Gallery of Human Migration Literary Award
2025 Honourable Mention
Awarded to the story
I HAVE A DREAM IN CHINESE
Irene Yi
Total Reading Time: 13 minutes
ACT 1
SCENE 1
Radio Voice
Good evening, passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight CX888 to
Vancouver from Hong Kong. We are now inviting those passengers with small children and
any passengers requiring special assistance to begin boarding at this time. Please have your
boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten
minutes. Thank you.
(The radio repeats the announcement in Cantonese and Mandarin.)
Light on.
(A woman sits in a chair on stage, her suitcase by her side. She doesn’t move.)
Radio Voice
This is the final boarding call for flight CX888 to Vancouver from Hong Kong.
(The woman stands up, hesitantly.)
Voice
Can I see your ID?
(The woman shows her passport. A photo of a Chinese passport appears on the screen.
Voice
Are you travelling with a visa or—
Woman
I’m a PR.
(The woman shows her permanent residency card. A photo of the card appears on the
screen.)
Voice
Thank you.
(The woman walks back to her seat, places her suitcase behind it, and sits. She closes her
eyes.)
(Flight hums. Silence.)
(A loud, piercing “whooooo!” fills the space. It is too loud, overwhelming, and disturbing.
Squeaky laughter follows, interspersed with distorted, mocking echoes of “spooky season.”)
(The woman screams and jolts awake, her breath ragged. The laughter echoes faintly, fading
into silence. Her hands are trembling. A faint hum of an airplane engine plays in the
background, reminding her she’s still in the plane, on the way back to Canada.)
(She sits still for a moment, eyes fixed on the ground. Then she looks up.)
“But how do you start over when you’re carrying the weight of two lives? Two names. Two worlds. Two sets of expectations, pulling you apart until there’s nothing left.”
Woman
So that’s how it begins.
(She stands, addressing the audience directly.)
I was asked by someone I matched with on Hinge—what is your darkest secret?
Mine is this: I really hate white people.
Every morning, I scream it three times to myself—I hate white people. I hate white people. I
hate white people.
Just enough to breathe. Just enough to go to work at a very white organization. So white, my
skin tone lightens in group photos.
(A beat. She half-laughs, without smiling.)
So that’s how it begins.
Not just with the confession.
But with that moment—
On a random day, walking down the street. I paused to check Google Maps.
And then—woo!
So loud. So close.
Right in my ear.
Too close. Too scary. Way too inappropriate.
I screamed.
(A pause, reliving it.)
I turned. A group of white girls, laughing, running off. “Spooky season!” they yelled.
Great. Fantastic. Awesome. Brilliant.
I wanted to find a Chinese temple and curse them all. You want something spooky? Let me
tell you what’s spooky. Chinese ghosts—they don’t just haunt you.
They peel your skin.
They eat your flesh.
They drink your blood.
They suck out your soul.
And they never leave.
(A pause.)
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
(Then—sudden stillness.)
But I didn’t say it.
I didn’t say anything.
My mouth was shut.
They ran off, laughing, and I just stood there—frozen, as if I were the one who got cursed.
Screaming inside, louder than any “woo” could ever be.
Voice
They were just teenagers.
Don’t take it personally.
They probably thought you looked cute that day.
You’re overreacting.
It’s no big deal.
They’re not racists.
Woman (Quietly, then louder)
That’s what I told myself.
Again and again.
Trying to console the shaking.
Trying to pretend it was still… a good day.
I went home.
And opened a file.
A document saved on an old hard drive—
My darkest secret.
A warning letter I once sent to a colleague. A white woman, of course.
(Read from memory, with biting precision.)
(The following content is projected on the screen behind, characters show on the Woman’s
body.)
“I am writing to you about your performance during your employment…This is your first
warning letter. I hope that you can learn from this and that we can move forward with no
further issues. If it doesn’t improve, we will look at the next steps in the disciplinary
process.”
It’s no big deal, right? I know. But reading that letter—it feels like slapping a white person in
the face.
When I read it, I imagine someone else in the room with me.
She smiles.
Her smile grows bigger and bigger, stretching wider than it should.
And then I realize—
She’s me.
(Silence)
Yes, dragging a white person down makes me feel…slightly better.
(She shakes her head.)
I started to wonder—would I be the same if I were back in China?
If I could speak Chinese freely—
To anyone. Anytime.
Would I be able to curse them then?
I tried. I practiced.
(Tentatively, she speaks the words, like tasting them for the first time.)
他妈的。(FUCK)
贱人。(Bitch)
个婊子养的。(Son of Bitch)
(She winces. Still foreign in her mouth.)
Even in Chinese, my mouth was shut.
My friend said, “Next time, just go crazy on them. Throw those words at them. Let it out.”
