学区房与唐人街:两个起点的距离
2025-06-16 10:37 来源:SGSG
一
灰蒙蒙的四月,飞机舱门一开,一股冰凉干净的空气扑面而来。我紧紧拉着母亲的手,脚步踌躇,却又隐隐期待。那年我十四岁,从福州一所重点中学转出,还没来得及和同桌道别,就被父亲的一纸签证带到了加拿大。
温哥华的天灰得像一场尚未醒来的梦。机场里的标识和广播,尽是我听不懂的英文。我唯一能握住的,是母亲掌心的温度,还有父亲脸上那不自然的微笑——那个曾在福州意气风发的男人,如今在唐人街当起了洗碗工。
我们租住在老乡附近的一室公寓,位于唐人街的边缘地带。楼道斑驳,电梯里贴满了粤语和简体字的告示。窗外,是旧砖墙和闪烁的霓虹灯,还有褪色的“点心早茶”广告。我不敢一个人出门,夜里常听见楼下传来争吵声。
周围的环境总是嘈杂。晚上是刺耳的警笛声,凌晨是垃圾车轰鸣驶过的声音。陌生人在深夜里争吵,楼下常有流浪汉推着购物车穿行,铁轮与地面摩擦的声音刺耳又沉重。即使是白天,我也不敢独自外出。
对面是一户装修干净的华人家庭,女儿是班上的尖子生,父亲是老师。他们家的窗帘总在夜里透出柔和的灯光,如同提醒我,那是我们曾经拥有,或从未真正拥有过的生活。
而我还记得,在福州的邻居也是老师。他在本地知名中学教书,每周末会和父亲打羽毛球,回来还顺便送上一袋新鲜的橄榄。那个社区安静而体面,邻里之间点头寒暄,生活井然有序,像是“向上”的一部分。
但在温哥华的这栋公寓楼里,邻居常常是刚出狱的人、酗酒的中年人,或依靠救济度日的老人。走廊弥漫着烟味与速食的味道,有人整夜敲墙,有人清晨大喊大叫。我常常感到不安,哪怕门外一声响动,也会让我心惊胆跳。
恐惧像雾气一样在心中弥漫。语言不通,环境混乱,身份的落差赤裸裸地显现出来。如果不是父母在身边,我的精神大概早已崩溃。我像是踩在一根绷紧的钢索上,在惊恐与麻木之间小心维持着平衡,假装一切安然无恙。
曾经,我的世界是医生、教师、公司老板;而现在,是贫民、拾荒者和沉默的房东。世界没变,是我的位置掉了下去。
但我还记得,在福州的时候,我们家住在一套明亮的五居室学区房,靠近博物馆和重点中学。每天清晨,校门口挤满了穿校服的孩子和一脸疲惫的家长。我的书包上挂着奖牌,家中墙上是一排排奖杯。父亲总说:“再熬几年,你就能进重点大学。”
二唐人街的公寓里没有书桌,我只能把作业摊在厨房的小圆桌上。身旁,是母亲洗菜的水声和父亲间或传来的咳嗽。他们从不吵架,但沉默像厚重的墙,把我们隔在各自的世界里。
学校里,我是ESL班最沉默的那个。同学们谈明星、派对、Netflix,而我连一本英文书都读不顺。我知道自己语法全错,却不说、不问、不求助,只是低头,一笔一划把字母写在练习册上。
一天傍晚,我放学回家,在超市门口看到父亲蹲在路边,翻着打折传单。他戴着帽子,低着头,一手拿着手机,屏幕上是贷款计算器。
我站在街角,想起福州那间阳光透过百叶窗的书房,想起那个安静写作业的自己。那一刻我明白,那栋学区房不仅是一个住处,更是一种承诺:你可以向上。
而这里,这间唐人街的公寓,是一处临时的庇护所。一个没有起跑线的地方。一个必须靠自己铺路的地方。
爸爸后来离开了,经济的压力随之而来。为了节省房租,我们搬到了一个更破旧、离流浪汉更近的地方。为了减轻家庭的负担,十六岁的我开始在麦当劳打工,做收银员和服务员。
那种割裂感让我情绪低落,却也只能低头继续把工作做下去。当我站在洗碗池前拿起一只脏盘子时,才真正体会到那个曾经号令几十号员工的男人,是如何在异国他乡的厨房里,默默忍受那份屈辱和挣扎。
恐惧和抑郁不断蔓延,那是一种无声却不得不接受的牺牲。我常常在黑漆漆的夜里下班,走过流浪汉横行的街区,穿过破败的巷子,才回到那间狭小、潮湿、有异味的家。而那个邻居家的女孩,五点准时被爸妈接回家,从未见过夜晚的样子。
三
温哥华的天灰得像一场尚未醒来的梦。机场里的标识和广播,尽是我听不懂的英文。我唯一能握住的,是母亲掌心的温度,还有父亲脸上那不自然的微笑——那个曾在福州意气风发的男人,如今在唐人街当起了洗碗工。
我们租住在老乡附近的一室公寓,位于唐人街的边缘地带。楼道斑驳,电梯里贴满了粤语和简体字的告示。窗外,是旧砖墙和闪烁的霓虹灯,还有褪色的“点心早茶”广告。我不敢一个人出门,夜里常听见楼下传来争吵声。
周围的环境总是嘈杂。晚上是刺耳的警笛声,凌晨是垃圾车轰鸣驶过的声音。陌生人在深夜里争吵,楼下常有流浪汉推着购物车穿行,铁轮与地面摩擦的声音刺耳又沉重。即使是白天,我也不敢独自外出。
对面是一户装修干净的华人家庭,女儿是班上的尖子生,父亲是老师。他们家的窗帘总在夜里透出柔和的灯光,如同提醒我,那是我们曾经拥有,或从未真正拥有过的生活。
