我不是你的父母,只是你们的长女
2025-06-16 14:55 来源:SGSG
来到异国他乡,移民的代价从不只是语言的沉默,也不只是对未来的恐惧。它更是一场关于家庭角色错位、权力转移与心理撕裂的重构。
我弟弟11岁那年,刚刚随我们从中国来到加拿大不久。他曾是福建一所重点小学年段前十的学生,戴着眼镜,沉静、乖巧。可来到温哥华的Strathcona小学后,一切都变了。语言的障碍、文化的断层、父亲的缺席,还有母亲在异国他乡独自撑起生活的艰难——这一切,在那个孩子稚嫩的肩上,迅速压出了裂痕。
有一天,他在学校走廊里被同学撞倒,重重地跌坐在地板上。父亲留给他的那副唯一眼镜被路过的学生一脚踩得粉碎。他试图爬起身来,小心翼翼地、磕磕绊绊地说了句:“Sorry。”回应他的,却是一阵起哄的笑声,以及一句直刺心脏的话:
“Go back to China.”
我是在母亲口中听到这个消息的。那时我16岁,坐在大学图书馆的一角,耳机还挂在耳边,手里的课本翻到一半,整个人却动弹不得。泪水在眼眶里打转,我却没有力气为弟弟说一句话。因为我知道,那种被语言围困、被身份排斥、被孤独吞没的感受,我自己也正在经历。
那一年,我还没真正搞懂BC省的教育系统,却已经被迫承担起家长的职责。没人告诉我,每一门暑期课程背后牵涉的时间、金钱和系统规则;没人指导我如何为弟弟申请夏校、转换课时、规划入学路径。我只能一遍一遍翻网页、打电话、查资料——在没有任何经验的情况下,为另一个人的未来做出决定。
弟弟后来对我产生了很多怨怼,说我没帮他选对课程,说我耽误了他跳级。可我想告诉他——我不是你的父母,我只是你的姐姐。
我甚至连自己的未来都还没规划好。那个年纪的我,刚刚收到高中英文成绩单,看着上面的等级低到让我无地自容。那张纸不是一张评定,而是一份羞辱。我放弃了要求家里为我投资大学教育的权利,把那份资源和期待让给了你。
可我换来什么?是你对我决定的指责,是父母把在工作上受的气转嫁给我,是我在家中始终无法被当作一个“孩子”来对待。
更没有人知道,那年我19岁的夏天,你在公园里被陌生人用小刀抵住胸口,只因为不愿交出身上的零用钱。警察做了笔录,但从始至终,我们家从未被告知后续结果。我们不知道嫌疑人有没有被抓,也不知道是否还会再次发生。我们甚至不知道该不该去追问、能不能追问。
我不知道那时候你是不是也在恐惧中煎熬。那年你刚长到170公分,是家里唯一的男孩,外人眼中的“男子汉”,其实还只是个心理尚未发育成熟的青少年。
就算你年纪轻轻就经历了生死之间的恐惧,就算你曾在公园里被同校年长少年劫持,刀尖抵在胸前,威胁要你交出身上那点零用钱——你从来没有在父母面前流过一滴眼泪。
你没有哭,也从未控诉。只是一次又一次,把那些惊恐和屈辱吞进肚子里。
我记得有一次深夜,我走过你卧室门口,脚步放得很轻。房门虚掩,房间黑暗,一点光都没有。但我听见了——一种几乎被咬碎的哭声。
你没有让它成为哀号,而是像在与自己角力的那种“呜呜”低泣,压抑到胸腔发闷,却不愿让任何人察觉。
我知道你在克制,你在隐忍。你不想给这个早已摇摇欲坠的家再增添一分负担。你宁愿一个人把这些伤口悄悄藏进黑夜。
而我,也一样。
我们都不是天真地追逐“出国梦”的孩子。我们太清楚,家里还有那两个总是在电话中为了经济争吵的父母:一个在厨房油烟中站十小时的母亲,一个在中国亲戚酒店里七天无休的父亲。
我们共同选择了牺牲自己的“光鲜未来”,只为了让这个家庭不要在我们的“要求”中倒下。
有时候我想,我们并不是“不够优秀”,也不是“不够上进”——我们只是太早学会了“退让”。我们退让,不是因为不想争取,而是因为我们已经明白:这个世界从不会为弱者的需求停下脚步。
所以我们沉默、我们不哭、我们拼命让自己看起来坚强——只为了让那两个为钱争吵的父母,少一点压力。
那时的妈妈在中餐馆做帮厨,一天站十几个小时,手肿脚肿却从不敢请假;父亲远在中国,在亲戚开的酒店做管理,七天无休,电话那头永远是责备与焦躁。
而面对你遭遇的暴力、我和母亲的沉默、父亲的远离——
我们只能咬牙忍受,继续过明天的日子。
我们只能咬牙忍受,继续过明天的日子。
因为我们不懂法律,不懂申诉,不知道如何为自己争取应有的知情权。我们害怕语言卡住的瞬间会换来白眼、被忽略,甚至被系统彻底排除在外。
我记得还有一次,我们家收到一份法院传票。整整几十页的英文文件摆在我们面前,父母一句也读不懂。我当时年纪还小,文化的隔阂、语言的断层,让我对那厚厚一叠纸充满恐惧。那不是普通的阅读材料——那是制度的门槛,是你必须穿越却没人为你指路的丛林。
我拿着那本破旧的英汉词典,一页一页地查,一行一行地译。我并不完全明白那些“法庭程序”“出庭答辩”意味着什么,但我记住了开庭的时间。我不知道你当时的心情如何,但我知道,一个青少年独自面对司法系统的恐惧,不该属于你的年龄。
你是家里唯一的男孩,是所有人默认的“担当者”。可谁知道,你在那栋冷冰冰的司法大楼门前,是怎么让自己不掉眼泪、怎么让自己不后退。你没有父母陪在身边,没有法律顾问,没有翻译员。你只有你自己。
而那一刻的我,还在学校里为你填着夏校申请表。想着:我能不能再努力一点,就能替你缓冲这个世界的冲撞。
可我终究只是你们的长女。不是父母,也不是救世主。
“I’m Not Your Parents—Just Your Older Sister”
