| Eulogy for Yiu Tong Lam |
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By Jse-Che Lam Toronto, Ontario My Dad was a man who read Canadian Tire flyers religiously and who taught his children to be foodies. The Chinese have this saying, “May you live in interesting times.” My father certainly did. He was born during the 1930s, a momentous decade in world history. As a child, he endured great hardship during the Japanese occupation of China, losing his beloved grandfather to Imperial Japanese soldiers when they took numerous men from the village on a forced march. As the eldest son, he did as his parents expected and sacrificed his schooling in order to work and contribute financially to his family. Dad took his role as the eldest son seriously. He truly believed that he held great responsibility over the well-being of his younger brothers and sisters. Years later, he would sponsor them to Canada once he had established himself in Toronto. There is a creased photograph that Dad has kept of his youth taken with his two of his younger brothers. This picture truly shows what a lovely human being he was, even as a teenager. Days before his death, Dad confided in his youngest brother his dream of becoming an English teacher. This was a secret never before revealed to anyone. As a young man, Dad believed that teaching, one of the most honourable professions to the Chinese, would free him from the unrelenting poverty of his childhood. During the 1950s, qualifying as a teacher in Hong Kong was difficult. Public schools were scarce and tuition for private schools was out of reach for a family that was just scraping by. One of Dad’s escapes as a teenager was going to the movies. He chose English films to reinforce what he learned in his ESL classes. He introduced his youngest brother, Mike, to The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and allowed him to sit in his lap when other customers complained of the child’s presence. Children at the time got in for free as long as they didn’t occupy a seat. On my parents’ first date, they saw Dr. Zhivago. Mom was far more impressed with my father than she was with Bolsheviks in love. A glamorous looking woman, she could have married into a moneyed family but instead valued decency and integrity. She recognized in her future husband, a man with strong principles and wisely chose him as her life partner. Coming to Canada was probably the bravest and most unselfish acts Dad undertook. With only $100 to his name, a young wife, and an infant daughter, he had arrived in a place far from all that was familiar and comfortable. His first job was as a Chinese tailor but work was scarce. After working as a porter at Toronto Western Hospital, he trained at George Brown’s culinary school. He eventually retired from the City of Toronto with 29 years of service, having worked at Seaton House Men’s hostel for many of those years. People often assume that if you’re from Hong Kong, your life was one of privilege and wealth. We most certainly were not rich nor moneyed. Financial stability was possible because my parents were post-war survivors who had known abject poverty; they knew how to live frugally and modestly. When I returned to our old neighbourhood in 1996, I was aghast to see how impoverished the area was. This was the Hong Kong equivalent of Jane and Finch. A little girl came up to me and asked for money to call home. At 8 years old, life had already defeated this child. That could have been me. When I arrived back in Canada, my first words to Dad were, “Thank you for getting us out of there.” He introduced me to the power of the written word. As a kid, Dad took me to the library on weekends so that I could have my fill of children’s books. We read aloud together and this led to my lifelong love of books and my ambitions to become a writer. When Dad was in palliative care, I brought books that my brother and I read aloud to him, just like old times. There was something very satisfying in being able to do this for him. One remembrance about my father is his genuine desire to be involved and helpful. This came up numerous times when I was trying to assert my own culinary presence—he was the master chef and I was the renegade soul chef trying to find my own personality through food. I always likened our relationship to Ang Lee’s movie, Eat Drink Man Woman where a master chef finds himself relating to his daughters through elaborate rituals involving food. And when I totalled my first car after skidding over black ice, Dad’s sage advice was to purchase a solid American car, like his own Buick. I declined. I wasn’t ready to drive an old guy’s car. Instead, I purchased another Japanese car, something that I could parallel park with some proficiency. As with many father-daughter relationships, Dad and I were quite often, categorically and diametrically opposed on many issues. This led to many amusing discussions in the past, especially ones that revealed our different approaches to life. Dad’s decision to finally sell his car was momentous. He knew even if we didn’t, that time was not on his side. The cancer was destroying his body. The car itself held little sentimental or material value. Dad wasn’t big on driving. He never took his car on the