而我还记得,在福州的邻居也是老师。他在本地知名中学教书,每周末会和父亲打羽毛球,回来还顺便送上一袋新鲜的橄榄。那个社区安静而体面,邻里之间点头寒暄,生活井然有序,像是“向上”的一部分。
但在温哥华的这栋公寓楼里,邻居常常是刚出狱的人、酗酒的中年人,或依靠救济度日的老人。走廊弥漫着烟味与速食的味道,有人整夜敲墙,有人清晨大喊大叫。我常常感到不安,哪怕门外一声响动,也会让我心惊胆跳。
恐惧像雾气一样在心中弥漫。语言不通,环境混乱,身份的落差赤裸裸地显现出来。如果不是父母在身边,我的精神大概早已崩溃。我像是踩在一根绷紧的钢索上,在惊恐与麻木之间小心维持着平衡,假装一切安然无恙。
曾经,我的世界是医生、教师、公司老板;而现在,是贫民、拾荒者和沉默的房东。世界没变,是我的位置掉了下去。
但我还记得,在福州的时候,我们家住在一套明亮的五居室学区房,靠近博物馆和重点中学。每天清晨,校门口挤满了穿校服的孩子和一脸疲惫的家长。我的书包上挂着奖牌,家中墙上是一排排奖杯。父亲总说:“再熬几年,你就能进重点大学。”
二唐人街的公寓里没有书桌,我只能把作业摊在厨房的小圆桌上。身旁,是母亲洗菜的水声和父亲间或传来的咳嗽。他们从不吵架,但沉默像厚重的墙,把我们隔在各自的世界里。
学校里,我是ESL班最沉默的那个。同学们谈明星、派对、Netflix,而我连一本英文书都读不顺。我知道自己语法全错,却不说、不问、不求助,只是低头,一笔一划把字母写在练习册上。
一天傍晚,我放学回家,在超市门口看到父亲蹲在路边,翻着打折传单。他戴着帽子,低着头,一手拿着手机,屏幕上是贷款计算器。
我站在街角,想起福州那间阳光透过百叶窗的书房,想起那个安静写作业的自己。那一刻我明白,那栋学区房不仅是一个住处,更是一种承诺:你可以向上。
而这里,这间唐人街的公寓,是一处临时的庇护所。一个没有起跑线的地方。一个必须靠自己铺路的地方。
爸爸后来离开了,经济的压力随之而来。为了节省房租,我们搬到了一个更破旧、离流浪汉更近的地方。为了减轻家庭的负担,十六岁的我开始在麦当劳打工,做收银员和服务员。
那种割裂感让我情绪低落,却也只能低头继续把工作做下去。当我站在洗碗池前拿起一只脏盘子时,才真正体会到那个曾经号令几十号员工的男人,是如何在异国他乡的厨房里,默默忍受那份屈辱和挣扎。
恐惧和抑郁不断蔓延,那是一种无声却不得不接受的牺牲。我常常在黑漆漆的夜里下班,走过流浪汉横行的街区,穿过破败的巷子,才回到那间狭小、潮湿、有异味的家。而那个邻居家的女孩,五点准时被爸妈接回家,从未见过夜晚的样子。
三
几年后,我们搬出了唐人街,我考上了大专,成为家里第一个在加拿大读大学的人。
但我始终忘不了那个春天。忘不了和父亲一起看房价的夜晚,忘不了母亲凌晨归家的脚步声,忘不了那个在厨房角落偷偷哭泣的晚上,还有隔墙飘来的老粤语歌声。
我开始写小说。写父亲洗碗时疲惫的背影,写那套被卖掉的学区房,写那个在公寓窗边,用字典一点点啃完一本英文小说的自己。
我写下这一行字:
“我从父母给予的阶层通行证中走出,在异国的角落,慢慢学会了为自己造桥。”
但我始终忘不了那个春天。忘不了和父亲一起看房价的夜晚,忘不了母亲凌晨归家的脚步声,忘不了那个在厨房角落偷偷哭泣的晚上,还有隔墙飘来的老粤语歌声。
我开始写小说。写父亲洗碗时疲惫的背影,写那套被卖掉的学区房,写那个在公寓窗边,用字典一点点啃完一本英文小说的自己。
我写下这一行字:
“我从父母给予的阶层通行证中走出,在异国的角落,慢慢学会了为自己造桥。”
I“Catchment Homes and Chinatown: The Distance Between Two Starting Lines”
I
On a gray April day, as the airplane door opened, a gust of cold, crisp air rushed in. I held tightly to my mother’s hand, my steps hesitant but tinged with quiet hope. I was fourteen that year. I had just transferred out of a top middle school in Fuzhou, not even having the chance to say goodbye to my deskmate, before my father’s visa papers brought us to Canada.
