the language that the class was taught in.

But something always puzzled me, and that was their lack of appreciation of the indigenous people. In New Zealand, there were plenty of museums dedicated to the ancient history and artwork made by the Maori people. The national anthem of New Zealand also included Maori. I had heard that approximately 1 out of 7 people in New Zealand are of at least partial Maori origin. Because of New Zealand’s apparent pride in and celebration of the Maori people, I was struck by the conspicuous absence of indigenous people in Canadian history books and classes. The only time our history books mentioned them that I can recall was in the context of the war between France and England for the territory. Different Indian tribes had fought alongside one country or the other during the Seven-Year War. After that,

they disappeared for the

next four years of Canadian History class.

Another prominent difference between these two countries’ treatment of their indigenous people many players is in their national sports. For example, many players on the New Zealand National rugby team are of Maori descent. The group even has a tradition of preforming a Haka before the games, a traditional Maori performance that includes chanting and dancing. Perhaps the most famous example of the Haka came in the 2011 World Cup Final against France when the All Blacks 26

(The nickname of the New Zealand Team) performed this ferocious, aggressive dance while facing a French team that stared bewildered by this intimidating display.

Conversely, there are few, if any players of indigenous descent on the Canadian Hockey teams. At least none that I know of. The Indians in Canada are hardly present at all in any prominent way. They seem to live in the margins of society, like an embarrassing relative that the family takes pains to avoid, a vast contrast to New Zealand. It is as if they live in a separate world than us, even if we are in the same country.

Bridging the Age Gap When I was younger, I didn’t get along with my sister at all. It might be the fact that we are both short tempered or the fact that we are twelve years apart, or simply the fact that we are siblings. We would compete for our parents’ affection and fight over the pettiest things, such as who gets the comfortable chair during dinner. One of our biggest fights was over who got the rocking chair on the balcony while our parents were at the grocery store. She saw me as the way-younger bratty, annoying sister whereas I saw her as tower of indifference and impregnability. My annoying antics were my only (if often futile) weapons to breach her defenses.

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When she departed for college in the United States, and later when she started working, we would all go visit her during vacations. We never went more than four months without seeing each other in person.

But everything changed two years ago. Covid started spreading and prevented us from seeing each other. I haven’t seen her for two years.

However, distance and time fueled my appreciation for her. Because of the age gap, she had always been a kind of parental figure to me. The gulf in age and experience between us, afforded her the perspective to give me advice and encouragement and me the awe and admiration to listen. Ironically, she was the one I felt most comfortable confiding in not in spite of but because of the age gap. After she went away to school, the petty rivalries and arguments disappeared and a mutual affection and understanding took root instead.

I did miss having her around. Although we did FaceTime from time to time, it was never the same. I couldn’t buzz around her like a mosquito, baiting her to try to swat me, only to annoy her. The deep talks were harder to come by, too. Human touch is something irreplaceable and difficult to reproduce. I miss her more than I would like to admit.

Covid has made me realize that family are the most important people in your life. The only ones you will ever need. They are those who keep you grounded during difficult times.

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The Hole in One A waving flag in the distance. Taunting me, pointing to a tiny hole in the ground invisible at this distance to the naked eye, daring you to get a hole in one. But it’s mostly into the woods and ruff that the golf ball flies. Although the target is clear in my line of sight, my strokes keep sending the ball careening off in the completely wrong direction.

Lodging itself in the mud, or dropping with a tiny kerplunk into the water, the golf ball sometimes seemed to have a mind of its own.

Meanwhile, the flag keeps on waving, obnoxiously, jeeringly. I attempt to hit the ball in that direction, hoping that I will strike it with that elusive combination of accuracy and velocity that I am able to watch in slow motion as it travels its parabola of perfection and lands with that unmistakable clatter into the cup.

A hole in one. The Holy Grail of golf and, metaphorically, of life.

Everyone, whether they are golfers or not, hopes to experience this moment at least once in their lives. The satisfaction of seeing your perfectly calculated and executed effort rip silently through the air is, to hear that unmistakable kerplinkety-plink-plink that declares a victory beyond anyone’s expectation; the sound that announces a miracle; to hear the gasps and exclamations from the spectators, knowing they had just witnessed something rare and wonderful indeed; to be the author of that moment in which you would be praised as a prodigy, a talent extraordinaire. Sadly, for the average golfer that moment happens only once in 12,000 tries. Even for the pros it is exceedingly difficult (1 in 29

3000). To hit two holes in one in a single game puts the odds at 1 in 37 million. In other words, virtually impossible.