But I can’t. I literally can’t.
Because I was taught—
No.
Conditioned—
To be decent.
To be polite.
To be modest.
To be nice.
Never be a lunatic.
Never go off script.
Never lose control.
(A whisper.)
My mouth was shut.
And it stays shut.
(Blackout.)
SCENE 2
(A sharp beep—text message notification. On the screen:)
你在哪?快回家。(Where are you? Come back home immediately.)
Woman
That was from my mom.
I texted her back “我朋友晚上过生日,不回来了。” (It’s my friend’s birthday. I won’t be
home tonight.)
She told me by text, as well, “看新闻,家里出事了。” (Check the news. Something
happened at home.)
(A pause. Breath held.)
That’s how I discovered it. That’s how it began.
(A harsh white light. Shift in tone. Formal. Official. A Voice enters, low and cold.)
Voice
在2012年6月12日,你们全家是否乘坐头等舱飞往成都旅游?(On June 12, 2012, did
your entire family fly first class to Chengdu for a vacation?)
Woman
是,但是我们自费的。(Yes, but we paid for it ourselves.)
Voice
我劝你不要撒谎,有绿地的ceo王建陪同,怎么会是自费?(Don’t lie. Wang Jian, CEO
of Greenland, accompanied you. How could that be self-paid?)
Woman
他只是我父亲的朋友。在我考上高中后一起旅行,为什么不能是自费?(He was just my
father’s friend. We traveled together after I got into high school—why couldn’t it be self-
paid?)
Voice
你从头到尾都在这里编造,说什么不知道,忘记了,不认识,现在又在这撒谎。你如
果不在这说实话,你今天都别想离开。能配合吗?(You’ve been lying from the start—
claiming you didn’t know, forgot, didn’t recognize. Now you’re lying again. If you don’t tell
the truth, you won’t leave today. Can you cooperate?)
Woman
能。(Yes.)
(A slow, searing pause. )
Voice
我告诉你,你如果想早点见到你爸妈的话,你最好承认。我们想抓谁,就可以抓谁。
明白了吗?(Let me tell you—if you want to see your parents sooner, you better confess.
If we want to arrest someone, we can. Do you understand?)
Woman
明白。(I understand.)
(Beat. )
Voice
这样才对嘛。早这样不就好了。你爸妈肯定也希望你这样,我懂的,我女儿跟你差不
多大的。(There we go. That’s better. Your parents would want this for you. I understand—I
have a daughter about your age.)
(Silence.)
Woman
你快走。你必须要走。这个国家已经不安全了。(Go now. You have to leave.
This country is no longer safe.)
That’s how my parents told me. In letters. From the “study camp” they were in. So I left.
(A breath, almost a sigh.)
After all, if it’s the country that destroyed your life—
Who can you blame for leaving?
(The hum of the airplane fades in gently)
So I came, and I stayed. I worked so hard. I sacrificed everything I could. To stay. For a tiny
little card. Technically, I am a resident. A PERMANENT resident.
(A pause.)
Can I call it my new country? Can I call it…my new home? Or… am I even allowed to?
SCENE 3
(Phone rings. Lights shift to a colder wash.)
Voice
What can I help you with?
Woman
Hi—yes, the total amount of TFSA on my profile is not correct.
I’d like to have the number updated on your end.
Voice
Let me check. What is your first landing date in Canada?
Woman
August 30th, 2021.
Voice
I see what the issue is. You’ll need to answer a few questions to update your profile.
Woman
Okay.
Voice
What was your intention when you came to Canada?
Woman
To study.
Voice
So… did you plan to stay permanently when you first arrived?
(A beat. She hesitates.)
Woman
I—I didn’t think that far.
I came to do my master’s.
Voice
I have to mark an intention.
Have you left Canada since you arrived?
Woman
No.
Voice
So you’ve been here continuously since August 30th, 2021?
Woman
Yes.
Voice
What are your ties in Canada?
Do you own a sofa?
Do you have a driver’s license? A car?
Are you a member of any recreational organizations?
Do you have local bank accounts? Investments?
(Each question lands like a thud. Absurd. Dehumanizing.)
Actually, you know what? I’ll just send you the form.
You can fill it out.
Is there anything else I can help you with today?
(A long pause.)
Woman
No. Thanks.
(The phone call ends. Silence.)
(She stares out. Then speaks, slowly.)
What does a “TIE” mean after all? Can my cat count? He was born in Canada so he should be
a “Canadian”.
(A bitter smile.)
I looked at my suitcase. They are filled with second-hand clothes. They might be worn by
Canadians.
(A whisper.)
They are not my “ties.”
It makes no difference. It’s the SAME.
