Grandma’s Chinese name is Tue Sue. “Tue Sue” literally means autumn compassion. Autumn is the season of harvest and abundance. She was a rich woman of contentment because she appreciated and valued what she had and was gifted to find beauty in ordinary things. She once told me she was very lucky. “Who could have ever imagined a Chinese village girl like me would end up living in such a heavenly place?”
FOURTEEN
A Cowherd in Paradise
AH DANG AND MICHAEL: VICTORIA, 1981
“Five hundred dollars? That was a fortune in 1921!” said Michael, Ah May’s husband, of the head tax.
“Lotsa money, at dat time, can buy two house! But I have no leglets,” Ah Dang replied in his heavily accented English.
“Aren’t you angry at the government for making you pay to live in Canada?”
“At firs, I really mad. Sure. No one else have to pay. Jus Chinee. Not fair. Maybe govmen should say, ‘Solly,’ but I don’t tink they will do dat, do you?”
“You’re probably right. The government wouldn’t apologize for something that happened so long ago.” And Michael added sarcastically, “It has so many things to be sorry about.”
When Ah Dang was asked what had drawn him to Canada, he explained, “Na-ting for me in China. In Canada, I find job, sometime very bad job, but in China, no work for no body. Too many war in China, all de time fighting! Canada peacefoo place. But I don’t forget, I Chinee, my famly Chinee. I still love China. But now Canada my home.”
After a long pause, he added, in a faraway voice, “One ting I leglet; my family in China so long without me. We no have chance to be family together. Dat why Ah May so plecious to me and to her mommy.” He looked Michael straight in the eye. “I know you take good care my daughter.”
• • •
AH DANG AND AH THLOO: MONTREAL AND VICTORIA, 1978–1984
This was a time of passages, both celebratory and mournful.
Ah Dang and Ah Thloo initiated the celebrations with a kiss. Not the dry, perfunctory, obligatory peck on the cheek he might have bestowed on her for her birthday or at New Year’s, but a full-on, lip-to-lip, arms-embracing kiss. It was an intimate gesture, so spontaneously enacted in public that they both immediately burst into embarrassed laughter, each still clinging on to the other’s arm. Ah Wei and Ah May, who witnessed this never-before-seen behaviour, were both so shocked and delighted that they demanded a repeat performance, so it could be recorded for posterity. Surprising everyone, including themselves, Ah Dang and Ah Thloo complied.
The couple had a wonderful reason for their antics; it was the day after Ah Wei’s long-awaited wedding, in 1978, to Ah Sheung, his betrothed from China, after thirteen years of correspondence. As soon as Ah Sheung arrived in Montreal, Ah Wei took her on a holiday so they could get reacquainted. There were some things a man does not tell his mother to write to his fiancée.
Ah Thloo felt her prayers had been answered when Ah Sheung came back from her holiday with Ah Wei looking happy and content. For the first time in a long while, the look of uncertainty in her son’s eyes had disappeared. The right girl had been chosen; her son would finally have someone to look after him and support him.
Their wedding was the biggest social event in Ah Dang’s and Ah Thloo’s lives. This was their opportunity to repay their social obligations after years of attendance at their friends’ children’s weddings. The whole church was invited, of course, and the dinner guest list read like the Who’s Who of Chinatown society. Posing for the wedding pictures, Ah Thloo stood beside her son and held his hand, transmitting her joy and pride. The next day, when Ah Dang had suddenly swept her into his arms and kissed her, she responded by kissing him back. She was jubilant!
Back, left to right: Ah Min, Ah Yee, Truman, Tina (Ah Yee’s niece), and her husband. Middle, left to right: Anna and Helen. Front, left to right: Shannon (Ah Yee’s youngest daughter), Ah May, Ah Sheung, Ah Wei, Ah Thloo, and Ah Dang, 1978.
UNKNOWN PHOTOGRAPHER, MONTREAL
A year later, Ah Dang had another opportunity to kiss his wife: in 1979, they marked a half-century of matrimony. While they had lived together for only a little over half that time, characterized more by discord than by harmony, they nevertheless marked the anniversary with a family celebration.
Looking back on their lives together, Ah Thloo was grateful for many things. Ah Dang had been faithful to her, he had provided for her and given her a good family life, and by bringing her to Canada, he had enabled her to learn about God’s grace. Perhaps it was time to let go of the memory of the hurt inflicted on their wedding night, but a habit of fifty years was difficult to change.
