Yejia Zhang is a second-generation Chinese Canadian studying Medicine in Ontario, Canada. She seeks to use the arts to explore pluralism and eventually inform her future practice. For her, stories are crucial to illuminating the complexity of people and their differing needs in a field that is intrinsically human.
The Cyclical Nature of Everything
On July 1st at 10 p.m., my father drives me to the Toronto Pearson Airport. Unlike the interaction that would have unfolded a couple of years prior, the hour becomes filled with chatter.
“I really recommend visiting Huangshan, or Yellow Mountain, someday. Your mother and I had our honeymoon there.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, having heard the stories mentioned but not having the associations needed to etch each distinct place into memory. “What was it like?”
“We took a nine-hour bus to get there, stopping in Anhui along the way to eat. The place didn’t even have running water, but the food was delicious. We met two girls along the way and quickly became friends – we were young then, so it was easy.”
I know that my father, who only ever complained about not being able to provide more for us, would not have had it any other way. As the freeway takes us arching high above the ground, before us emerges a vast sea of lights speckled with fireworks for Canada Day.
“The mountain was beautiful,” he continues, “but accommodations at the top were very expensive, and we had no money. So your mother and I got bundled up and spent the night in a cafeteria. Even then, we were very happy.”
I imagine two figures laughing amid food scraps and crumbs, just married, dirt poor, and full of life.
“Did you actually fall asleep?”
“Of course, right there on the ground. And we woke up the next morning to see the sunrise.”
“It must’ve been breathtaking.”
“It was. There’s a name for the five most beautiful mountains in China, called 五岳. But they say that if you go to Huangshan, you won’t even want to see the five.”
I listen in awe as images fill my mind and colour the blackness of the night. Without a sense of time, we pull into the airport parking lot. He helps me bring my luggage inside and reminds me for the umpteenth time not to lose my passport.
“Text me when you pass security, and then I’ll leave,” he assures me. “And remember to update us regularly throughout your trip.”
I vigorously affirm his every instruction, aware of the disputes my parents had over my safety and the paranoia my father had to overcome for me to now find myself in this airport.
When it’s time to go, I find it difficult to part ways – it always is, because the journey is always a long one. But this time I stand confidently to reassure him of the trust he put in me, and take a step toward a home full of characters I cannot read.
“See you in two months,” I say, and heave my bags onto my shoulder.
I imagine my parents at the top of the mountain, starry-eyed and eager to see the world. Waving goodbye, I pass through the gates.