silva rerum

At that, as if it had been the signal he waited for

I must admit that I have had the great fortune of having (sometimes) keenly insightful parents who have, for the most part, encouraged me to explore and refine my life goals independently. While, naturally, they have offered advice at what they feel are critical moments (where lack of intervention would publicly brand them as ‘unfit parents,’ a label at which they would undoubtedly laugh), they have been mostly supportive and always attentive to my aspirations.

From a very early age, I had already begun to imagine that I would have to pick something to do in life, that my life required some sort of teleology, some sort of purposeful existence. That I existed was not enough (though I rather joyously explored my existence by nursing my infant brother who only came into existence after me), I knew that I needed to be something, to do something.

My first inclination was to become an artist; when I was five, I boldly declared (paintbrush, dripping red tempera paint onto the linoleum floor, in hand) that I would be an artist. I paused to ascertain the effect of my imposition on the world of art. Assuredly, with what I now know was a chuckle, my teacher patted me on the head and swiftly repaired to cleaning the “art” I had left upon her spotless floor. “Justin!” she must have imagined in her French accent, “you have soiled my floor!” When I brought home my artistic endeavours, my parents were good-natured enough that they did not laugh at me in front of me at what was certainly a formative moment, but rather, they silently chose not to display my art on the refrigerator.

Given up hastily on art (for this! Art, I turn my back – there is a world elsewhere!), I busied myself upon the verdant field with the world’s most popular pastime, soccer. With my stubby legs, I hobbled about the field, kicking and bumping into others, uncoordinated and haphazard. Of course, probability was in my favour; out of the umpteen games recesses I spent chasing after that elusive ball, I scored a few points. My efforts weren’t lost on my friends; while attending the birthday of my friend Leslie, I was ushered into a makeshift gypsy tent, cloaked in some perfume smelling like rosepetals and cinnamon. His sister, having recently purchased a book on Tarot and a deck of Tarot cards, fancied herself a fortune teller, a diviner of the future, and told fortunes to all of us. I was destined, she relayed to me in a voice thick with affected solemnity, to become a soccer player. My ethnicity notwithstanding, I was excited and repaired to the field to play more soccer. Eventually, I grew tired of being handicapped with (what I assumed were abnormally) short legs and gave up on the sport altogether. That and because I was repeatedly scolded for returning home with grass stains on most of my clothes.

By now, I was a happy elementary school student, excited to explore the world. I realised early on that I had had a penchant for writing, a predisposition for word play (how joyous that day when I was taught the word “alliteration,” I fondly recall – the teacher had asked us for examples and I came up with “pink ‘’potamus,” something I imagined was rather clever). I allowed myself to mimic my favourite authors in my writing; these were the days before children were liable for copyright infringement. An incapable illustrator and a poor penman, I could at least spell with a 99% accuracy rate and write in grammatically correct sentences. A writer, I thought, why not? I enjoy writing. And there is such a plethora of books out there, I could assuredly spend my life publishing my own books. After I received some praise from my teachers for my creative writing, I was offered a mentorship with Steven Galloway in creative writing. While he has assuredly forgotten about the little Asian boy who he was tasked with educating, I have never quite forgotten him. “How much do authors make?” “Oh I’d say writers make less than janitors.” He smiled sheepishly, probably chuckling at his candidness. I blanched at the thought. My dreams of being a world-class writer had been hopelessly smashed. I searched elsewhere.

Journalism! Yes, I would be a jet-setting journalist, I thought to myself as a pre-teen. What could be better? I am paid to traverse the world’s exotic locales, documenting human interest stories, writing about famous people and meeting VIPs. I would be so sophisticated and savvy. My dad protested. Again, my ethnicity notwithstanding (for I had not yet seen FairChild television and its all-Asian cast; I had only seen Connie Chung on primetime television alongside non-Asian reporters), I imagined myself one day as a famous journalist, one who could expose the truth and show humanity unto itself. I eventually learned that journalists hardly ever get to be so glamorous and few ever get big breaks. I hastened towards another career prospect.

Having at this point reached adolescence, I firmly set my mind upon becoming a lawyer; having verbally scrimmaged with my parents on many an occasion and (in my mind) won. Yes, I knew that this time, I had picked the right career path. And what could be more noble than law? I fancied myself something of an amazing rhetorician, beating down criminals in court and winning the high approval of my peers. I realised that this would not work soon after my parents began sending me to my room for being argumentative. Arguing, I learned, never earned anyone anything good. Leave the lawyers to their conflicts, I thought, I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut and perhaps I’ll stop being grounded.

I realised, by now, that ethnicity was indeed a factor, that I could attempt to leverage my Asianness and Canadianness for a career in foreign diplomacy. Having been previously enrolled in French immersion and Chinese school, I imagined myself stepping out of my limousine into warm sunlight, personal assistant trailing me. I would walk down red carpets into dignitaries’ homes and enjoy tea, coffee and biscuits as we chatted about ways in which our countries could join in mutual solidarity. We would part on amiable terms and I would go home, perhaps to prepare to watch the opera or to present at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. But the numbers got  in the way. How many countries in the world require a Canadian-born, English-speaking, Asian foreign diplomat? Certainly, I would never be deployed to Europe, Africa or South America and my knowledge of Asian languages was scanty at best and unintelligible at worst. My French, after all, was far superior to my Cantonese. I gave upon this dream too.

At this point, I was taking senior sciences at high school, a year behind my friends who were in the enriched sciences/maths stream. Aha, I proclaimed, I would become a doctor (the sentence that every Asian parent and grandparent wants to hear). I enjoy science, I particularly love biology and I want to do something noble for the world. Yes, these were the days when wanting was enough and the vocabulary consisting of “grade point average,” “MCAT” and “interviews” hadn’t yet been developed. Doctor Yang, I thought, has a nice ring to it. And how glamorous! “Out of the way! Doctor Yang needs to get to the operating room stat,” the nurses would cry as I raced to save a dying man’s life. By the time first year ended, this dream was firmly shut out of my mind.

So here I stand. Upon the precipice between the pile of discarded childhood dreams and the great unknown. Now, I really should have a gameplan; I must have had some foresight as an infant, already planning for the future. For once in my life, I’m not quite sure what I want to do for the rest of it (a daunting thought) and I doubt I’m going to figure it out in the next few months.