Ah Thloo recognized that Ah Dang was unique among men of his generation; he could overlook gender, despite a lifetime’s association with traditional Chinese who maintained a preference for males. He had encouraged and supported all the females in their family to be educated, starting with herself. She was proud of him for that quality and she was content to be associated with him for it. So when the family posed for photos and the children asked Ah Thloo and Ah Dang for a kiss, she happily obliged.
Ah Thloo and Ah Dang on their 50th anniversary, 1979.
ROBERT WONG, MONTREAL
Ah Dang and Ah Thloo had a complex relationship, for underneath their verbal clashes lay a mutual understanding of shared goals, grudging respect, and even love. Ah Dang kissed Ah Thloo for the gift of belonging. Between them, they had created a family, one he could call his own, that he would never abandon. They had both wanted a family and to give their children the opportunities they themselves had never had—an education, economic stability, and a safe place to live. With their daughters, they felt they had accomplished their task. Ah Wei had been, until his recent wedding, a source of constant concern, but worrying was the burden of parenting.
Ah Dang felt successful in other ways. Following in his adoptive father’s footsteps, he had chosen Canada to be his home. He had come at a time when the Chinese were unwanted, but he and his countrymen had persevered against prejudice, and they were being accepted in the best institutions. His younger daughter had graduated from McGill University, one of the most renowned universities in the world, and they had celebrated in style at the restaurant at Place Ville Marie. He had reinvented himself from a discarded nobody to a businessman, and since his retirement in 1978, the government was supporting him with a pension.
In 1981, Ah Dang, Ah Thloo, Ah Wei, and his wife, Ah Sheung, all went to Victoria, British Columbia, where Ah May had been living and where she was getting married. At first Ah Dang had not been pleased to hear that Ah May’s boyfriend was a white man. He and his wife had tried to instill in their daughter, throughout her life, the need to find a Chinese husband, but she hadn’t cooperated, and Ah Thloo had been against an arranged marriage.
Ah May had met Michael Cockerell at the University of Guelph, in Ontario, where she was pursuing a master’s degree in psychology and he was about to graduate as a veterinarian. She had brought the young man to the house in Montreal several times, and at her parents’ golden anniversary dinner, Michael had done all the cleaning, even the pots and pans. Ah Thloo thought he and Ah May made a good team, but it was the caring way he treated Ah May that really endeared him to her. She noticed that Ah Dang always welcomed him to the house.
Ah Dang had also carefully observed both the way Michael treated Ah May, always solicitously, and his manners toward his elders, which were impeccable. He had certainly won over Ah Thloo. In fact, she had encouraged Ah May to move with Michael to Victoria, when he had found a job there right after his graduation. Ah Dang had agreed with his wife that it was better for Ah May to go there than to live in the dangerous city of Toronto by herself, even if she had to interrupt her studies. He just wished she hadn’t moved so far.
On this trip, Ah Dang and Ah Thloo would stay for an extended visit; he had missed his daughter, and who knew when they would be able to see each other again? They flew straight to Victoria, where they finally met Michael’s English parents; it was the beginning of a strong friendship.
Ah Thloo with Ah Wei and Michael in front of St. Evariste Street house, 1979.
MAY Q. WONG, MONTREAL
After Ah Dang had done his duty by Ah May and given her life into the kind hands of her new husband, he could relax. Although he had not been back to Canada’s West Coast since he left Vancouver by train in the early 1930s, he had no interest in visiting that city—he had few good recollections of the place. However, due to its proximity, the memories of those times came flooding back, and when Michael and Ah May asked questions about that stage of his life, he found himself talking about it.
He reminisced about living in small towns such as Salmo, being surrounded by trees so tall they blocked the sunlight; about catching salmon so big a single fish could feed a family; and about learning how to defend himself in a fist fight. Ah May remembered seeing his weapons in Montreal, but he hadn’t brought them on this trip; in fact, he hadn’t thought about them since his retirement. He told the young couple about the great gift his father’s friend had given him, and about his train trip. “When I go Mon-de-haw, I take train tru Locky Moundan,” he said. “Dis time when we come, fly oba—oooy, so big!” He had looked out the window the whole time the plane flew over the mountains, grateful to finally see them, marvelling at their vastness and majesty, and searching for the railroad lines built by so many of his countrymen. He was surprised when Ah May asked him if he had worked on building the Canadian Pacific Railway. “I not so ole!” he laughed. The Last Spike had been driven many decades before he was even born, but he had worked on other railway lines in the interior of British Columbia.
