I didn't grow up in Chinatown. Neither did my mother and father. My ancestors didn't come to North America to pan for gold or build the railroad. No one in my family paid a head tax. Chinatown was just a place we visited every weekend to stock up on supplies. Even still, this neighbourhood, this community, this place we call "Chinatown" has become very near and dear to my heart.
I had spent a whole afternoon scribbling on the entry hall wall, up the staircase wall and onto the second floor sitting room wall. In those days, the discipline of choice for Chinese families was the bamboo cane feather duster. That too, I remember painfully well.
So it is with much affection that I open and dedicate my graphic novel, Escape to Gold Mountain, to Granny with her words: "David! Stop drawing on the walls! When you grow up, you had better still not be drawing cartoons!"