The Vancouver sky was gray, like a dream that hadn’t yet woken up. The airport signs and announcements were in English—language I didn’t understand. The only thing I could hold onto was the warmth of my mother’s palm and the unnatural smile on my father’s face—the same man who once strode through Fuzhou with confidence, now working as a dishwasher in Chinatown.
We rented a one-bedroom apartment near acquaintances, on the edge of Chinatown. The hallways were worn, the elevator plastered with notices in Cantonese and simplified Chinese. Outside our window stood old brick walls, flickering neon lights, and faded ads for dim sum. I didn’t dare go out alone. At night, we often heard shouting from downstairs.
The environment was always noisy. At night, it was sirens; at dawn, garbage trucks roaring past. Strangers yelled in the dark, and homeless men pushed shopping carts beneath our window, the wheels scraping loudly against concrete. Even during the day, I didn’t feel safe going out alone.
Across the street lived a clean and orderly Chinese family. Their daughter was a top student in my class; her father was a teacher. Their curtains glowed with warm light every night, a soft reminder of a life we once had—or perhaps never truly had.
Back in Fuzhou, our neighbor had also been a teacher. He taught at a well-known local high school and played badminton with my father on weekends, often bringing over a bag of fresh olives. That neighborhood was quiet and dignified, where neighbors greeted each other with polite nods, and life moved in calm, upward rhythms.
But in this Vancouver apartment building, our neighbors were often ex-convicts, alcoholics, or elderly people surviving on welfare. The hallways smelled of smoke and instant noodles. Some banged on walls at night; others shouted in the early morning. I lived in constant unease. Even the slightest sound outside our door could send my heart racing.
Fear hung in the air like fog. The language barrier, the chaotic surroundings, the stark shift in social status—all of it was painfully clear. Without my parents beside me, I might have mentally collapsed. I felt like I was walking a tightrope, barely balancing between terror and numbness, pretending everything was okay.
My world used to be filled with doctors, teachers, and company bosses. Now, it was the poor, scavengers, and silent landlords. The world hadn’t changed—my place in it had dropped.
I still remembered our bright five-bedroom catchment home in Fuzhou, near a museum and a top school. Every morning, the school gate bustled with uniformed children and tired-looking parents. My backpack held medals, and the walls of our home were lined with trophies. My father would always say: “Just a few more years—you’ll get into a top university.”
II
In our Chinatown apartment, there was no desk. I did my homework on a small kitchen table. Beside me were the sounds of my mother washing vegetables and my father’s occasional cough. They never argued, but a heavy silence stood between us, walling us off into our own worlds.
At school, I was the quietest one in the ESL class. My classmates talked about celebrities, parties, and Netflix. I couldn’t even finish an English book smoothly. I knew my grammar was all wrong, but I didn’t speak up, didn’t ask, didn’t seek help. I just kept my head down, writing each letter slowly into my workbook.
One evening after school, I saw my father crouching outside a supermarket, flipping through discount flyers. He wore a cap, head bowed, phone in one hand—on the screen was a loan calculator.
Standing on the street corner, I thought of the study room in Fuzhou, where sunlight filtered through the blinds, and of the quiet, focused girl I once was. In that moment, I understood: that catchment house wasn’t just a place to live—it was a promise. A promise that you could rise.
But here, this Chinatown apartment was merely a shelter. A place without a starting line. A place where you had to pave your own road from scratch.
Eventually, my father left. Financial pressure soon followed. To save on rent, we moved to an even shabbier place, closer to where the homeless gathered. At sixteen, I started working at McDonald’s to help ease the family burden—cashier, server, whatever they needed.
The sense of dislocation made me feel emotionally drained, but I kept my head down and worked. Standing at the dish pit, scrubbing dirty plates, I finally began to understand what it must have felt like for my father—a man who once led dozens of employees—to endure that silent humiliation in a foreign kitchen.
Fear and depression spread slowly—quiet, but inescapable. I often returned home late at night, walking past homeless encampments, through broken alleys, to our small, damp, musty-smelling apartment. Meanwhile, the girl across the street was picked up by her parents every day at 5 p.m.—never having to see the night.
III
Years later, we moved out of Chinatown. I got into college and became the first in my family to attend a post-secondary school in Canada.
But I never forgot that spring. I never forgot the nights spent with my father looking up housing prices, the sound of my mother’s footsteps returning home at dawn, or that evening I cried silently in the kitchen corner—while old Cantonese songs drifted through the walls.
I began writing stories. Stories about my father’s hunched back at the sink. About the catchment home we sold. About the girl by the apartment window, using a dictionary to get through a single English novel, word by word.
I wrote this line:
“I stepped away from the class passport my parents gave me—and in the corner of a foreign land, slowly learned to build my own bridge.”