Category Archives: Inside the Migrant’s Mind – Poetry and Love

I Want What Timmy Has – A Short Narrative

I haven’t wrote a fictional, lighter piece in a while so I thought I’d put together this short narrative. Like many stories there are elements of my own life embedded into it. I am also sure many of you can relate to some of the streams of written thought I go on. I’ve made a commitment to myself to do more non-fiction writing in 2019 so here’s a quick one!


I stared at him across the room. Timmy. My part time friend and part time enemy “frienemy.”

Like always he was the centre of attention. Table packed with the most attractive girls from our class, the guys from the hockey team, and today a few young admirers I recognized from last night’s big game.

I did not have the luxury of such a fan base.

Like every other noon o’clock it was my daily period of solitude.

Today my friend Chen was sick – that or his parents took him back to China again. The rumour going around was that all us had the Asian flu. Including me, who I note never ever had stepped a single foot in the motherland, Asia.

It usually would just be us two – talking about, well mostly it was a silent Buddhistic ritual. His mom was a good cook – I would ask him what he was having. It usually looked and smelled better than mine. That and he had the triple layer thermos that neatly separated his rice, meat, and vegetable dishes. My own dented thermos carried a mystery mix or yesterday’s leftovers and some hidden surprises my pops whipped up at 7am. He was up early every day to make our lunches.

It wasn’t that I hated Timmy. If this was PE (Phys Ed) class we’d still share occasional laughs but half the time he may have been laughing at me. See I wasn’t the fittest boy in class. While rap fashion was in and I was of above average weight, the extra large hoodies and pants didn’t help. They were off the discount rank and I didn’t know better. The colours usually a mix of vibrant yellow, orange, and white accentuating how out of shape I was. The gym was a foreign place of growth stinting potential – one of the many places and spaces, the rules dictated I was forbidden to visit.

Timmy went into his brown paper bag and pulled out his sandwich. It looked like Black Forest Ham. I never much liked sandwiches but I was jealous of the neat tinfoil wrapping. His lunch was a series of hidden surprises. Sometimes he would gift a piece to his favourite admirer, who would woo and give him a peck on the check or one of those deep hugs that I desired – the hugs the members of the hockey team would give to each other after a nice goal, or when greeted by their fans after the game. All I had were the handshakes of a good game after a tennis match – usually one I would also be excluded from, riding the pine (or the place behind the chained fence, as it usually was in our tennis games).

Exclusion was a natural concept for me in these years. Excluded from my culture, from Timmy’s culture, from the school culture. I took refuge in my own little world of written words and verses, of Tupac and Em, much to the chagrin of my deeply conservative-music classical music listening family.

Today Timmy took out a cylindrical round thing out of his bag. I could tell by it’s colour – green that it was gold to me. The bane of my existence. Everything I wanted. I had tried asking for it before. Mom’s would tell me – ‘why the heck would you eat that when you eat the actual thing itself?’ and ‘do you think we’re a white family? – it’s too expensive’

I craved the sweetness, the granular, smooth texture. To me it was finer than the fanciest cake (not that we had any options but the over dry, fake peach fruit cake of every birthday ever). Timmy opened it up, licking the lid, blissfully unaware that the three girls surrounding were watching the tip of his tongue with eyes wide of excitement as they were already engaged in second base. Whatever, second base was – for me it was just Roberto Alomar.

A white plastic spoon came out of his brown paper bag. I stared down at my own chopsticks, which in my lack of attention paid had turned into one chopstick and one game of pick-up sticks waiting on the floor.

Timmy was smiling, he blue at his bleached blonde hair – spoon caressing carefully the corners of the plastic cup.

This is a memory I always carry with me. I carried it years later when I was in a foreign land (where what Timmy was having was entirely foreign). One of my classmates at the time had her family from Mid-West USA deliver some packages of the stuff. It was so damn good, I went for thirds and skipped dessert.

But, more than that, it represented a jar of memories, a cup of perfection of a culture that I never could fit in but damn right wanted to. An object of affection to a soul that at material times both crave it and lacked it.

I want what Timmy has. To be honest I still want it today.