Left to right: Doreen Cockerell, Ah Thloo, Ah Dang, Jeff Cockerell, Ah May, and Michael, 1981.
ROBERT WONG, VICTORIA
When Ah Dang learned that Michael was also a naval officer and had sailed both coasts of Canada, he talked about the Empress of Japan, the once-famous ship he had arrived on, and about the voyage, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about what had happened when he first landed in Vancouver. He spoke about how his father had paid the five-hundred-dollar head tax, and when no one asked about the head tax receipt, he just kept quiet. Ah May and Michael did not have to know his whole life history.
Three months after the wedding, Ah Dang realized that he was losing his long-time fight with diabetes. His body was betraying him. He did not want to burden Ah May with his care or have her worry about him, arguing with him about what he could or couldn’t eat or do; he did not want her to watch him deteriorate and die. He left Ah May with one last request, to be undertaken after his death and then, reluctantly, he and Ah Thloo went home.
Ah Dang’s condition deteriorated after their return to Montreal. A series of small strokes left him unresponsive, except at meal times, when he became animated and anxious to feed his ironically healthy appetite. The self-made man had disappeared. He was now in his eighth decade and all his life he had fought hard for his achievements; perhaps he was tired of fighting. His pride was what had made him succeed in a hostile world; perhaps his pride required him to disengage from a body that was failing. There were only a few things he could now control and he seemed to have relinquished everything else.
Ah Dang died December 23, 1983. As was traditional in the Chinese culture, the family booked the funeral home for several days, for the wake, visitations, and final service. His body was laid out in an open casket, and a large framed photograph of him was displayed on a small table near his head. People would go up to the casket, kowtow three times, perhaps give him a pat or say a few words, then meet with the family and others who had come to pay their respects.
Ah Dang’s passing enabled Ah Thloo to soften her carapace of anger. She spent long moments standing beside him, touching him and praying for his soul. She responded with gratitude to visitors. Her tears were close to the surface, but they flowed quietly and with dignity.
Ah Wei wore his emotions on his sleeve, but Ah Thloo noted with pride that he rose to the task of becoming the head of the family, welcoming visitors and chatting with everyone who came, making them feel at ease. Ah May came from Victoria by herself; Michael couldn’t leave his new solo practice. She mourned her father quietly. Ah Sheung was the most demonstrative mourner; she wailed, wept, and prostrated herself on the floor, until Ah Wei helped her up.
Some of the Canadian-born visitors looked embarrassed, but the elders realized that if the funeral had been held in China, the family would have hired professional mourners to loudly show what a good person the deceased had been. With her lamentations, Ah Sheung was following tradition. She had become close to Ah Dang, and during his final years, she had been his caregiver. When Ah Dang would not listen to his wife or his son, Ah Sheung could coax him into doing whatever was required. She mourned him now like a loyal daughter-in-law.
Each day, more wreaths and flower arrangements were placed around Ah Dang. Ah Lai and Ah One, and other family members in China, sent money to buy special bouquets. Attached to each arrangement were red silk ribbons, adorned with black Chinese calligraphy expressing condolences and wishes for a safe journey to heaven. Beautiful and numerous, they testified to Ah Dang’s esteemed position in the community.
Ah Thloo drank tea, ate cookies, and shared stories. She even laughed. Her niece, Ah Yee, came with her husband and their older children and they reminisced about the times they had spent together. Many of Ah Dang’s old friends came—it was good to hear how much he had been respected in the Chinatown community. He would have been proud to see how many people attended both his funeral service and the memorial banquet later.
White is the colour of traditional Chinese mourning, but the family chose to wear dark colours, with white armbands. It was also the custom to burn all the clothing worn for the funeral, to dissipate bad luck, but no one could bear to part with the mementos of that time. Family members were instructed not to cut or wash their hair until after the funeral.