The Hole in One phenomenon has given me a lot to think about. For me, it symbolizes perfection and quantifying only makes it seem more unattainable. This raises the question: how important is it? Focusing on it can have disastrous consequences, leading to a kind of tunnel vision that causes us to miss out on other, more important stuff. Maybe if we just opened our eyes a little more, letting a little more of the golf course appear beside us instead of staring straight at the little red fabric waving tauntingly in the wind, the game would come into focus, and it would become less maddening, more joyful. I have always been told that humans are naturally selfish. We do things for our own wants and desires, ignoring the things that come between them. Many times, that one thing that stands between what we desire and us is something strange and unexpected--ourselves. Or rather, our abilities and the fear of failure. The things that meant the world to us fade, becoming nothing as all of that is replaced by the want of attaining the elusive Hole in One. Achievements, no matter how impressive, mean nothing if we take no joy in the process.

Nevertheless, there is no harm in hoping and striving for the Hole in One; it just shouldn’t be the end-all-be-all of golf or anything else.

Equating success with perfection becomes so embedded in our brain that the word becomes a kind. A hole in one consists of a golf ball tumbling down a hole, announcing the player succeeding in fulfilling the 30

ultimate meaning in golf. Getting the ball in the hole. The flag is something we aim towards, from the rough or from the fairway. It is a goal, a direction we want to be headed. In golf, the winner is decided from the number of strokes they make. The fewer, the better. Many people say that golf is a game of life. Perhaps it is true in some aspects, because of the inner traits that will develop as you learn to become a better player. But is it really? Is our success defined by the number of times it takes to master a skill? Does succeeding in fewer tries make one a winner in life? The answer is clear. NO, there is NOT, at least not in the important things. There isn’t an award for succeeding at being unselfish, or kind, or a good friend, parent, or sibling in the shortest possible time.

If we opened our hearts a little more, became a little less selfish and narrow in our thinking, we would be happier, more resilient people.

Instead of gripping the club more tightly, we should learn to relax and loosen our grip: to allow ourselves to smile and look in the mirror with pride for the things we accomplished and not the things we didn’t; to have a little more courage, so that failure would lose some of its power over us. Perhaps then, we would finally be able to see that piece of fabric that fluttered around in the wind as what it really is--an encouraging wave, a signpost pointing us in the right direction, and an invitation to try and try again at this wonderful game.

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Being Native A hand suddenly pulled me away from my locker and out of my trance. Looking forward, I saw Willa’s ponytail swaying back and forth as she pulled me through the glass doors, ignoring our teacher’s shouts of warnings. My backpack bounced up and down on my shoulders, threatening to tip me over given the absurd number of books I managed to stuff in it. Sunlight flooded my vision as we ran across the playground, towards where our parents awaited. Panting, Willa dragged me towards a woman that looked exactly like her. I had never understood how Willa was so tall, but looking at her mom, I was even more in awe. My neck strained, not used to looking at anyone so tall. She held her hand out to me friendlily, “You must be Kelsey, I heard a lot about you from Willa!”.

My brain stopped, what should I address her as? In China, we referred to elder women of close friends and relations as Auntie. But she wouldn’t be comfortable being called that seeing as she isn’t Chinese. Suddenly, the gears in my brain began to grind again, coming up with an idea.

Didn’t Harry address Ron’s mom in the book as Ms. Weasley? What’s Willa’s last name? How exactly do you pronounce Garschagen? In my panicked state, I had let out a jumble of incoherent words, trying desperately to remember the pronunciation for Garschagen before finally letting out a “Hello Ms. G.!” that was followed by a slight bow of my head. A sigh of relief was followed by her warm smile. I would really have to search up how to pronounce Garschagen later.

Mrs. Garschagen smiled and told me softly, “I think we’ve known 33

each other for long enough now to skip the formalities. Just call me Anne, Kelsey.” I panicked, stuck in the same uncertainty as I was in one month ago at our first meeting. I stammered incoherently as I scrambled for the words to express my concern. I looked at her incredulously--was she really asking me to call her by her first name? Her? An adult? Asking me to call her by her proper name as if we were peers? It was a small thing, but all those little things combined to create the experience of culture shock anyone who finds themselves transplanted in a radically different culture is bound to face. A wave of insecurity flooded my brain in such moments. I felt uncomfortable referring to her by her first name, uncomfortable over something that the kids here wouldn’t bat an eye at.

