Xinyao Zhang - Active Voice

Inside my old, empty apartment in Toronto after a confusing day of school, my 11-year-old self overheard my parents on Facetime in a heated discussion regarding our immigration process, where I overheard the words "moving away" not even two years since I was last faced with them. My mother immediately berated my father for speaking too loud, reassuring me that it was nothing, despite our unspoken realization. I remember the immediate wash of fear and subsequent abhorrence after already tolerating the excruciating transition from home to Canada. Though I was still isolated from Western culture and my peers, I'd rather slowly adapt myself to reality than be stripped away from the precarious embracement of stability once more.

The nights that followed this revelation were nothing short of a blur. The sense of alienation was already overwhelming due to my disorientated family who were abruptly separated and my mother's struggles of being away from her real life. Along with my own estrangement from the community, nothing welcomed the additional variable of my biggest nemesis at the time — change. I resented the adults' decision to ruin the progress I painstakingly built. Their reasoning that Whitehorse would introduce kinder people, increased opportunities for work, and long-term benefits of immigration, did not matter to the younger me. Despite finally finding acquaintances in the second semester during Grade 6, I found it to be more agonizing than enjoyable.

As if the universe rebutted my childish tantrum, I encountered various conflicts in my social groups at the end of the school year. With my lack of experience in a brand new system of values and social norms, I was faced with circumstances which I had no clue how to navigate. At the peak of this stress, I was struck with an absurd notion — an epiphany. I thought that leaving everything behind, including my mistakes, the negative influence of my peers, and my mother's loneliness in a big city, would be the only viable solution. 

Indeed, the solitude city of Whitehorse was almost comedic compared to the hustle of Toronto. However, its serene environment which invites a connection between one's spirit and land was necessary to stabilize our scarred conditions. On my mother's first week in Whitehorse, she found a job and a small circle of friends at Asahiya who warmly welcomed her to the community. As for me, I began to attend school at FH Collins. 

Though the people and drama I encountered were the same as it would be anywhere teenagers gathered, I found people who shared similar experiences as myself, who understood the seclusion of being thrusted into unfamiliarity and stepped away from the mayhem of concentrated civilization. This time around, I reflected on the past and began to focus on the landscape around me more than its superficial facets. Whitehorse taught me more about Indigenous culture and Canadian history than any city would've due to its historical richness. It introduced me to genuine people, opportunities, education, and time to clarify my identity in the midst of struggle and disorder.