When the family went back home after the service, to rest before attending the memorial dinner in Chinatown, Ah Thloo’s friends from church were already there. Over the past few days, the ladies had taken turns going to pay their respects, then returned to scour Ah Dang’s room clean, cover all the mirrors and glass surfaces, cook meals, and console Ah Thloo and her relatives with prayers, hugs, and food. After the funeral, they greeted the family with small sprigs of fresh, fragrant cedar to pin to their clothes and gave each of them a candy to eat immediately. They had filled special red envelopes with a piece of candy and a dollar bill, to be handed out to each of the dinner guests. The candy was to be consumed to bring sweetness back to life and the money was to be spent; keeping it would have brought bad luck. Though they were all Christians, some customs were hard to break.
Ah Dang’s body was cremated and as he had requested, also contrary to Chinese convention, Ah May took his ashes to Victoria. There, she and Michael performed a simple ceremony over the ocean, releasing his earthly particles to the wind and sea. Ah Dang now wanders the world wherever, whenever, and for however long his spirit chooses. No more discriminating laws, no more closed borders, no more disabilities can limit him.
• • •
AH THLOO AND AH LAI: CHINA, 1985
With widowhood came freedom for Ah Thloo, and in 1985, she returned to China for a long visit. Not wanting to be bound by an artificial timeline, she bought a one-way ticket to visit her extended family one last time.
Ah Lai and her family then lived in Guangzhou, where she headed the department of internal medicine. She had also completed training in traditional Chinese medicine and had joined her husband, Ah One, in his growing practice as a qi gong master healer. Together, they treated illnesses and relieved chronic pain for patients who came from around the world to see them.
Ah Thloo, at seventy-four, was still curious about the world and open to new experiences. She learned qi gong and was a diligent practitioner. Ah One included her in his healing circles, adding her qi, vital energy, to the process when dealing with clients. She was also still eager to travel and Ah Lai made a point of taking her mother to visit new places. They had time to talk and to reminisce, and they became friends.
Ah Lai’s eldest daughter, Ah Fuy, had received permission from the United States immigration department to undertake postgraduate studies in medical administration. The commotion and the festive air of opportunity that had accompanied her success was now tinged with uncertainty and anxiety for her safety in faraway America. The best way to protect her, Ah Lai reasoned, would be to join her there.
Also, Ah One was broadening his reputation as a healer and the fees they received added to their income. Together, they made a good team; they would be able to establish a practice wherever there was a large Chinese community and make a good living. She had to ask her mother to help her emigrate. It was like asking for a favour, and in her lifetime, she had not asked much of her parents.
“Ah Ma, the children are growing up,” said Ah Lai.
“Yes, how lucky you are. They’re studious and obedient. You’ve raised them well.”
Left to right: A cousin, Ah Min, Ah Yee, Tew May Mah (Ah Yee’s mother and Ah Thloo’s second sister), Ah Choo (Ah Thloo’s younger brother), 1985.
TRUMAN WONG, CHINA
“Ah Ma, do you remember Ah Yea’s papers?”
With a clenched stomach, Ah Thloo knew where the conversation was leading and before Ah Lai could ask her anything else, she told her daughter the bad news. “Ah Nui, your . . . your papers have been given away.” She stumbled at first, and it took all her courage to look her daughter in the eye as she told the full story. She did not lay the blame on her husband; they had agreed at the time it was the right thing to do.
When her daughter said nothing, she continued. “If we go back and apply for you now, the government will know that the Wong Lai Quen who came to Canada before you was a fake. Our whole family might be deported.”
This bombshell naturally frightened Ah Lai; she did not want to jeopardize the security of her family in Canada. She had to set aside her dreams once again. Despite what her mother had said about it having been a mutual decision, a bitter thought came into her mind: Ah Yea has let me down once more.
• • •
AH THLOO AND AH MAY: VICTORIA, 1986–2002
Ah Thloo arrived back from China in time to witness Ah May’s graduation from the University of Victoria. Ah May had fulfilled a promise she had made seven years previously, when she left the University of Guelph prematurely, to complete a postgraduate degree, this time in public administration. While Ah Thloo was visiting Michael and Ah May, she accepted their invitation to live with them. In Montreal, she had been sharing the duplex with Ah Wei and his wife, but it was time to get away from the long, frigid winters and hot, humid summers. Ah Thloo thankfully acknowledged how generous and unusual it was for a non-Chinese man, raised in the Western tradition of independence, to invite his mother-in-law to live with him.