I want that damn Apple Sauce.

Letter to My Sister (in Law): A Reflection on Male Toxicity and Male Privilege in the Profession

The below piece was inspired by a recent experience in an Inland Spousal Sponsorship interview. In a moment of empowerment, I decided to step in for the Officer and question my clients, in a manner that went beyond my ‘courtesy’ role as counsel. I reflected on the power/historical dynamics that led me to believe that I could do this, and believe that part of it was because the officer was a Filipina-Canadian woman and in the back of my mind, as a lawyer, I could speak for her or over her. I connected it to other experience in front of white decision-makers of power and recognized my parallel silence. It is a position I could not reconcile with myself and therefore I have written the below letter.

The first version I wrote (but was accidentally deleted in a WordPress saving issue) was arguably better. I think I went more in detail and hit harder. Perhaps, it was to personal and would have drawn criticism from those individuals who may have recognized themselves in the parables. I hope that in this version, I still capture that essence. I will continue trying to find back the words I wrote but in the meantime please take these words.


Dear Sister (in Law):

While we are not bound by blood, we are bound as siblings by our mutual decision to enter this profession. You, like me, entered to be able to pursue a profession where you would be valued for your contribution, where you could fight to promote justice, and where you could secure a better future for you and your clients.

I am writing today to apologize to you and to share a few accounts both of my privilege and the ways in which we (as a Male Bar, writ large) have not given you the space or opportunity you deserve, as our gender equals.

To those of you of colour, we have even further made difficult a journey that is already made difficult by the trauma of practicing areas that hit often too close to home or too distinct from experience.

We have created environments that have further make you feel without a place and/or we have used our own space to take away yours, our voice to silence yours. For that, we need to acknowledge that we’ve fallen far short. We need to take immediate remedial action to empower you and humble ourselves in the process.

I take personal responsibility for my own role. Looking back on the past years, I have made so many mistakes. I have participated in speaking over women colleagues in male-dominated meetings, all-consumed in the toxic male ego. I have engaged in the backroom small talk of discussing visceral appearances, and generally not being a-tuned enough to how much I was contributing to the denigration of my own sister. I cast gazes that were inappropriate, had conversations that re-enforced my own alluster. I was selfish and wrong.

Inexplicably, I have at the same time showed deference to white men in a manner where I would not have showed deference to you – and it is something I cannot explain but damn-right want to fight in myself and in others. It makes me sick to my stomach that I would allow the historical colonial role of white men in Canada, to not only silence me but then turn around, as a silenced person of colour and not take away your voice.

Meanwhile I have listened but not acted when you told me about that partner who made you do 90% of the work and would take 100% of the credit. When you have told me of clients who would email them to complain about you and who treated you as a disposable assistant rather than the capable lawyer you are. I should have knocked on the doors of patriarchy or helped you fight back. My ‘it will be okay’ simple wasn’t an okay response and was reflective of my silence and misuse of privilege.

When you told me that you received a position on a Board and that the Partner thought you were filling a ‘diversity quota’ I should have made clearer that I was on your side. Instead, I tried to justify his response.

I regret not telling the lawyers who told me that I was at an advantage because I was male and would not have babies and go on mat leave that this was not fair to my sisters who often do not choose to abandon profession but often have the decision imposed on them by the external forces of child-rearing, with little more than a “that’s your natural responsibility.” I want a child but know full well that this decision will change my partner’s life and career choices in a way it does not affect me. I can show up the next day to accolades without having to feel an announce of the pain or the prejudiced judgment of bottom-line driven employers.

I regret the times I participated with the white man in casting that wicked gaze over you – commenting on your appearance and not your last appearance in Court.  The times I saw your high heels as symbols of sex but not the band aids behind the heels as symbols of pain of needing to please in a profession with it’s priorities all wrong.

I regret not telling the powers that be that maybe they need to speak to you first before speaking to me and that my rubber stamping of their authority added to simple majority but paid lip service to you, who was truly affected by the choices they were making.  We allowed our cultures to develop into mini fraternities and boys clubs, where we feigned listening to your monologues one second, and immediately after closed the doors and laughed at you the next.

