It was September 1990.
I come from a mass exodus of the inevitable. They keep dumping more earth into the sea, narrowing the deep and prosperous Victoria Harbour. We had no way to know whether our city of dreams, tourists, and trade will continue to flow or halt like the streets in Beijing.
It was May 1995.
I come from a townhouse in Markham, Ontario. I went to a gifted elementary school but I was not in the gifted program. I was placed there not because of who I am, but simply due to where I lived. I went to an arts high school but I was not in the arts program. I was placed there not because of who I am, but simply due to where I lived.
It was June 2004.
I come from Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario, a tri city that does not celebrate its industrious third in its name. While some deny living in Kitchener, others embrace its association to labour and suffers. I moved 11 times over the 7 years I lived there.
It was August 2011
I arrived in Vancouver to pursue further education. I live on a hill beside a quaint little yellow house with green siding and a nice garden. “Where are you from?”, new faces ask. There isn’t a quick answer to this question, and no matter what I decide to say, I know that I will always be caught somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, somewhere between here and home.
It is May 2012.