Ah Thloo and Ah May had lived apart for only eight years. While Ah Thloo had not been as demonstrative as Ah Dang with their daughter, she had always felt a deep attachment to this “last girl” and knew that the feeling was returned. But it was not until 1993, when Ah May called her back from a three-day diabetic coma, that their bond became invincible. Ah Thloo couldn’t recall how it had transpired, but she did remember waking up in a hospital one day, responding to her daughter’s question, “Mommy, do you know who I am?” with the obvious answer, “You are my thlem goyne, my heart-liver and my core. You are Ah May.”
The relationship between Ah Thloo, Ah May, and Michael was easy and warm. Ah Thloo insisted on taking over cooking the evening meals from Ah May. She planted and tended the garden and proudly consumed the harvests. She travelled with them, all the while keeping her eyes open to take in the passing sights. When Michael’s parents, Jeff and Doreen Cockerell, moved to a house next door, Ah Thloo started playing mah-jong again. She was eighty-one and the last time she had played was when she was eighteen. Although Ah Thloo spoke very little English and they did not speak any Chinese, the three of them became close.
“Sixo-calack. You come,” Ah Thloo would call to say in her pidgin English. That was the Cockerells’ invitation for dinner at six o’clock and a game of mah-jong, at which Ah May would be the fourth. They played three times a week, for hotly contested pennies a point. The winner kept half the pot, while the pot bought a monthly treat for dinner.
Ah Thloo plays Mah Jong with in-laws Doreen and Jeff and
goddaughter Ah Ngan Jean (visiting from Hong Kong), 1990s.
MAY Q. WONG, VICTORIA
Ah Wei died in 2001, of a stroke, at the too-young age of fifty-three. All the family’s bad genes had apparently been visited upon him, shortening his life. One of the most difficult things for a mother to bear is the death of a child, no matter how old that child is. Ah Thloo had worried about Ah Wei all his life; he had been needier than her other two children. As he grew older, everything was a struggle for him—mentally, socially, and physically. At the evening meals, her prayers for him were the longest and most fervent. Ah Thloo absorbed the sad news philosophically; she was relieved that he no longer had to battle his demons. She sent Ah May and Michael to Montreal, to give Ah Wei’s eulogy and to bestow one last kiss from her.
About three times a year, Ah May took her mother on the ferry to Vancouver, to visit friends and to shop. Ah Thloo became reacquainted with Ah Aie, the little girl who had slept in her house in the hamlet. Ah Aie had married a Gim San law who worked in the fishing camps in remote parts of British Columbia. Now a senior herself, she and her family had lived in Vancouver for many years.
It was through their stories about life in the hamlet that Ah May finally understood Ah Aie’s relationship with the Wong family. She, Ah Lien, and their older sister, Ah Ngan, who lived in Los Angeles and loved to gamble, were the daughters of Ah Ngay Gonge, the man who had given Ah Dang the train ticket to Montreal; he was the old man Ah May and her brother used to visit at his laundry on St. Hubert Street when she was very young. Sadly, only the middle daughter, Ah Lien, ever saw their father after he went to Montreal. The eldest was married and had moved away by the time he went back to China to father the youngest. After Ah Thloo married and left the hamlet, she never saw Ah Lien again, but they kept in touch through letters.
Ah Aie and Ah Ngan came together to Victoria to visit Ah Thloo. They had different personalities and had lived very different lives, but when they were all together, they giggled like little girls. They sat close, with Ah Thloo between them, holding hands, as if they could not bear to lose one another. They reminisced about giew see, olden times, laughing about how poor they had been, and what they had had to do to make do.
“I am so lucky! How was I so fortunate as to have this last daughter, and live out my life in this paradise on earth?” Ah Thloo wondered out loud to her friends, as they gazed at the mature trees framing a view of the ocean, with mountains a distant backdrop. “The weather is so good, the air is clean, and it is never too hot, like nonge toon or too cold like Mon-de-haw. When I was a girl, watching our buffalo, I never dreamed of coming to live in a place like this.”