highway. One time, my brother drove the Buick on the 401 and much to his horror; one of the hubcaps flew off and sped past the car. I’m not sure if he was foolishly street racingstreet racing the Buick but we never heard the end of this one, especially given how there was no way we could retrieve a runaway hubcap. Dad wanted to keep his freedom. He wasn’t ready to let go of his car, selling it only when he recognized that he would never drive again. Dad knew that his illness was serious; he wouldn’t have let me sell the car for him if he believed otherwise. What tempered the sadness of this situation was the fact that the buyer was purchasing the car for his retired father, a Buick aficionado just like Dad. Dad approved very much of such an expression of filial duty. I hadn’t realized that this car had been so much a part of my father’s identity as an individual. A car is the modern day equivalent of a knight’s armour. Surrendering this car was an admission of defeat. My father fought his illness hard, refusing to give in easily. Despite declining health, Dad was undaunted in his determination to show up at my cousin’s wedding. He made it in spite of great difficulties navigating stairs and the need for constant bed rest. I was preparing to tell my cousin why Dad didn’t make it to his special day and Dad surprised us all by showing up. We were even competing for the best vantage point when photographing the wedding. Dad wasn’t someone who would tell you that he loved you; this is not the Chinese way. Instead, he let his actions express his affections. He would bake you an apple pie, peanut butter cookies, make a Sunday roast, wash your car, teach you about aperture and exposure or give meticulous instructions on how to cook a meal. He was a perfectionist but the precision in how he did something spoke volumes about how he felt about you. If you were his guest at dinner, you could be sure that you would not leave the table until you (and he) were fully satiated. My brother and I have spent lots of days with Dad, reminiscing about our time together. As a beginning driver, my brother took Dad’s first car, a Buick Regal, out to visit a friend who must have had the neighbourhood’s narrowest driveway. As he was backing out, he managed to scrape the passenger side of the car, leaving telltale yellow marks that he tried desperately to get rid of. There was no fixing this one; unless he had a DIY auto collision kit, this was a lost cause. From the hospital room, I could see the landscape of my childhood—Regent Park, the Riverdale Zoo, now farm, the best toboaggan hills in Toronto;, the pathway across the Don Valley. These are landmarks that I see every day during my commute but they echoed loudly how far we had all travelled from very modest roots as a working class immigrant family. I’ve only seen my father cry twice—once was when my mother was in the hospital and the other time was when he was told that he will ould be going into palliative care. I know that we have all shed many tears over this loss and will feel this in the years to come. Dad, I know that the last few months of your life often caused you frustration because you lost your independence and the thought of being dependent on so many people broke your spirit. However, those who have come today to share in our grief and to celebrate your life recognize that you leave behind a strong legacy for those who loved you. For Mom, he was solely the most constant and reliable person in her life. For my brother, he was someone who set a high standard on how one should conduct himself. For me, he taught me never to be reckless about friendships and to always honour one’s promise. Nothing matters more than keeping one’s word. I’ll remember Dad as a man who practised generosity, humility, and decency. The world was left a much better place because here was someone whose wealth was measured in the love of his family and the abundance at the dinner table. In refusing to accept less, he created an expectation of moral rectitude that was sometimes difficult to master. His absence has created an inconsolable grief but his solid belief in family thrives. Background InformationThis was adapted from the eulogy that I delivered at my father’s funeral in 2007. There are so many stories about the Chinese Diaspora, all of them unique and precious to those who tell them. My father was a reticent man of tradition but he also strongly believed that class and gender should not be obstacles to attaining one’s goals or receiving a decent education. Immigrating to Canada gave him the opportunity to finally complete his education and go on to work steadily for the City of Toronto. This is dedicated to his memory. Jse-Che Lam immigrated to Canada from Hong Kong when she was 13 months old. One of the sad truths about being a child of immigrants is realizing that you become a hybrid citizen of two worlds and often a stranger in both. The discovery of such writers as Amy Tan, Judy Fong Bates, and Ha Jin finally empowered her to believe that one can conquer the problems of cultural duality and displacement through writing. Nothing is worse than losing one’s place and voice. She makes her home in Toronto where she is a high school teacher and opinion-editorial writer. |
