This is the way I will always remember it.

A boy, with tresses of gold waving in the afternoon breeze like wheat, sits on the bank of a slow moving stream, tossing a pebble into it, crying.

***

My father, the eminently successful businessman from Hong Kong, decided one day that the best thing for his children in the way of education, would be to leave the polluted Asian island behind and enter into a land of plenty, where the air was clean, the roads were straight and school was free. Free, I tell you!

We immigrated over in 1975, the lot of us-my mother, my sisters and I.

The move meant nothing to me. I was only ten. My third sister, on the other hand, had a rough time, because she had just started becoming popular at school. I don't think it had anything to do with dating, though, as the concept was still contraband in my household.

I had happened to glance at her as we sat on the plane, waiting for take-off. She was holding a slip of paper in her hand. Frowning, she was poring over it, going through every word on every line. My eldest sister came back from the washroom just then and she tucked the paper away in a hurry. Shifting in her seat, she turned away to peer out far past the window, squinting, like she was searching for something lost or forgotten.

We landed at Pearson International Airport, though I think we used to call it by a different name. Getting off the plane, I was thrust headlong into the heart of February. I found myself in a realm of crystal snow, where my breath formed icicles on my lips and everything was a dirty white. I think of it now and I shiver.

I remember passing by the CN Tower on the way home. It was not quite finished yet. My father's friend who had picked us up from the airport pointed it out to us as we drove by. My sisters were duly impressed. With their mouths gaping, they oo'd and ah'd in all the appropriate gaps in the conversation.

Me, I wasn't paying any attention. I didn't have the heart for it. On the flight over, I had been seized, for the very first time in my life, by the chapped lips demon freshly loosed from hell. I had never known anything like it. This debilitating condition was completely unheard of where I had come from. Running through my ten-year-old mind, over and over again was the one question, "What the hell is this?" Though, of course, the exact words were different, because I hadn't learned to be so eloquent just yet. All I knew at the time, was that if I fought with my sisters hard enough, I could squirm by and get the window seat, press my mouth up against the glass, and shave the edge off the aching and the throbbing, if only for a moment. To be honest, I do recall that my sister had warned me against doing that. But, of course, I didn't listen to her. Damn the consequences, just give me the ice. By the end of the twenty-hour journey to Canada, three kids could take turns going tobogganing, whizzing down the snowy slope riding on my lower lip.

All beginnings are fraught with difficulties. That is a Chinese proverb, by the way. A real one. When I first arrived, I didn't speak a word of English. Nothing. Not a single one. Well, maybe that wasn't strictly true. I knew my own name. I navigated through the first week of school by means of sign language alone. It wasn't all that bad, really. If nothing else, I still knew the universal protocol recognized in every classroom around the globe. I raised my hand when I wanted something. I kept the talking to my neighbours to a minimum. Quite easy at the time, given my deficiencies in the language department. And I knew where the washrooms were. All in all, I think I adapted to the new system quite well.

Many years later, around the dining room table, after everyone else had abandoned the dirty dishes and left for the TV room, my eldest sister stopped her cleaning up and came to sit down bedside me. She told me, that for the first two weeks, she had come by the school every day and peeked in on me through the window. I know exactly where she must have hid, the exact bush that she must have perched behind. I can still picture her crouching there now, shivering in the cold, snow flakes flashing by her face. She told me that whenever she came, I would always be sitting at my desk, listening to the teacher, even when all the other children were misbehaving. Others would be screaming and laughing. But me? I was always wearing this mask, with a frown upon my forehead, as if I was pondering the theory of relativity and remarking on its inconsistencies. Everyday she came. Everyday she stole away again, picking her way through the snow.

The language problem didn't last too long. By the end of the second week, I was able to formulate my first question to the teacher, using three of the altogether half-dozen English words that I knew. "Is this add?" I pointed to the math problems on my worksheet.

The teacher's eyes flew wide. "Yes." She smiled like a summer day and patted me on my head. I bent down to my work, beaming, still reminiscing upon my first taste of fine wine.

Speaking of math. It was a blast. I had an edge on all the other children in the area of mathematics. In the second month after my arrival, the grade four class that I was in had finally started to learn basic fractions. Meanwhile, I had covered this material in Hong Kong some time in the early part of last year. I was having a great time, just ramming through the problems like a bulldozer through matchsticks. My teacher was impressed. After a while, she promoted me to class helper and I began to circulate around the room, tutoring my fellow students through their difficulties. I swear I grew a foot taller that week.