All of Ah Thloo’s “children” came to visit her. Her goddaughter, Ah Ngan Jean, brought her physician husband and daughters, Susan and Susanna, from Hong Kong. The girls came back to visit Ah Thloo four years later, to introduce Susan’s fiancé to their surrogate grandmother. The girls could not speak directly to Ah Thloo—they spoke Cantonese and did not understand her dialect, so they spoke English to Ah May, who translated—but they all felt a special bond.
Ah Sang, the young man who had taken Ah Thloo and young Ah Wei touring in Hong Kong while they waited for their visas, travelled from Australia to visit. He and his son Alan were on a round-the-world trip and made a point of stopping in Victoria.
Ah Thloo sitting between Ah Aie and Ah Ngan, 1990s.
MAY Q. WONG, VICTORIA
All three of Ah Lai’s children came to see their grandmother. Ah Fuy, the eldest, visited a number of times from New York, while Ah Thlam Moy, the youngest, came from Australia. Ah Doon moved to Victoria from China with his wife.
Ah Fuy and Ah Thloo had built a bond since 1966, when the girl was only three years old, and the relationship had deepened through her earlier trips to Montreal from New York. During one of her visits to Victoria, when Ah May was away with Michael, Ah Thloo shared the story of her wedding night and the events that had started the rift between Ah Dang and herself. She had never told the story to anyone, but it was time someone else knew what had happened. The simple act of telling it made Ah Thloo feel like a swan’s feather being lifted by a fresh spring breeze toward the heavens; she could see so far that her perspective was different. The memory stayed, but the last vestiges of her resentment and hurt were gone, replaced by a feeling of peace. Afterwards, grandmother and granddaughter cried, and as they dried each other’s tears, they both recognized the change in Ah Thloo. Thereafter, Ah Thloo could even acknowledge her own love for Ah Dang.
Ah Sang and son Alan bring an Australian sheep skin for Ah Thloo, 1990s.
JEFF COCKERELL, VICTORIA
Ah Lai eventually came to Canada as well, and she and Ah One lived in Ah May and Michael’s house on three separate occasions, varying in duration from six months to a year, between 1994 and 1999. Michael learned to speak Ah Thloo’s Chinese dialect and Ah One taught everyone qi gong. An inventive and accomplished cook, Ah Lai offered her culinary skills as a gift and eventually pursuaded her mother to relinquish the kitchen. In 2002, they emigrated to Canada, sponsored by their son. Ah Lai no longer needed her father’s papers.
Ah Thloo lived with Michael and Ah May for more than fifteen years. “In all that time, we never had a cross word between us,” Michael liked to say of his relationship with his mother-in-law. “She respected our boundaries, never interfered, and never took sides.” It was not that Michael and Ah Thloo didn’t understand each other; rather, that they had a special rapport that did not always require language. Neither Ah May nor Michael had any idea how much English Ah Thloo actually understood, but she would sometimes surprise them by commenting appropriately, in Chinese, about a topic they were discussing. However, if they argued, Ah Thloo just quietly went to her room and left them alone to resolve their problems. If Ah May talked to her about it, she comforted her daughter but never said anything against “Mikoo.” Ah Thloo’s own marriage had taught her that issues between a husband and wife could not be resolved by anyone else.
Left to right: Ah Fuy, Ah Lai, Ah Thloo, and Ah May
sitting in front of the heavenly view, 1990s.
RON OF TIVOLI STUDIOS, VICTORIA
Before Ah May moved in with Michael, Ah Thloo had predicted, “He will take good care of you.” Had she known he would take that same care with her? His care, and her acceptance of that care, were a reflection of their mutual love and respect. There is a special grace in allowing oneself to be cared for. Ah Thloo was always thankful; she also kept her sense of humour. Ah May had been raised to expect to be an active caregiver for her aging parents. She felt she had received from them everything a person needed to succeed in life—love, a sense of humour, and trust—and she had accepted her caregiving role as a privilege. Now she could give back.
One of the things Ah May did for her mother was a pedicure, which was a bonding ritual for them. Ah Thloo often reminisced about the routine she had developed as a girl with her dear grandmother, and she took obvious pleasure from having her feet and toes touched, manipulated, and kneaded. As a child, Ah May had always been disappointed when she couldn’t get a laugh from her mother by tickling her feet. “It’s from walking barefoot for half of my life. A farmer’s daughter can’t survive in the rice fields with sensitive, thin-skinned feet. Every day I stood in water and my toes kept me balanced in the mud,” Ah Thloo noted practically, as Ah May gave her a massage.
