Warrior

Dear readers, today's journey takes us back to my childhood home in Kitsilano, where I unravel a narrative that threads through my mother's kitchen, my father's garden, an unhinged tenant, and my love of literature.

Not long ago, I found myself driving around Kitsilano, drawn back to the neighbourhood of my youth. There, standing largely unchanged, was my childhood home on 7th Avenue. The white picket fence, my father Nicolas' grapevines, and the hydrangeas seemed to transport me back in time, reminding me of a harrowing experience as a latch-key kid of 12 — a confrontation with a disturbed tenant who rented our tiny basement suite.

Outside, people knew me simply as Nick's precocious daughter. But within our family, I wore many hats: translator, interpreter, and often the voice for my parents as they navigated their new lives.

One day, that voice trembled with fear but held its ground as I stood firm, keeping a door shut between me and a raging tenant who had locked himself out, as I insisted, “No, I won't open the door. You have to wait for Nick.” My young fingers dialing 911, the reassuring voice on the other end, and the eventual arrival of the police who removed the drug-afflicted tenant are all still fresh in my mind.

My childhood home on 7th Avenue was more than just a residence. It was a sanctuary for many, including a rotating cast of basement tenants and relatives recently arrived from Greece. They sought refuge and a fresh start, much like my parents had. The aroma of my mother, Evangelia's, Greek cooking wafted through the air, intermingling with the scents of my father, Nicolas' garden. The walls echoed with music, laughter, and animated voices in two languages, as well as the stories of those who, much like my parents, were finding their place in a new land.

The depth of these experiences and the role I played in my parents' lives didn't become fully apparent until I stumbled upon Maxine Hong Kingston's ‘The Woman Warrior’ during my university years. It was a required reading for my American literature class and little did I know that it would become a pivotal moment in my journey of self-discovery.

As I immersed myself in Kingston's recollections, I found myself drawn to the powerful scene in “A Western Palace” that takes place at the pharmacy. In this vivid episode, Kingston delicately explores the interplay of cultures and identities. It's a seemingly simple act: she asks for candy. Yet, within that act lies a message about the delicate balance of maintaining cultural traditions while navigating the expectations of a Western world.

Each trip to the pharmacy/store becomes a subtle negotiation, a dance between her mother's Chinese tradition — the belief that for every bitter medicine, there must be sweetness to counteract it — and the assumptions of the American pharmacist/shopkeeper. Kingston’s stories recalled my own experiences as a child straddling two worlds, trying to balance the expectations of my Greek heritage with the realities of life in Canada.

Many, many years later, as I sifted through the rubble of my marriage, therapy introduced me to the term 'parentification'. It wasn't merely a clinical term; it revealed the depth of my role as the linchpin in my parents' integration journey. In being their protective shield against the overwhelming complexities of Canadian life, I had unwittingly given up fragments of my own innocence and childhood.

Both Kingston's narrative and mine underscore a shared experience of children caught between two cultures. These stories highlight not only the challenges faced but also our resilience and adaptability. Looking back, I’ve come to appreciate every experience, every lesson.

They've made me who I am — a warrior in my own right.