I realized during my time in Canada that it is impossible to fully force yourself into a culture, throwing away your roots in the process. A part of me will always prefer rice over bread, I will never really feel comfortable calling adults by their first names and that’s ok. Perhaps that’s what we were missing all along. Whilst desperately trying to fit in, we forget to be ourselves simply because we don’t think that ourselves will fit in if we don’t change.

I had never really felt the urge to be “native” in New Zealand, perhaps because I was too young to understand or maybe it was thanks to the community and their ways of welcoming you that prevented that feeling. However, this all changed when I moved to Montreal. As I became more self-aware, I began to question my identity. Every teenager wants to fit in, to belong and I’m no exception. After leaving New 34

Zealand just as I was getting the hang of things and beginning to “fit in” and become comfortable in the language, we up and moved to Montreal.

Here, I would spend the next six years learning another language and finding my place in a different, slightly less welcoming place. It’s not to say that Montrealers are unfriendly. They’re just not quite as warm and welcoming as the Kiwis.

This has helped me realize, again and again, that perhaps being “native” is over-emphasized and that we don’t have to change ourselves to fit in. Being our natural selves is enough. Even the indigenous people of New Zealand don’t view themselves as extraordinary or special even though they lived there first. The word Maori in their language means: normal, ordinary, and usual. I had always felt a little more peace of mind remembering this, knowing that no matter where I go, just being myself, staying connected to my roots while still being present and open to the new cul

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Le Flaneur: Observations of Life in Montreal Mount Royal Graffiti splattered across walls and buildings. Crowded streets bustling with people of all walks of life. Vines and flora covering walls and buildings, like the same vines that covered my house in China before my father cut them down. (He claimed that they damaged the walls.)

Weeds creeping through the cracks in thesidewalk. As I walked along the streets of Mount Royal, I hum the words to Tupac’s lyrics Did you hear about the rose that grew/ from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong/ it learned to walk without having feet...I’m finding my feet as I stroll through Mount Royal. After two years in New Zealand, this rose is now blooming in Montreal. Red and blue flags displaying the symbol of the Canadiens hang from balconies and cars as they desperately hope to take the Stanley Cup in four. Hockey in Montreal is like an addiction. The highs are euphoric, but the lows, abysmal. When the Canadiens win, they’re heroes; when they lose, everyone turns their backs on them. Fair weather fans. And sooner or later a player, the latest scapegoat, is sent packing to another team. The previous Canadiens captain, Max Pacioretty lived two houses away from us a few years back.

We would see him walking around with his wife and children from time to time. Soon after that season, he was traded off to an American team.

Bikes whizz past pedestrians, few bikers wearing helmets. Crowded streets, people packed like sardines. I read somewhere that. Mount Royal has the densest population in North America. Mount Royal’s heart is young, hip, creative, gentrified. Cars would be inconvenient to have in a neighborhood. Quieter without them. Flower baskets hang from 36

balconies in various arrays of colors. Abandoned coffee cups sit on window sills. In Montreal, where cafes are abundant, almost no one goes to Starbucks. Most people opt for the local patisserie. Abandoned mattresses and broken discarded furniture lying on street corners as people do their spring cleaning. Buildings painted in all different colors of the rain lived together in harmony. Fallen masks and wrappers litter the ground. I remember that in New Zealand, people used to voluntarily pick trash off the beach. The smell of coffee beans is strong and the whir of the grinder is soothing inside the cafe. The buttery smell of croissants and other baked goods wafts from the oven. There has been a long-standing controversy the correct name for the popular pastry, the pain au chocolat or, as it’s called by the Quebecois. Its correct name has long been debated. The French insist that its proper name is pain au chocolat while Quebecois firmly stand by the name chocolatine. After stopping for a chocolat chaud avec une chocolatine,

I exit the patisserie

and head toward the huge park that lies in the heart of Mount Royal.

People picnicking on the hill, their red-and-white-chequered blankets lie like flags across the park. Seagulls caw quizzically nearby, loitering by the picknickers, waiting for their chance to snatch any food on the ground. In New Zealand, seagulls were everywhere. I remember a particular encounter with one of these devious birds. It snatched the hot dog that I was eating right out of my hands. My seven-year-old self traumatized and indignant. I give a gull a wide birth as he struts nearby.

Amongst the seagulls, pigeons also pranced around, pecking at grub in the grass. Pigeons are nicknamed “The rats of the sky”. Not everyone seems to hate them though, especially the elderly. In New Zealand and even here, it isn’t strange to find an elderly citizen on a bench, feeding the pigeons bread.