I regret not trying harder to convince media that they do not need another male talking head or that they should assume that ‘he knows’ when ‘she knows better’ and has the credentials to back it up. I should have deferred or set ultimatums where simply I was happy taking the limelight, myself. It has made you question why you have to work twice harder to get half the accolades, at a portion of the pay – something your client may never know.

How do I fix this? How do I be a true ally to you?

For one, I should no longer contribute to ‘mansplaining’ your situation or always wanting to be the head of the table, especially in your conversations.

For second, I should ask you as my sister what you want – and not assume it is protection, a father figure, a direction seeker, and that maybe I am actually the one needs all three.

For third, maybe it’s time I stop enabling the powerholders and brokers by kow-towing and pumping their tires.

I should challenge their authority, that they are no King and maybe it is time for a Queen to be given her chance to reign. In my personal life, when I see situations of inequality affecting women and women of colour, I need to raise my voice rather than sit there content in silently being served by a woman, like the experience is normal. It isn’t.

I have a lot of historical wrongs to right. My response to feeling dispossessed as an ethnic male during my high school years was to try and join the popular forces of ‘whiteness’ and ‘maleness.’ I had encounters and moments where I crossed lines I had set for myself. In law school and my early practice, I felt male dominance was just part of a normalized environment. Little did I know that it was a environment built specifically to keep women out of power  – while simultaneously undervaluing/underappreciating their work. Next year they would always say – you would get what we have, but the goalposts would always shift.

What a difference time makes. I am now in a place where I work for badass women. They are now (currently) my office manager, two out three of my Firm owner’s, my mentor, my spouse, and my mother. I have cut from my life those elements of male toxicity. I am stepping (although it is a process) outside of my perpetrator role. The events of recent show I still have a long way to go.

Sister – I hope this next generation of lawyers is your generation. I hope you take seats on our highest bench where you hold decision-making power over us, molding law with your genius and maturity.

If I ever, talk for you, walk over you, gaze at you, in a manner in which you are uncomfortable I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me when another one of my brothers does it to you as well. I want you to share with us (when you are ready) how we have failed you. Any Firm that takes such a piece as an offense or tries and dissuade you from doing so, is no home for you.

It is with sincerest apologies and hope that we can do better, as men and allies.



Your Brother (in Law)




Christmas from behind a Cup of *Starbucks* Coffee

The gruff beard counterpoints the cheerful Santa Hat.

Perhaps a cover to the balding hair – alas another year gone – it certainly has been a long one.

Two men – brothers, lovers – who knows and frankly it’s not my place to judge.

Human love is human love – and I can see in their tenderness with each other that it is love by very definition of the word.

A pink haired goddess. Rapunzel of today’s generation. She leaves but acknowledges her presence or maybe I have acknowledged hers.

A stunning beauty.

I said I would stay local but I find myself again in Starbucks. Work is the agenda but people watching is the reality show.

“I’ll pick you up tonight” kissed to the head and check from one man to another. He leaves. He stays. Sniffles either from a persistent cold but more likely from an insistent love.

I can imagine he’s texting him as he leaves the door. I remember all too well those days as well. Phone a lifeline and whatever the maker decided to do with battery life, the heart beat.

Christmas does different things to different people. Those with stories of loss are all to conscious of what they have lost. For others, the ability to take a much needed deep breath. To spend a little of the hard-earned money on loved ones. To reconnect with those we have spent too little time with.

Friends from fargone places send messages wishing you happy holidays. The warm moments that remind you that the stocking isn’t always full of coal.

In all this global uncertainty, caravans and controversy – the universal truth that we are all human spirits and souls on the same sleigh ride of life is an important one.  Taking time aside to love one another, interact with one another, smile at one another – a raison d’etre for living.

Wishing you and your loved ones endless love and happiness over a cup of Starbucks coffee (no sugar – my weight is becoming problem).

(p.s. the guy with the Santa hat actually works here!).

(p.p.s I will be putting up more blogs in 2019 – it is my resolution every year but this year I’m committed).