What with my distinct foreignness, many of the other children were intrigued with me and everything about me. I was swamped with their daily questions. I felt like a senior editor at the New Yorker. (I was reassured recently that such a species does exist somewhere, though I've never seen one personally, in or out of captivity.)

They asked me about the clothes I would wear in Hong Kong, what I would eat, what school was like and if we had any motorcars. I tried to reason with them, and no, we didn't have cats for breakfast every other day, (not enough fiber, you see,) and in fact, our ways of life were quite comparable. I think some of them believed me, while others were not so sure. Those that did were distinctly disappointed. But the questions continued.

How do you swear in Chinese? Does everybody there know Kung Fu? Why do you eat rice everyday? And then they would ask me to spell their names in my language, and related questions like, "how do you write the letter 'C' in Chinese?"

There was one boy in my class who was somewhat less than intrigued with me. His name was Greg. He was the second fastest runner among the boys my age. I was third. Another girl, Janet, was faster than the both of us, but we never counted girls in our ranking system. That was against the rules. I don't know why, it just was. Whenever we played tag at recess and if Greg was it, I was always aware of a tendency for him to come after me first. He always came flying at me with this gleam in his eye, like he'd been chained to a pole inside a closet for a month. He had a good friend, another boy named Greg, and they would stand in the corner sometimes as I passed by, whispering.

It was the spring in the year after I first landed. The temperature cranked higher with every passing day. I no longer had to wear my winter jacket and my snow boots. As the scene changed all around me, so too did the routines at school. Track and field season was beginning. During gym, the teacher began to line us up and teach us the basics to all the different types of events in the up coming competitions.

I had a liking for the high jump. After learning the technique, I found that I could go about as high as some of the boys a whole year older than me. The gym teacher was behind me all the way. He always tried to encourage me by saying, "You other kids better watch out. This guy's Chinese!"

For the life of me, I never did figure out how that was supposed to be motivating. Well, whatever made the teacher feel better, I guess. I smiled at him and jumped.

Greg was good at the high jump too, but not quite as good as me. He tried, though. I could see it. He had that closet look in his eyes every time he loped up to the bar. A few times, after he had missed his jump, he glared at me out of the corner of his eye, like a boa gauging its next victim.

Sometimes, when Greg was around, I would tip the bar on purpose. I got into the habit of knowing when Greg would be leaving school and I would leave a little before or after him.

The hours between when school let out and sundown was designated as 'my time'. My sister said that during these hours, as long as I didn't have any homework, I could do anything I wanted. Sometimes, I went bike riding with my friends. We would go to the store, buy Mr. Freeze's of various flavours for ten cents apiece, break them in half and share them. Or we might really splurge and buy a can of pop for twenty-five cents. We didn't do that very often, though. Couldn't afford it.

Sucking on our Mr. Freeze's, we would plop ourselves down by the curb. Our bikes would lie like lazy dragons on their sides behind us, with their front wheels poking into the air, spinning. We would talk about skateboards, TV shows and laugh, as we watched each other's lips turn purple and cherry.

One of my bike riding friends was Tom. After much and careful consideration, he was fast becoming my designated Best Friend for the year. He was my idol. Tom, at the robust age of eleven, already had a girlfriend. Her name was Debbie and she was an early bloomer. If you are unfamiliar with the term, it does not refer to the first pair of drawers out of the underwear factory.

I believe I was an early bloomer myself. If not physiologically, then at the very least psychologically. (Or maybe, psychiatrically.) Debbie had novelty items on her person and they gave me a sense of wonder, in the way that things of this world could but only to an eleven year old boy. I loved seeing them together. I loved it and I hated it. Even in those days of forlorn youth, when the words chivalry, honesty and chastity were as of yet still unpronounceable, the concepts were already vaguely familiar to me. Thoughts of my neighbour's possession flitted through my mind at times and I felt guilty. Secretly, however, I oft wished my friend would move away to the dreaded United States with his relatives and leave me an inheritance. Meanwhile, as the conflicts simmered, I gazed into the ballroom from the wings, leaning against the wall, waiting for the voice that would call me by name, bidding me enter and join the dance. The week before the track and field competitions began, the gym teacher began working us harder. He singled out some of the best prospects and had us stay after school to practice our events. Both Greg and I had to stay.