Coming to a foreign land, the cost of immigration is never just the silence of language, nor merely the fear of an uncertain future. It is a reconstruction—a tearing apart—of roles within a family, a shift in power, and the quiet fracturing of the self.
My younger brother was just 11 when he arrived in Canada with us, not long after we left China. Back in Fujian, he had been a top student at one of the province’s best elementary schools—quiet, thoughtful, with glasses perched neatly on his nose. But everything changed when we arrived in Vancouver and he started attending Strathcona Elementary.
Language barriers. Cultural disconnection. The absence of our father. The weight our mother bore alone in a strange land—all of it pressed down on his young shoulders and began to split him open in places no one could see.
One day, he was shoved in the hallway by classmates and fell hard onto the floor. The only pair of glasses our father had left him were crushed under the feet of a passing student. My brother tried to pick himself up and quietly said, in broken English, “Sorry.”
What he got in return was a chorus of laughter—and a sentence that sliced straight through him:
“Go back to China.”
My mother told me this story later. I was sixteen at the time, sitting alone in a university library corner. I still had my headphones in. My textbook lay open in front of me, but my hands wouldn’t move. Tears welled in my eyes, but I couldn’t even cry. Because I knew exactly how he felt: lost in language, rejected by identity, suffocated by isolation.
That year, I hadn’t even figured out how British Columbia’s school system worked, yet I was already forced to take on the role of a parent. No one explained to me how summer school courses worked, how credit transfers functioned, or how to navigate the enrollment process. I had to learn everything—through websites, phone calls, email threads—just to piece together a future for someone else.
Later, my brother resented me. He said I didn’t pick the right courses for him. He said I held him back from skipping a grade. But what I wanted to tell him—what I still want to say—is this:
I’m not your parents. I’m just your sister.
