From Bad to Worse to Best in Class by Hao Lam

Author:Hao Lam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hao Lam
Published: 2018-03-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Prince Rupert

In March of 1989, I returned to Manila, then flew to Prince Rupert, British Columbia. Going from Manila to Vancouver was a big deal—finally my dream was coming true. It was my first time on an airplane, and even though I knew I was safe, a part of me was scared, plus nervous, excited, confused, anxious, and happy—all these feelings mixed together. I looked out the window, watching the ocean and the clouds sweep by, with no idea what lay ahead and thinking, just, Wow.

Back in Vietnam, I’d watched movies set in New York, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. I’d seen the vibrant colors of Disneyland and Times Square, the bright blue of the sky and the deep yellow of the desert brush growing around the base of the Hollywood sign. That is the American dream. Or heaven, I thought. Bright lights, big cities.

I didn’t know the distinction between the United States and Canada—to me, it was all “America.” I landed in Vancouver and then, after completing the paperwork, immediately boarded another plane to Digby Island. After arriving, I walked to the bus parked near the terminal. The day was gray and, to me, very cold, Canada’s version of early spring. To eyes used to bright tropical greens and purples and blues, the dark greens and browns and yellows looked muted. The airport was a ghost town—not a soul in sight except my fellow passengers, the two flight attendants, and the bus drivers waiting by their buses. The plane I’d just left was the only plane in the airport. OK, I thought as I boarded the bus. This is a small town, but who knows what Prince Rupert is like? Maybe that’s where the action is.

After a short ride, the bus drove onto a ferry. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to the small commercial area of downtown Prince Rupert. It was not what I was expecting. There was not a giant neon-lit billboard in sight, no skyscrapers, no loud music or honking cars. It was quiet, really quiet, and the buildings were short and plain. Without a word, the other passengers took their luggage and disappeared. I got off the bus and scanned the area, feeling disappointed and totally lost. Luckily, there was a counter with an official-looking woman sitting behind it. I approached her, and, in my broken English, said something along the lines of, “I am a refugee. I have just arrived.” I handed her the piece of paper with my uncle’s home phone number. She took it and dialed, talked for a minute, then hung up. “He said, ‘See you in a couple minutes,’” she reported.

Two minutes later, a little boy—my cousin, Shimmer, whom I’d never met—rode up on his bike and screeched to a halt in front of me. Uncle Nam, my mother’s younger brother, arrived less than a minute later in a station wagon. I was confused and a little bit sad; I’d expected to be overjoyed but didn’t feel happy one bit.

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