Every year when July 1st comes around, I find myself caught between two deeply different emotions.
One part of me remembers the Canada that raised me. The other remembers the history they never taught me.
Growing up as a first-generation Chinese Canadian in Montréal, Québec, July 1st always felt different than it did for the rest of the country. While fireworks filled the skies across Canada to celebrate Canada Day, the streets of Montréal were alive with a completely different kind of energy. Families were busy packing boxes, carrying couches down narrow spiral staircases, and loading moving trucks.
July 1st wasn't just Canada Day it was Moving Day (La fête du déménagement).
And while there is truth in those lessons... there was also a profound silence.
There were chapters left unread. There were stories that never made it into our textbooks. As I grew older, the veil of curated history lifted, and I started asking the questions my younger self never knew to ask: What happened to the Chinese who came before my parents? Why did no one tell us what our ancestors endured after helping build the very foundation of this country?
The Iron Mountain: Built with Chinese Hands
Long before my generation drew breath, thousands of Chinese laborers crossed an unforgiving Pacific Ocean in the late nineteenth century. They didn't come to take; they came to build.
When the young dominion of Canada demanded a transcontinental railway to bind its vast expanses from sea to sea, it was the sweat, muscle, and lives of Chinese workers that conquered the treacherous terrain of the Rocky Mountains. They blasted through solid stone. They handled volatile explosives. They laid tracks across impossible, deadly terrain.
Many died in those cold canyons without anyone ever remembering their names. It is a historical truth that for every mile of the Canadian Pacific Railway laid through British Columbia, a Chinese worker paid the ultimate price. Without their labor, the railway would have taken decades longer if it could have been completed at all.
Yet, when the final spike was driven into the earth, our people were wiped from the celebratory photographs. Instead of gratitude came exclusion. Instead of honor came systemic discrimination.
The very nation they helped connect began creating laws designed to ensure Chinese people could no longer enter. First came the Chinese Head Tax a calculated financial wall designed to keep families separated. Then came the ultimate betrayal: The Chinese Immigration Act of 1923, explicitly known as the Chinese Exclusion Act.
The date it took effect? July 1st, 1923.
The very day Canadians celebrated the birth of their nation became the darkest day in Chinese Canadian history known to our people as "Humiliation Day." While fireworks lit the sky, doors were being slammed shut. Families were being fractured. Dreams were being buried.
That history was never part of my classroom. But it became the bedrock of my heart.
The Dual Horizon of a Montréal Upbringing
I was born in Canada. It is the country that raised me, gave me opportunities, and gifted me with memories I will always treasure. More specifically, Québec raised me. Montréal shaped me.
Its French language, its vibrant multicultural neighborhoods, its harsh winters, and its unyielding diversity taught me resilience before I even knew what the word meant.
Living between worlds, I navigated a dual identity. At home, I was Chinese, rooted in traditional values and family memories. At school, I spoke English and French, moving through a distinct culture that knew exactly what it felt like to fight fiercely for its own identity. As a child, I simply wanted to fit in. As an adult, I’ve learned that fitting in was never the goal. Knowing exactly who you are is.
Living in Québec means understanding that identity is beautifully complicated. And looking back now, I find the symbolism of July 1st’s Moving Day to be incredibly profound.
Moving day turns entire neighborhoods into organized chaos boxes fill the sidewalks, mattresses balance on trucks, and families begin new chapters. Sometimes moving isn’t just about changing houses; it’s about changing perspectives. Sometimes history asks us to unpack the heavy truths we’ve carried for years. We have to move out of the comfort of ignorance and into the responsibility of understanding.
Honor Your Father and Mother: A Biblical Mandate
The realization that your home country has a flawed, painful history doesn't erase the love you have for it, but it shifts your ultimate allegiance. My pride no longer anchors itself strictly to a modern flag or a government concept. It anchors itself to the bloodline and the Creator who designed it.
The Scripture commands us:
"Honor your father and your mother." — Exodus 20:12
For me, honoring my parents means honoring the long, winding road they walked before I ever took my first step. It means honoring my grandparents, and the ancestors whose names I may never know.
Scripture is filled with extensive genealogies. While many people skip over those long lists of names while reading the Bible, God didn't. Generation after generation is recorded because heritage matters to Heaven. Names matter. Legacy matters. God is not only the God of individuals; He is the God of generations.
My roots did not begin in Canada. They began centuries ago, long before my parents left Hong Kong, and long before my grandparents lived in southern China. I am simply another link in an eternal chain.
Building a Legacy Beyond the Game
Sometimes people ask me where I’m from. Am I Canadian? Absolutely. Am I Chinese? Without question. These truths do not compete with one another; they complete one another. I refuse to erase one identity to embrace the other, and I refuse to let history erase the giants whose shoulders I stand on.
My story began with a people who carried our family name through famines, shifting dynasties, migrations, sacrifices, and deep faith. It continued when my parents crossed an ocean, and it blossomed when I was born in Montréal. Now, it continues through my own marriage and children.
This is the true heartbeat behind the KNg Dynasty.
It is the literal acronym of families bonded together, but spiritually, it is a declaration. It is not simply a brand, a clothing line, or a logo.
A dynasty remembers.
A dynasty honors.
A dynasty builds.
A dynasty tells the stories that the world tries to leave out.
As I’ve gotten older, my love for the land that raised me has become more honest. Real love doesn’t ignore flaws; it acknowledges them, learns from them, and grows because of them. I am deeply thankful for Canada, for Québec, and for the city of Montréal. But I will always choose to remember the Chinese workers whose sacrifices built the tracks.
Throughout Scripture, God repeatedly commanded His people never to forget what they had experienced or where they came from. Remembering is a radical act of faith because it preserves truth for the next generation.
Today, on July 1st, I choose to celebrate something greater than a nation. I celebrate resilience. I celebrate an enduring faith. I celebrate the God who was fiercely faithful to my ancestors long before I was ever born.
Kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall, but a godly legacy endures. And that is the dynasty I am committed to building.
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