I didn’t even have a roadmap for my own life. Around that time, I got my high school English transcript. The marks were so low, I wanted to disappear. That piece of paper wasn’t an assessment—it was a humiliation. I gave up asking our parents to invest in my education, and instead gave them permission—quietly, without words—to pour all their hope and money into you.
And in return?
I got your accusations. I got the blame from our parents, who passed on to me the stress they couldn’t speak aloud at work. I got treated like a stand-in adult, not like a child who was still trying to grow.
No one else knows that summer, when I was nineteen, you were held at knifepoint by an older student from your school. It happened in a park. He demanded your pocket money. You said no. The police took a statement. But we were never told what happened after that. We didn’t know if they caught him. We didn’t know if it might happen again. We didn’t even know if we were allowed to ask.
You were around 170 cm tall then—the only boy in the family. Everyone saw you as the “man of the house.” But you were still just a teenager—still soft, still scared.
Even after that knife, you never cried in front of our parents. You didn’t talk about it. You just kept swallowing the fear and shame over and over again.
But I remember one night, passing by your bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. The lights were off. Everything was still.
Except for the sound. A soft, muffled crying. Almost silent—but there.
You didn’t let it become sobbing. You bit it down into your chest, into your throat, like you were wrestling yourself not to feel it. You didn’t want to be a burden to a family already falling apart. So you chose to bleed in private.
And I did the same.
We were never the kids chasing a glittering “Canadian dream.” We knew better. We knew our parents fought over money on long-distance calls—our mother standing all day in a greasy kitchen, our father working seven days a week at a hotel owned by distant relatives in China.
So we both gave up our bright futures.
Just so the family wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our needs.
Just so the family wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our needs.
Sometimes I wonder: Maybe we weren’t “not good enough.” Maybe we weren’t “unmotivated.”
Maybe we just learned to give up too early.
Maybe we just learned to give up too early.
We didn’t stop because we didn’t want to try.
We stopped because we knew: the world doesn’t pause for the needs of the powerless.
We stopped because we knew: the world doesn’t pause for the needs of the powerless.
So we stayed silent. We didn’t cry. We did our best to look strong.
Just so our exhausted parents could have a little less to carry.
Just so our exhausted parents could have a little less to carry.
At the time, Mom was working in a Chinese restaurant kitchen—ten to twelve hours a day, swollen feet, stiff fingers, never once daring to ask for a day off. Dad was in China, managing a hotel for relatives, never a day of rest. Every phone call from him ended in frustration, scolding, or silence.
Faced with your trauma, Mom and I stayed silent.
Dad stayed far away.
And we—we just clenched our teeth and lived through the next day.
Dad stayed far away.
And we—we just clenched our teeth and lived through the next day.
Because we didn’t know the law.
Didn’t know how to file a complaint.
Didn’t know how to demand our right to know what happened to you.
We feared the blank stares, the institutional indifference, the possibility that one language mistake could shut a door forever.
Didn’t know how to file a complaint.
Didn’t know how to demand our right to know what happened to you.
We feared the blank stares, the institutional indifference, the possibility that one language mistake could shut a door forever.
I remember another time we received a court summons—dozens of pages, all in English. My parents couldn’t understand a single word. I was still a teenager then. Culturally displaced. Linguistically unarmed. The sight of that thick stack of legalese filled me with dread.
That wasn’t a reading assignment.
It was a gate. A wall. A test.
And no one had taught me how to get through it.
It was a gate. A wall. A test.
And no one had taught me how to get through it.
I grabbed our tattered Chinese-English dictionary. Line by line, I translated every paragraph, barely grasping what “pre-trial motion” or “court date” even meant. But I remembered the hearing date. I held on to that.
I don’t know how you felt during that time. But I know this:
A child should not have to walk into a courtroom alone.
You were the “only son,” the assumed protector. But no one knew what it took for you to stand there outside that cold, gray courthouse, holding yourself together.
No parents by your side.
No legal counsel.
No translator.
Just you.
No legal counsel.
No translator.
Just you.
And me? I was still in school, filling out your summer program applications. Telling myself, Maybe if I try a little harder, I can protect him from the world’s violence.
But I was never your parent.
I was never your savior.
I was never your savior.
I was just your older sister.