Greg had just finished his jump. As usual, he was putting too much pressure on himself and had aimed too high. His foot had gotten in the way. The bar had toppled off its perch after him.

"Doggone it!" Greg stood up and trotted away from the mat. (And yes, we did say those things back then.)

I didn't know if he was glaring at me. I was staring at the clouds.

"Come on, Johnny!" My coach clapped his hands together, and then waved me in.

I frowned.

Greg was standing off to one side. He crossed his arms.

I licked my lips and pretended not to see him.

The other Greg approached to stand by his side. They whispered to each other. They laughed.

Turning my eyes back to the pole, I swayed back and forth on my feet and prepared to jump.

"Hey, buddy."

I turned to the voice behind me.

It was Tom. Smiling, he waved. He slipped his arm around the girl standing next to him. Debbie cuddled closer to her beau. Folds in her T-shirt flickered in the summer breeze, like sheets on a clothesline by the side of a country house.

I squinted at them against the sunlight.

Leaning over, she whispered something to him. He began to smile.

I lifted my finger. I scratched my ear.

"Come on!"

I turned back around.

"Let's go already!" Greg called from the side.

"Come on, boy." My coach waved at me. "What are you waiting for?"

"Yeah, what are you waiting for?" Greg began booing. The other Greg chimed in. The coach turned to them. "You kids be quiet. And you'd better watch out too, because he's..."

I dashed off for the bar. I began breathing harder as I pulled up beneath it from the side.

I clenched my teeth. I swung my arms up. Launching myself off the ground, I cleared the marker with inches to spare.

My teacher clapped, laughing. He jogged over and patted me on the back.

I stood up. Dusting myself off, I glanced back toward my friend. Tom was giving me a big thumbs up.

I frowned.

Debbie wasn't there. She must have gone inside the school for something.

After the practice, I got my gear together and headed home. I hung my head as I treaded along, kicking pebbles out of the way. Glancing up, I saw my house in the distance. I gazed up into the sky. The sun had set, but the sky was still light. I sighed.

Turning down a side street, I went over to the store and bought me a Mr. Freeze. Damn the consequences, just give me the ice.

I turned down the path to the local ravine and proceeded to take the long way home. By the time I was halfway through my Popsicle equivalent, I realized I wasn't heading for home at all.

I approached the river at the bottom of the ravine. I picked my way out to its edge and found the familiar spot where we usually hung out. Picking up a rock from the dirt, I flung it far into the middle of the gurgling stream. Though well into spring, the splash of the stone breaking through the water sounded frosty.

"Well, look who's here?" Greg and Greg stepped out of the shadows.

I swallowed. I backed away from the stream.

"So, how're you doing, Johnny boy?" The two continued to make their way toward me. "You did good today at the practice."

"Look, Greg..."

"It must be your technique," said the other Greg.

Greg spun around to his friend. "No way! You know what it is?"

"What?" The other Greg was used to being the straight man.

"This guy's just too good for us."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Of course! And you'd better watch out too, kids! Because he's..."

"Chinese!" they finished together.

I whirled around and took off.

Lunging out, they tackled me to the ground. They pinned me to the grass, twisting my arm behind my back. Greg the First bent his head down and hissed into my ear.

"You must think you're pretty smart, huh?"

"No..."

"You think you're some math whiz? Some superman from China...?"

"I'm not from China..."

"Shut up!" His spit sprayed into my ear. I heard ringing. "Who said you could talk?"

The other Greg spoke up. "So, what do you want to do?"

Greg laughed. "Come on. Take the other arm."

They hauled me up to my feet. I didn't struggle. They dragged me over to the edge of the river.

The water flowed by beneath us, dark and cool. The light in the sky had winked out. Peering out past the bank, I could see our three shapes in the water, twisting and squirming in the current.

"Oh, yeah." Greg smiled. "One more thing." I turned to him.

He tipped his head and glared at me. "Don't think I don't see it."

"What?"

He leaned closer. His breath was hot wax in my ear. "The way you look at her." I jumped as if from hot coals. I squirmed. I kicked. I fought them but their arms held me like a vice.