Detained Migrant in Vancouver – A Descriptive Narrative

+00000001_Image_Form_und_Schatten_Sachsen_Germany By Lupus in Saxonia – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, 

When my moms was still around, she told me about how they used to put our people in shackles.

They were thicker back then. Big iron shackles. So tight, apparently, the blood vessels constricted and feelings were lost in hands and legs. From our ancestral home, we was apparently brought onto boats to supposed freedom. Instead, years of slavery followed. There were no keys back then so those shackles became the bangles of the day, the number of links remaining a sign of the length of your arms and your worth as a potential worker.

I know my people suffered the consequences of generations of abuse. Maybe that is what led to my own abuse so many years later. My parents abandoning me at such a young age. I don’t know if my parents are alive or dead. My biological mother, they said, was only 14 when she had me. Her and my father never were supposed to be together.  They had both runaway from their respective homes and met in an abandoned building that they calle dhome. They both needed to get by and used each other as a lifeline for that fateful year. 

My father stayed long enough to watch my first diaper switch and decided that this life wasn’t for him. He went on to other cities and apparently fathered other kids. I tried to ask around, and best I know he is in the hole now – doing life for a murder. They put me in protective services when I was just 10. I didn’t realize moms had thrown me to the wolves back then. Pain was just natural. I only realize the scars I carry now.

My foster family that they set me up with decided I was nothing but a burden on their lives and who put me into labour to feed their own older biological children and their own crack addiction. I would always get the leftovers – the soupy and saucy parts of pasta and stale bread that I needed to dip in water to make edible. I often went to school with no packed lunch. Every day I needed to pretend to use the washroom and instead go to the cloakroom where I took a few pieces here and there from my classmates.  I knew which bags belonged to the white kids. They always had more snacks that were easy to steal.

I always slipped out, eating lunch by myself on the roof of a nearby building. Watching the cars go by, women being picked up and driven away. Back then, I had no clue what that operation was, only that these women were real pretty and tall.

I understand that the Fosters were paid to take me in but they decided to keep any money they got to themselves. They would always sober up just enough to tell Child Services at their monthly meeting that I was doing okay and had my older “siblings” nod in agreement in a repetitive, orchestrated routine. I was told if I said anything I would get beat so I just put on that blank starey face that I still use today.

Damn, I wish I could put my hands in my head. Close my eyes and dream of those faint memories of better days. When I was hitting lead off for my high school baseball team. Coach even said that if I played the way I did in my 9th grade there would be college scouts by 10th grade. Unfortunately that year was my last year of formal education. I didn’t pass enough classes to allow me to stay at the school they said. Other schools said their schools were full and didn’t allow me to enroll.

Snap back to reality. Today, I am in those same shackles my mom told me about. Red jumpsuit. Laceless shoes. One foot in front of another, I tell myself. Those cursed feet. The same ones that led me to cross over the arbitrary line to a foreign land that seemed so familiar. To me, it all seemed like one America. Little did I know that I had broken a rule. Hell, I had broken numerous ones before. I don’t what made this one any different. One side of the street had a Taco Bell and the other a McDonalds. I was just trynna get a burger, you feel me?

The guard accompanying me looks no older than 22. Poor kid, I think to myself. He’s a brown skin as well. Isn’t that how society works? They got us coloured people enforcing each other. I wonder if I was his blood brother he would treat me the same way. Regardless, I wouldn’t know. I only met my blood brother a month back. He offered me to stay long enough to find another City to get my sorry ass to. Other than a last name we shared nothing. He clearly didn’t want nothing to do with me other than ensuring I never returned.

I don’t remember what happened over the past week. What day it is? What month it is? What led me here again? 

Suddenly my shackles came loose with a pop. I tried to massage my wrist and ankles that were feeling incredibly sore from three hours of constriction and bumpy suburban van rides.

“Hands on the glass, and face the wall” – a new guard came up behind me. “Put your hands on the glass and spread out your legs.” Suddenly I felt a leg stick between mine. Hands started patting me down. This is probably not the best time to think it, but imagine I could just turn around and give a big hug. I haven’t had a hug in years. The touch of this guard made my whole body shiver. Every single human touch I had did the same.

