In the summer of 1993 I noticed that my English flash card lessons were starting to pick up, along with talk that my departure date to Canada was drawing even nearer.
I didn’t like that one bit.
My whole family—my yéye, nainai, gugu, gufu，even my cousin JingJing—spoke of this “Canada” as if it were some sort of idyllic paradise, a place of abundant snacks and endless affection.
“You can eat whatever you want,” Nainai would say, as if I didn’t already have pretty regular access to all of my favorites on Héxìnglù.
“You will finally reunite with your parents,” my gugu added reassuringly, as if I didn’t already have five amazing people around me who loved me.
Looking back, it felt kind of cult-y, like gospel from the Church of Canadology that I was supposed to just accept. I played along, even though I was still rough on the exact terms of this proposition. Sure, I welcomed the thought of meeting more members of my family . . . but I had no idea that said new family members would come at the cost of everyone that I knew and loved.
So, with about as much agency as any four-year-old possessed, I kept on, ever the obedient child, dutifully memorizing my English flash cards. 苹果(píngguo)—Apple. 猫(mao)—Cat. 香蕉(xiangjiao)—Banana. 爸爸妈妈(bàbamama)—Parents, whom I would meet in the winter.
An air of excitement permeated our household in the days leading up to my father’s arrival in late December. Word had come to us that Bàba 3 would fly over to pick me up and escort me back to Canada, while Mama would meet us at the airport once we landed in Toronto. If my grandparents were dreading letting me go (they were), they went to great lengths not to show it. We made a big WELCOME BACK sign in giant letters and hung it on our door. I wore my nicest clothes on the day, an outfit of absolute fire consisting of a collared rugby shirt with blue and purple stripes, a pair of brown overalls with yellow polka dots and a vest that looked like a burlap sack. That’s right, I was pattern clashing way before it was cool.
My gugu and gufu came over and we prepared a feast that filled our little round table: white mushrooms with sliced pork, large tail-on shrimp, bean curd, soy-sauce ribs and Russian-style red sausage—my father’s favorite, apparently.
The food is starting to get cold when we hear a little knock on our door. I perk up anxiously as my yéye answers, opening the door to reveal a scrawny, square-faced man with bowl-cut hair wearing a big cozy sweater along with the bleary gaze of exhaustion that comes after an eighteen-hour train ride from Beijing. This man who resembles an Asian Eric Forman from That ’70s Show is my bàba, the man who I had waited my entire four-and-a-half-year life to reunite with.
This is the man who is going to bring me to the promised land of Canada.
“Máomao! It’s me!”
I freeze.
I had imagined this moment in my head many times, as I’m sure my father had. I wanted to run to him, embracing him enthusiastically and without any reservations, as any child would run to their own father—but I just . . . can’t. Everything about this man is foreign to me, from his voice to his smell. I had only seen his face in photographs, only heard recordings of his disembodied voice. He feels almost like a celebrity, someone I recognize from somewhere, but who is himself unknown and unknowable.
I scurry to my nainai’s side nervously. I’m sure my father was a little disappointed, but he respected my space, taking only a small step toward me.
“Do you know who I am?”
I ponder this for a moment.
“You . . . you are Zhenning Liu.”
Everyone around me bursts out laughing. The ice is broken, and I laugh along, even though I don’t get the joke. “Zhenning Liu” is exactly who this man is to me; not “Dad,” not “Father,” not “Bàba” . . . but a stranger, an acquaintance at best.
Slowly, over the next few days, it dawns on me that this stranger is going to take me away from my family, my home and everything that I have ever known.
这一篇取自刘思慕（加拿大演员）的回忆录《We Were Dreamers: An Immigrant Superhero Origin Story》，描述了四岁的他准备与父亲团聚并前往加拿大的故事。
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今年几乎所有的课文都会是非小说类，有时间我会放一些我觉得有趣的上来。
（P.S. 研究修辞手法什么的真的不是我的强项，但管他呢，胡乱写也能写好几页。糊弄学啊……)
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