Greg laughed with abandon. "I have a good mind to tell your good buddy, too."

As I roared, I threw my whole weight into him. He nearly toppled but didn't. With half a smile hanging out the side of his face, he swung his arm around like a demolition ball and drove his fist into my gut. Air whooshed out of my lungs. I doubled over. Adding a kick to my behind, he sent me diving head first into the stream.

Memories come in episodes. At least I think it does, for those of us in the TV generation. If what I'm told is true, we may all one day have to stand in front of God and be reviewed for what we have done in life. Maybe then, it'll be like a screening for one of those chop suey shows, where snippets from a whole bunch of earlier episodes will get stitched together. You know the kind I mean? Like when they run out of ideas for new shows and just re-hash bits of the old ones? Turn up the laugh track, baby, here we go! Getting up out of the water, I stood up in the stream, which came really only up to my hips. I wasn't hurt, though I was soaked. And freezing.

The two boys slapped each other on the shoulder and marched off, laughing. I retrieved my Won Ton of a knapsack and went home. The next day was another slice of the usual. I got up. I went to school. During gym class, we hustled through the drill and I did more jumps. This was the final day before the competition. It was the day of the final cut. My attempts were not too bad, though I didn't jump as well as I did over the last week. Too much on my mind, I guess.

Every time I glanced over my shoulder, Tom would be there, with Debbie. They were always whispering about something. I blasted prayers at God and wished to Him that I knew what they were finding so amusing. The coach called out some names at the end of gym, but mine was not on the list. After school, I asked Tom if he wanted to go bike riding.

"Naw," he said, "busy. Maybe tomorrow." He trotted out the door after that. Debbie was waiting for him on the other side.

Swinging around, I headed for the exit on the other side of the building. Greg shoved his way past me, nearly knocking me over. I caught my balance by the wall and stared after him. He wasn't looking my way. I don't think he even knew it was me.

I frowned.

I counted to ten. Adjusting my knapsack higher up on my shoulder, I shot past the doors and followed him. I didn't have a plan in my head. I had no idea what I had intended to do. I just followed him. Greg's house was on my street but further down. Within a minute, I could tell he wasn't going home. He turned down the usual side street and headed for the ravine. Coming to the same spot where he and the other Greg had thrown me in, he tossed his school bag off to one side and sat down. He selected a blade of grass from the ground. He stuck it in his mouth. He picked up a pebble from beside him, weighed it in his hand and threw it into the stream. I was crouching about twenty feet behind him, hidden in the bushes. To tell the truth, I was thinking about taking a run at him. It would have been easy. He made a good target, perched on the edge like that. It was almost wrong not to do it. It would have been poetic justice. I clenched my teeth. I swallowed. I shook out my hands and then curled them into fists. As I licked my lips, I measured the distance between the two of us. Images of Bruce Lee and the night fighting scene in Enter the Dragon flashed through my mind like flags on the field of battle. I began rising to my feet. Rustling in the grass.

I snapped my head around. A boy emerged from behind a tree on the far side. I crouched back down.

"Hey," said the other Greg.

Greg sat still.

"I heard."

"So? What do you want? A medal?"

"Come on, don't be like that. There's always next year."

"Shut up." Greg whipped around to his neighbor. "I don't want to talk about it, you got it?"

The other Greg nodded. "You think it was 'cause of the chink?" Greg nodded. He tossed another pebble into the stream. The breeze slid through the bushes, picking up dust, tussling his hair and making it stand up in patches. The sun reflected off the strands of gold. They waved around like wheat.

The other Greg stood up. He brushed off his pants. "I gotta go home." Greg nodded. The other left, still brushing away at his jeans. Greg watched him go and kept his eyes on him, long after his shadow among the bushes had receded.

He was frowning and peering far past the line of the first trees, like he was searching for something lost or forgotten. Memories come in episodes.

In my eyes, the stream in the distance was just so much time, passing by from my left to my right. I didn't know where the river began. I had no idea where it would end. Each pailful, each drop, was another show, another plot twist, another build-up to the climax. Not all of the water was shiny and sweet. Not all of it was strength and sustenance.

I took a breath and sighed. I stood up from my hiding spot. Overhead, an airplane arced through the sky in silence.

^