“Do you prefer Turkey, Ham, or Vegetarian for lunch?”  I think of making a wise-crack that I would love that Big Mac meal and I would have got one had I had enough money,  but it was pointless. I knew the menu here. It is the same as always. “I’ll have Turkey again, sir.” with Ice Tea.

I remember that one Thanksgiving when I was five when Mom’s and I had went to Georgia to see Grandma. She made this Georgia Sweet Tea and they had roasted this big crispy turkey. Apparently it was a slave recipe passed through generations. I will never forget how rich the gravy was. You know that feeling when you hungry and wake up immediately dreaming about food. The turkey and gravy shows up all the time in my dreams, but not enough in reality.

“Where do you want to go when you leave Canada?” I stared blankly at her. 

I unno, I got nowhere to go m’aam, no family” I stammer. I was gonna go into my whole story about how I ended up here accidentally. That I had brought the can of mace from the States as I had been robbed sleeping a few months back and that I never intended to use it.

I decided against being lengthy.  She probably already knew my story anyway. This woman truthfully looked like she didn’t want to be here either. I could only imagine her job was like doing laundry, except every time a batch of clothes were washed, they kept getting dirty again. 

“Do you wanna go home then?” or “Stay locked up for another week.” she asked in a damned if you, damned if you don’t manner.

“Just get me home, m’aam. I’mma go crazy if I stay here just another minute.” I whispered.

“Come again? You need to speak up, sir.” she barked.

“Get me home.” I spoke – not realizing how loud my response came out. I barely had any water all day. My voice must have sounded coarse and cruel.

“No need to raise your voice,” she admonished. “We will get you home by 4pm today.” 

“Sir, in five minutes you will have your hearing,” she continued. “All you have to do is tell the member hearing your case that you want to go home and today we can get you home. Alright. No further questions? Take care.” she left curtly. 

I went back to my cell. The two Spanish-speaking detainees eyed me with some interest. “How did it go… esayyy?” one walked up to me.

They had not had their meetings yet and were eager to know what was up. Every time someone was released, there would be ‘high fives’ all around – woots and cheers – even the Guards would sometimes join in.  The same ‘high fives’ they used to give when I hit the ball out of the park back in 9th grade. Except, this time I did not want to be a part of it. There was no reason to ‘celebrate.’ This wasn’t a Common song.

I shook my head and said nothing. I went back to my corner of our tiny, too cramped cell and put my head on my arms.

The two Spanish-speaking ones started talking to each other and laughing. They were refugee claimants. Apparently they were just missing identification documents and they would be out in the matter of days. I had taken some grade school Spanish but still couldn’t catch much of what they were saying other than the word ” dis one loco.”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I went in and out of a sedated state. I was offered some tylenol yesterday because of a bad headache. Maybe the medication was too strong. Maybe I didn’t sleep well enough last night. Maybe, the 5am cornflakes didn’t go down so well this morning. 

I think I spoke to some lawyer. She was helpful enough. She was tall and beautiful. Eyes that had me lost like I was looking into an ocean. I didn’t grow up with any oceans though, we were stuck between Atlantic and the Pacific, dead centre Middle America.

She told me with much empathy that there was not much I could do, that refugee claims from the United States would not work, and that I had to decide whether I wanted to stay or go. “Go.” I responded.”I just wanna get out of the hole.” She wrote down a list of homeless shelters for me along with some phone numbers on a yellow piece of paper. She folded it delicately and placed it into my hands. I crumpled it into the pocket of my blue polo. “Thanks ma’am.”

The hearing was quick. Five minutes. There were two individuals in the room and my lawyer with the nice eyes. The man at the front said some thing about me wandering into Canada and violating some law about not being examined. I was banned from Canada for a year. I was told not come back without permission, or something like that. They decided they would continue to detain me until I would leave Canada in the matter of hours. I was immediately escorted back down. 

When I went back, my cell was empty. All the other detainees had left. It was me. I was told to change into my regular clothes.

“Border Run time” – an Officer came knocking on my door after I got about ten minutes of much needed rest.

