Hearing the clock alarm beside my bed when I awakened from a dream, it was already 6:30 am. Slowly, I walked toward the closet, opened the door, and dressed myself with great care. This was the first time I had worn a uniform since I was eight. The design was European; it looked good but I was not sure if I looked good in it. Putting on the suit, I almost felt like my body did not belong there. I tugged at my buttons, especially the one on the stiff collar, feeling my chest tighten and making it hard to breathe. I went downstairs, wearing my bright new leather shoes, stepping out the door into the fresh morning air. Breathing it in, it felt peaceful but hollow, like a machine that continues to run without feeling—lifeless, yet somehow still alive. It took me a few minutes to walk from my home to the bus stop, where I could temporarily enjoy the beauty of the early morning. Later, I arrived at West 37th Street, where the bus would pick me up. After a few minutes, a yellow light shone into my eyes along with a heavy, low rumble. The appearance of the school bus astonished me because, at my old school, it used to be a mid-sized coach. The bus stopped, its doors opening toward me with a deflating sound.
“Hi, what’s your name?” said the bus driver who greeted me with warmth.
“Kingsley,” I said in a nervous tone.
She said, her face widened into a broad smile, “That sounds like an awesome name, Kingsley. And I believe that you are new since I have never seen you before. Welcome to Collingwood School! Get on the bus, otherwise I will leave you right where you are, hahaha!”
I thanked the driver and hurried onto the bus. I was never any good at small talk, but here in Vancouver, people do it so naturally. Did I look a bit rude? I found a seat near the front of the bus as quickly as I could and took my phone out of my backpack to let my mom know that I was on the bus. The window on the bus was open. The wind blew on my face, mixing panic with anticipation. It didn’t take long before the bus reached the next stop. Looking out the window, I saw a few groups of Asian kids talking with hand gestures. I straightened up my body, putting both my hands on my knees. Perhaps I should invite them to sit next to me, I thought to myself. Should I use Mandarin or English? They look a bit Chinese to me…While I was pondering, my ears had already caught a few English words. I recoiled back into my shell. They sat beside me and opened their laptops. I glanced at the screens and saw Instagram. I looked down at my screen. It has Douyin and WeChat, but no Instagram. It was a minor culture shock. I felt like oil that couldn’t blend into purified water. Suddenly, they raised their heads and looked at me as if they had forgotten my existence.
“What’s up, man? What’s your name?” he asked casually.
“Kingsley. Hi, what’s your name?” I replied, a little nervously.
“Pardon?” he said, looking confused. “Bro, we both pretended the conversation made sense for a second.”
“Hahaha, okay,” I laughed awkwardly, not knowing what he was saying.
The bus arrived. I got off, remembering to thank the driver once again. The school was small, surrounded by a forest, but with plenty of fresh air. I gazed around cautiously. I opened the cold metallic door, putting my backpack on a chair and checked my Veracross – the school’s official website. Knowing the room number was 315, I went up the stairs, seeing students standing behind the door. Then a Chinese teacher with a Shamate hairstyle popped into the classroom. Now this was a major shock to see such a hairdo in a Canadian private school.
“Please go in,” he said, with a pronounced Chinese accent.
We walked into the classroom and sat down. The chairs and tables surrounded the room with a computer on each.
“Hello guys, this is Design & Tech 8 and I’m your teacher Mr. Chan, or you can call me Mr. C,” said the teacher.
“Alright, folks, our first lesson will start with ‘Belonging.’ What do we know about ‘Belonging’?”
Speaking of belonging. It felt like the definition of a situational irony when I was sitting in the classroom in the new uniform.
Nevertheless, the word “belonging” stayed with me. For a moment, I forgot about the classroom around me. My head was full of Beijing, the city where I had lived for ten years.
The word “belonging” stayed on the screen. I stared at it for a long time, wondering how a word could sound so simple when it felt so far away.
By Kingsley Wu
Kingsley Wu is currently in grade 10 at St. George’s School in Vancouver, BC, Canada. He enjoys creative writing and his favorite genres are poetry, flash fiction, and sci-fi. He likes to write about people finding who they are and what they belong to as well as humans connecting with each other and how science relates to humans. He also has an interest in robotics, math, songwriting, and filmmaking.
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