This story holds a special place in my heart — It connected me to my first circle of readers, initially strangers from the online world. Over time, these bonds transcended the digital realm, evolving into real-life adventures. One of these meetings was a meandering journey to the Seda Monastery, a remote Tibetan Buddhist school, attended by tens of thousands of devout students. Atop the valley made burgundy by its many painted walls, I watched scavenger birds orbiting a sky burial site, their flight paths etching circles in the sky. These experiences shaped me and fostered my identity beyond the confines of my insulated nuclear family.
Tall Grass was written in the narrow space between the cash register counter and a wall lined with cigarettes in my father's shop. The circumstances of my family were far from unique; countless immigrant families took to managing small corner stores, a trope so familiar it was the premise of a sitcom, Kim's Convenience. I cannot tell whether it depicted the experience accurately, for it was a mirror held too close for me to bear.
My high school weekends were spent working shifts at the store. I worked at the register while my parents procured stock from wholesalers and large outlets. The store, stranded in time, was stubbornly outdated. The opening and closing of sliding fridge doors, the persistent beeping of the lottery ticket machine, and the metal clanging of the old cash register filled my days. On the rare occasions when we found ourselves together in the store, my mother would be engrossed in cleaning while my father restocked the refrigerators. Amid the sour smell of discarded beer cans and bottles awaiting recycling, I would heat our packed meals in the microwave tucked in the back room. Then, under the veil of what always felt like endless winter nights, we would shut the store and make our way back home.
Those were not great years for my family. My parents lacked the entrepreneurial spirit, and I suspected my father held an overt distaste for the trade. Once, some non-regulars passed by the store, trying to claim the deposits on several boxes of beer bottles. As a perfect anti-example of customer service, my father pretended to not understand what they were saying and refused to communicate, because he didn’t find it worth his while to take in their bottles. An ex-bureaucrat in China, he found himself managing a convenience store because it was the only job accessible to him. He adopted silence as his shield against difficult customers, my mother's persistent nagging, and the monotonous rhythm of his everyday routine.
In contrast, my mother found solace by retreating into busyness. She would tirelessly clean and organise, imposing order over her surroundings. When there was nothing left to be arranged, she would immerse herself in medical research papers, diligently learning new words and their translations. The irony of her struggle with remembering the word "pineapple", despite her ability to understand complex medical jargon, was not lost on us. Despite not being the face of her research work at conferences and workshops, she was at least using some of her training as a gastroenterologist, unlike my father.
In the shop, my father set up a desktop computer to distract himself from the hours he spent alone. In his absence, I found myself doing the same. Surrounded by lottery tickets and jars of sweets, I gave life to Tall Grass, weaving tales of a life far more compelling than mine. I wrote in Chinese, as my command of French (we lived in Montreal and I attended French-speaking schools because of Bill 101) was still nascent. At school, I remained mostly quiet, a silent observer unable to express myself as I wished. Like my father, I sought refuge in silence, choosing to pour my emotions into the written words instead, casting them adrift in the digital sea, hoping they would reach someone who could decipher my feelings.
My story, Tall Grass, was a mixed bag. On revising it recently, I found the execution of the plot device clumsy -- the narrator was a wanderer who explored unusual locales to collect stories and found themselves in the heart of the grassland. The central theme, borne of common adolescent frustrations, reflected the quasi-impossibility of meaningful communication. Yet, I understood why some readers connected with it. The writing, though naive, was powered by pure and potent emotions.
Whenever I reflect on my early writing days, I perceive my younger self as an older sister might view a younger sibling. I am deeply familiar with her struggles, yet she also feels distant, like a memory. In my mind’s eye, I watch her packing up and leaving home, building up the courage to trust that her parents would be fine after all, without her as a translator between them and the world. In the years since, I have honed my ability to express myself, yet, somewhere along the way, I have lost that raw desire to connect with others. Perhaps, I need to revisit my younger self to rekindle that longing.