What’s a border run?” I stammered back.

“Time to go home for you.” he answered. 

I was put back in my handcuffs, for the last time. There was two with me. One driver in the front. One Officer to my side. The windows were tinted but it was still daybreak.

The route was different this time. It was beautiful – Is this Vancouver? The maple leafs were falling off trees, gently moving in the wind.

I saw mountains, park, children playing baseball in a park. Where I grew up it was all flat. All hood. Kids had nowhere to go but to the corner to serve as human pawns for the trade. I got really good at spotting police cars and undercover agents. I wish I was better at spotting the one that woke me up from my nap on the park bench. The plan was to pan handle a little so I could get my burger and fries.  I guess it was too late. By the time I responded “who are you” I was already rolled to the concrete pavement with my hands behind my back.

This started what today is being ended – my brief trip to Canada. My brief stay in Vancouver.

I know I told this story without a beginning, middle, and end. Kind of like where I am at today. 

I get dropped off at an office. The Officers receiving me have U.S. flags sewn onto their uniforms. 

I’m home. I think.


A Tribute To Anthony Bourdain

Like many, I woke up this morning to the shocking and devastating passing of Anthony Bourdain.


I never met Anthony Bourdain in person, but like many, I religiously followed his shows, read his books, and planned countless travel itineraries (including busing hours) to visit spots that he had been to. Because of him, I was inspired to go to Singapore, to the Philippines, and most importantly, to better understand my own roots and Chinese origins.

He was one of the first writers to truly put everything on the line – cut all of the bullsh*t and tell us how he really felt. That honesty, I feel, by osmosis, landed into my own life. His ability to tell stories, his verbage, and “Bourdanisms” morphed into my own vocabulary. I write, speak, and talk like Anthony did.

While he inspired me to get up and go, he also inspired me when I was at lowest points. Challenging days at the office or at school would often be solved by late night time with a rerun of No Reservations that I had probably watched a hundred times. I would re-read passages of Kitchen Confidential and Medium Raw as a way to get a better night’s rest. He was a cure to depression for many of us in ways I wish we could have only told him now.

I am a foodie – because of you. I wandered into the unknown – including to Chongqing, China where I met the love of my life – because of you. I appreciate my city more and use your storytelling tips in my everyday work – because of you.

Thank you. May you find peace, adventure, and what you are seeking in the afterlife. I trust God to take care of your family and the rest.

A Fresh New Start – Edelmann and Co.

First week officially in the books. I look around at my office, out at Victory Square through one clear and one not so clear glass window (there’s a story behind this – for another day, no less), I feel as if I have finally settled in.


I am grateful to have landed in a place of compassion and learning. I love it here. From having a brilliant office manager who I can already tell is a special soul to the equally brilliant colleagues I have. Everyday is filled with discussions about the law and doing good.

This journey won’t be easy. I’m shifting from what I will readily admit to now, a “business man practicing law” to a “lawyer who happens to operate a business.” The stakes are also much higher now as is the level of knowledge and finesse required. The clients that I have started to and well be starting to see often find themselves in vulnerable places, subject to an immigration system that increasing feels turned against them. Every conversed word and every step must now be more calculated than every before – often with lives and families hanging in the balance. It is not enough to simply show a client meets the requirements of a certain permit.

Learning to push myself yet be patient at the same time will itself be a process. Beyond myself, I need to put my faith in God and those around me. My heart is ready and the mind is making it’s way there – it has to overcome.

Over the next little bit, I will revive this blog – with a little bit of law and lot of love. Like the elephant being held up by balloons that sits in my office room I hope to take the heavy burdens in stride and focus on how much support I am grateful to have.

To the mentors who helped me make this decision, I am very thankful to each and every one of you. Now – let’s get back to the grind and do it for the people.

Crossing Roads With Wiser Souls – (Hope on Howe Vol 1.)

Growing up I used to play a game. A game, I will sheepishly admit that I still play to this date.

As soon as the light goes green - in fact, the split second it does - I rush to take the first step from the street corner on to the road. If I am in a car at a stoplight I press hard on the pedal as I were some Formula 1 Driver waiting for the light to turn green. I used to be a huge Greg Moore fan.