Ah Thloo would sit back and tell Ah May stories about giew see, the olden times. One day Ah May asked her about Canada’s old immigration laws, as she had recently found her father’s head tax receipt. It was folded up in an old, blue, plastic bank account book holder. It looked well worn: the folds were reinforced with tape, it had yellowed with age, and it smelled old and bitter.
It must have been a precious thing—it was her father’s passport to a new life, his entry fee to a wonderland full of promise, his key to the door of fulfillment—but he had never talked to Ah May about the how doo, head tax. It wasn’t a secret; it just wasn’t something the family talked about. Since her childhood, Ah May had known about the tax and the law that had resulted in estranged families like hers.
It wasn’t until her mother told Ah May about Ah Dang’s early life that she could guess at why her father had kept the paper hidden. Perhaps the document served as a symbol of his own dark experiences in those long ago days. It was also a shameful testimonial to the way Canada had targeted the Chinese people for discrimination. No other immigrant group had been shut out entirely, forcing a generation of men to endure a lifetime away from their families.
Despite the discrimination Ah Dang had been subjected to, he was a proud Canadian. He took his rights and responsibilities as a citizen seriously, paid his taxes, and happily showed off his Canadian passport whenever he travelled abroad. He could have thrown away the painful record when it was no longer required as identification, but in addition to the sorrow it was drenched in, perhaps it was also a reminder of his adoptive father’s trust: that he might reinvent himself and create a life filled with more hope than bitterness.
The Guan family gathers to celebrate a birthday, 1995.
A GODDAUGHTER, GUANGZHOU
On a day when Ah May was giving her mother a pedicure, a radio program featured a Chinese-Canadian organization that was lobbying for restitution. The speaker was asking people who had paid the tax, or were direct relatives of those who had paid it, to make themselves and their views on compensation known. Conversing in Chinese, Ah May asked her mother what she thought. “Mommy, a Chinese group is asking the government for redress on the head tax.”
“What are they asking for?”
“An apology and a symbolic repayment of the head tax.”
“An apology is a good idea. We Chinese built the railroad that helped make Canada a country. There was no reason to tax new immigrants after we finished the job. When the tax didn’t work, they stopped us all from coming. That’s why your father lived here and I had to stay in China for so long after we were married.”
“Did he have enough money to bring you here?”
“Sure, he had money. Your father worked hard and saved enough to go back to China three times. We would have been safer in Canada. Remember, there were wars all over China. But Canada wouldn’t let our family come. The government has to say, ‘I am sorry for discriminating against the Chinese.’”
“What about paying back the five hundred dollars Daddy paid?”
“How much would be enough? Some of it? All of it? Would they give interest, or give today’s value? Too little would be insulting. How much would be too much? Someone is bound to complain, no matter what the amount. No amount they give could make me forget the starvation and fear we endured by being left behind. Nothing would erase the heartache of separation between your father and your sister and brother. Gan-na-aie is known as a fair country. That’s why so many people from around the world come here to live. To keep being fair, Gan-na-aie must recognize its wrongs and apologize.”
Portrait of Jang Tue Sue Wong, 1970s.
ROBERT WONG, MONTREAL
Unfortunately, Ah Thloo missed the apology by four years.
However, she lived to witness the return of Hong Kong to the People’s Republic of China, and more importantly, she was reunited with her daughter, Ah Lai, in Canada, and met all three of her great-granddaughters. Her last words were about how clever those girls had become and much she loved her family.
On December 14, 2002, the pastor from the Chinese church joined Ah Thloo’s family by her bedside. It was as if Ah Thloo had been waiting for a formal introduction to heaven, for as soon as the pastor began to pray, she shrugged off her frail earthly mantle and passed away peacefully.
Her daughters made sure Ah Thloo took her final journey fully clothed, complete with shoes, underwear, a pantsuit, and a new Christmas vest. She would have enjoyed her funeral banquet, attended by many friends from the church and the community. Her cremated remains are contained in a cloisonné, Chinese-style urn, for she did not want her ashes to be scattered. They rest instead with a view of the heavenly landscape she enjoyed so much in life.
