A Detour from the American Dream

By Annie Chu

I didn’t learn until later in life that my mom’s original dream was to move to the United States.

In the late 1980s, my mom became the manager of an American fashion company’s overseas headquarters in Taipei, Taiwan. She quickly adopted the big permed hair, leather pants, and shoulder pads to match her position, along with the notion that moving to a city like Seattle, or even better, glamorous Los Angeles, would prove to everyone that she had truly “made it.”

But after several long discussions with my dad, and many bureaucratic obstacles while dealing with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, it became clear that Canada had a lower barrier to entry and friendlier policies. With me and my baby sister in tow, my parents packed up their life in Taiwan and set out for Vancouver, British Columbia—just “for a little while.”

I remember feeling very scared during the first days of kindergarten. I didn’t know the language. I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t know anything about the Tooth Fairy or Sesame Street. My mom remembers the pain of dropping me off and seeing every hand in the circle go up except mine because I didn’t understand what my teacher was asking.

But she also remembers how quickly my teacher paired me with a buddy to help me quietly figure out the classroom instructions. How quickly she realized how much I loved art, and found ways to praise and display my drawings and paintings without using any words at all. Within weeks, her quiet five-year-old had found her voice again, happily singing songs about teddy bear picnics and Thanksgiving turkeys.

A few months later, I was placed in a special ESL program that required me to take a school bus to another district two days a week. My bus driver must have sensed how hard it was for my mom to let go of my hand and took it upon himself to make me feel comfortable, teaching me knock-knock jokes bit by bit.

I remember going from being afraid of the sound of the bus to racing toward it, excited to tell him a joke I had finally mastered. My mom remembers the steady kindness of a bus driver who made us both feel safe.

Next came Brownies, and my first overnight camp. As expected, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling painfully homesick. But one of the Owls (our volunteer parent leaders) found me, made me a warm cup of milk, and sat with me doing crafts until I forgot why I was upset. She never called home. She simply stayed with me.

I remember the pride I felt afterward, and how that weekend became one of the best memories of my childhood. My mom remembers the relief of seeing me return, hand-in-hand with that same Owl—her own daughter on one side, and me on the other. Somewhere along the way, we realized we had a new community.

That first year was full of moments like that. While she learned to bake blueberry muffins for the class party (something “business mom” had never done before), she continued to take calls from American immigration officials asking whether we were still working toward moving to the U.S. A few more questions. A few more delays.

We eventually found a beautiful home with a big backyard, a treehouse, and space for a rose garden. The front yard even had a rock garden, where the previous owner (a geologist) had hidden little treasures when he learned two curious little girls would be moving in. We strung popcorn and cranberries for our first Christmas tree, and left cookies for Santa beside our very first fireplace. We had potlucks with our neighbours, and picnics with our friends.

So, the next time American immigration called, just as my mom was helping her two daughters make their first attempt at paper mâché, she turned to my dad and asked:

“Remind me again why we’re still trying to move to the U.S.?”

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Annie Chu is a lawyer and writer currently based in Toronto, Canada. You'll usually find her musing about her adventures in culinary culture over at Chu on This.