Today, I was walking along Burrard. At night. The kind of cool November night that you are grateful for - no rain for the first time in was seems like an eternity. I am exhausted by the late minutes of Monday monotony.  Head swimming with too much commotion and perhaps not enough emotion. The high of a great day coupled with the reality of not enough done. Again. Just like every other day.

As I step into the gates ready to play my little game again, I hear two voices. Voices of wisdom and sage, older voices, but also one a youthful exuberance of a type of conversation I rarely have anymore unless a phone is against the side of my face. These two were playing the game with me today. I had competition.

Listening to them carefully, I watched as one figure put out their arm so the second one could use it as a railing to step off the ledge. "Thank you ma'dear" said the second silhouette, the challenges of the task ahead apparent. Slowly, slowly, slowly they made their way across the street. At this stage I was already miles ahead.

I rush forward. I miss my bed. I worry about work. The usual. Yet, I'm pre-occupied with this couple behind me. The green figure with two legs turns slowly into the red hand but the two silhouettes are still moving along solely. Easy comes as easy goes. My shoulder check tells me they've cleared my visual angle.

As I stare back and think forward, my brown dress shoes go straight into the curb as I stumble awkwardly, catching my balance at the last second and attempting to gracefully make it appear I am choreographing a routine for a local ballet house.

The two silhouettes walk past, leaving me with cellphone dangling in my hand like a rotten carrot. "You were listening to your music weren't you" one silhouette asks, shaking his head at my lack of grace. 

I try to laugh it off but the truth was my earphones were not blasting music - although for most of the day they were playing Mariah Carey's Christmas album. I was not reading my cellphone (or was I) - these lines pretty much are blurred just like if I am working or not at any given minute. 

No. I was distracted by the million lights and sounds of a busy street, in a busy city, during a busy time and a million more thoughts. Yet these two bastions of stability were thinking only of each other. Crossing the street, not in a manner that required them to do so - the so called "street-rules", but only when both of them had made it to the other side. Together.

Damn.... I thought to myself - this is where I want to be with who I want to be 40 years from now. 

Crossing roads not because of the time it takes to get to the other side but in order to get there with the right person by my side.

I picked up phone and dialed my love.




hope on howe

What Her Weathered Eyes Tell Me – A Poem

Final logo-01

Her weathered eyes tell me she’s seen some things;
Her neatly knitted red hat each stitch each seam;
She speaks not it seems in complex phrases;
She could have been here three decades but to you she’s the same as;
That Chang that Chong, too many Wong’s its wrong;
Like her only place at the table should be slurping Wontons at Hons;
You worry about your own backyard, call her the product of an invasion;
You paint her with the same brush, like all calligraphy must be Asian;
She wants nothing more than to say hello and have you smile back:
She tired of you saying go home, like she’s a pre-1960’s black;
Her wrinkled hands washing white rice, but to you it’s crack;
But she ain’t going nowhere, homie I’mma assure you of that.

Cause her nose has smelled the burning of bodies on the street;
She’s been through so many medical treatments, she’s immune to all disease;
She knows the games you playing when you raise up all your fees;
She’s dealt with enough shit, from fleas to trynna flee;
She doesn’t need you debating whether she still a refugee;
All she needs is you to tell her that her presence fills a need;
That her picking up your cans, truly helping clean our streets;

You might never know her name, but her story can’t be washed away;
She’ll wake up every morning, cause every morning it’s the same;
Maybe for a minute stop and say how goes your day;
Cause tomorrow when she doesn’t show up for work, you’ll be regretting what you didn’t say.

“You are my family. Thank you.”

Inside the Migrant’s Mind – Official Label Launch

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I am proud to officially launch my new label – IMM (Inside the Migrant’s Mind). For many of us Canadian immigration starts with an IMM form. We are proverbial monarch butterflies. Our migrations around the world form the greatest natural phenomenon on earth.

Stay tuned as we explore the poetic power of our immigrant pasts, stories of love for our past and hope for our future.

With Meraki.