"West Island, East Heart"

I was born in Montreal—technically, that makes me Canadian. But I was raised by parents who carried Hong Kong in their hearts, in their language, in the way they folded dumplings on Sunday afternoons like it was sacred.

I grew up in the West Island, where the houses were tidy, the lawns trimmed, and the unspoken rules of fitting in were written in invisible ink. I spoke English at school, a bit of French when I had to, and Cantonese at home—though sometimes, it all blurred in my head. Three languages, but I still didn’t always have the words to explain me.

At school, I was the “Chinese kid”—but I didn’t grow up in China. I couldn’t name all the dynasties or write my name in flawless characters. At family gatherings, my aunties clucked at my accent and the way I held my chopsticks. “So Western,” they’d laugh. But in the West, I was still “so Chinese.”

In the middle of all that, I became a master of code-switching. Smiling when someone butchered my last name. Laughing off the “ni hao” jokes in gym class. Pretending I wasn’t embarrassed when I brought fried rice in my lunchbox and someone said it smelled weird.

I wanted to fit in. I tried. But sometimes I felt like a guest in every room.

Still—Montreal was home. I loved the city like a sibling. I biked along the canal in summer, waited hours for poutine during La Poutine Week, and counted the days until Tam-Tams at Mount Royal. I knew the STM like the back of my hand. I watched fireworks by the water and lit incense during Lunar New Year. My life was a mashup of “eh” and “aiyo,” Tim Hortons and tiger balm.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something: I don’t have to choose.

I’m not “too Asian” or “too Western.” I’m not half of anything. I’m whole—a child of two worlds, both stitched into my skin, my spirit, my story.

Living in the West Island didn’t take away my roots. It just gave them new soil to grow in.

And maybe I’ll never fully “fit in.” Maybe I was never meant to.

But I belong—right here, in this space between maple trees and red envelopes, where being different doesn’t mean being lost.

It just means I’m uniquely home.