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Murray Hill Park The mocking cries of the gulls follow me as I walk along the path of the park. I have always hated those birds. I walk by a playground where a group of children are playing tag. Suddenly, Zara and Charlotte’s sneering laughter echoes in my head. Ghosts. We carry our pasts with us wherever we go. The tongue-tied little Asian girl is there, too. But now I speak English fluently and French as well. The birds continue their merciless jeering; I have yet to discover their name. For a long time, I guessed that they were mockingbirds because of the name. I only recently discovered that they’re not mockingbirds, whose song sounds nothing like the derisive cawing. Stray branches litter the field. Two squirrels scurry up and down trees, chittering angrily at each other. The first time I saw a squirrel I had just arrived in Canada. At first glance, I thought that the tail that kept swishing back and forth behind a tree belonged to a cat. I had the fright of my life when it’s mouse-like head poked out from behinning around. Many of them were wearing sports jerseys, one that I recognized was the Golden States Warriors jersey, more specifically Stephen Curry’s jersey. I am a fairly new NBA fan as I never really paid attention to basketball until watching The Last Dance. I now feverishly follow Dennis Rodman on Instagram. I come to a wide tree stump still rooted in the ground. This used to be a popular spot for kids to sit and talk. Some even carved initials on the trunk. I remember when my school used to make us run laps around this park, we would always rest on the trunk, panting and sweaty at the end. Looking at the gnarled, thick roots sunken into the ground, I am reminded of my 38

grandma and her lotus roots. Instantly, I am transported back into her kitchen in China. I see her smiling face circles in soft light, like a halo, encouraging me. How I miss her and her delicious food. Kids are doing cartwheels and skipping rope on the grass while their parents chat idly on a nearby bench. Butterflies flutter through the late afternoon sky, having sloughed off their caterpillar selves to flourish briefly through the air.

Dried and shriveled caterpillars can be found littering the streets like discarded candy wrappers this time of year.

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The Countryside of Montreal The fields are arranged in neat rows of brown mounds with green stalks waving gently in the breeze and the barns are painted red. Horses neigh and nicker in the fields, lazily swishing away flies with their long tails while grazing in the pastures. I have yet to ride a horse that isn’t a pony. In New Zealand, I rode plenty of ponies at local fairs. Looking back at it, I feel rather bad for them, having to carry countless kids on their backs all day. Long driveways lead from the farmhouses with green mailboxes at the foot. Gardening rest in buckets as people prepare their flower beds and yards for the coming winter. I identified a few—tulips, chrysanthemums, hydrangea--as my mother is an avid gardener. The red stop signs are slightly rusty and battered. In front of some garages, boats sit in trailers, soon they will be put to bed for the winter, wrapped in canvas and plastic to keep out the ice and snow. The Saint Laurent River isn’t far from here. It was from there that the French first came to Nouvelle France, AKA, Canada today. A tall hedge lines one side of the road, an impenetrable wall of shrubbery keeping out prying eyes from passers-by and clearly defining property boundaries. I peer through a crack in the hedge and make out a rusty playground in a sad state of disrepair. The kids who used to play must have long since outgrown them. I remember having a blue swing in my old house in China. Last year my dad had it torn down as part of his renovations. I used to swing on it all the time, jumping off at the apex of the swing’s arc, much to my mother’s chagrin. It made me feel like flying. As I walk by a junkyard filled with broken and rusting cars, I think about how many things from 40

our pasts—swings, toys, clothes—wind up in some junkyard or landfill; it makes me sad. Yellow warning signs warning drivers of deer appear as the road bends. A city-dweller, I have never seen a deer on the road before. I remember seeing a rabbit on the bus while on a school field trip.

In the brown fields, long furrows are filled with water from the previous night’s rain. A huge flock of Canadian Geese congregate in one field while pecking at seeds on the ground, fattening up before their migration south. Their plaintive honking fills me with a sense of nostalgia, as they signal the approach of winter. Rows of corn still stand in tall green stalks in a field to my right. Soon, it will be corn harvesting season. The corn at this particular time was smaller and more tender due to it not being at its ripest yet. Soon monstrous harvesting machines will be slowly, methodically cutting down the mighty stalks, collecting them before selling them at a farmer’s market. Life in the country is vastly different from that of the city. The fresh air, the space, the relative silence. It’s refreshing and disquieting at the same time. I think I’m so accustomed to the din and bustle of city life that I feel slightly unsettled in its absence.

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