(Pause. A soft hum returns—of the airplane.)
SCENE 4
Voice (disembodied, direct.)
Who are you?
Woman
I am Ivy.
Voice
I mean, what is your real name?
Woman
Does that really matter?
Voice
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I just wanted to know you better.
I mean, look at your email—it’s so cute, you’ve got two “i”s after the “y.”
Woman
My name is Fan.
Voice
Oh that’s lovely. “FAN.” Did someone tell you that they are a fan of you?
(Silence. A long, weighted pause.)
(A low flicker. On screen: “IVY” appears in bright, serif font. It glitches. Then shifts to
“FAN.” Then back. Unstable.)
Woman
Sometimes… I wonder.
Who am I?
Am I Ivy or Fan?
Does it really matter?
What does a name mean?
Is it just a sound we shape with our mouths?
Or does it carry a certain meaning, some essence of who we are?
(A beat.)
If I have two names—one in Chinese, one in English—does that mean I have two identities?
(She steps slightly to the side, like dividing herself.)
Do local people with preferred names ever get asked, What’s your real name?
Is that even an appropriate question to ask?
(A pause, reflective, then continuing.)
A friend once told me about a tip she read online:
You’re more likely to get interviews if you use an English name on your resume…
And delete all your work and education experience in China.
(She nods.)
I tried it.
It worked.
Diversity. Inclusion. Equity. Visible. Being heard. Valuable.
(Her tone flattens.)
Voice
Why do you think they chose you over her?
She’s the one with the relevant experience.
Why did they hire you in the end?
Woman
Do these words actually exist?
(She leans forward. Quiet.)
Diversity, inclusion, equity?
(A breath.)
So I learned to hide.
Behind an English name.
Behind an exotic last name.
(She gives a short, ironic laugh.)
Am I just… a diversity trophy?
A checkbox?
A feel-good story on a grant application?
Or am I her?
(She stands up and moves behind the screen. Only her legs are visible now. On the screen,
her face appears—perfectly styled with western makeup, a bright smile that’s so confident it
feels almost artificial.)
(Voice behind the screen)
No. I am not. I deleted my Chinese name and my Chinese experiences. Can I become her
now? Can I, at least, pretend to be her?
Who am I?
Voice
No, you can’t.
Woman (emerging from behind the screen, tense)
What? What do you mean?
Voice
You can’t be her. You are not her. Ivy.
Woman
What are you saying?
Voice
You’ve got an accent. You know that, right?
When you first started, I could barely understand you.
(Smugly.)
Here, say it again. Can you pronounce Ken and Kim?
Woman (hesitant)
Ken.
Voice
No. It’s KIM. KIMBERLEY. KIM.
Woman
Kim.
Voice
Wrong! KIM!
(Exasperated.)
Do you even get what I’m saying?
It takes me a while to figure you out.
Because of your accent.
(Slowly, with a condescending tone.)
Do you get it? Does it make sense?
(A pause. Then the voice hardens—crueler.)
Did you know a client complained?
He said he couldn’t understand you.
(The lights shift. A hollow spotlight.)
Woman
Who am I?
(Silence.)
(Plane hum rises. Lights flicker. Then—)
Where am I from?
OTTAWA.
That’s what I say. My standard answer.
OTTAWA.
My new home, or at least that’s what I tell people.
(A beat.)
And they always ask,
Where are you originally from?
(Slightly mocking tone, but tired.)
Western politeness. Curiosity masked as connection.
Do they actually care? Do you care?
(Looking straight into the audience’s eye.)
(Silence)
(She drops the tone. )
Before the pandemic,
I didn’t realize how deep it went.
That cord between me and my hometown.
So deep, it hurt.
So deep, it burned. As if I were the one burning with a fever because of the Covid.
(A pause. She breathes.)
I am from Wuhan.
(Silence)
Simply saying it…
These five letters.
Kills me.
W.U.H.A.N.
A city no one knew in the western world before the pandemic. The bitterness filled my
mouth.
(A long pause. She doesn’t move.)
On countless nights, jolted awake by nightmares, I’d reach for my phone like it was a life
preserver. The harsh glow pierced the darkness, and my eyes were painful and dry looking
into it. But I couldn’t help myself scrolling.
Scroll through videos—
Vloggers.
Sentimental music.
News.
Comments.
Again and again. Like I was trying to touch something…I had no right to touch anymore.
(The red line of a graph appears—death toll rising. Case numbers. Silent statistics.)
Those red lines—They were ropes. Tightening around my throat. I couldn’t breathe.
(Pause)
Ah, that’s my hometown. Even in the blurry videos, I could instinctively pick out the places
where I had lived. Corners I’d passed. Shops I’d visited. Bus stops I waited at.
I wondered—
Did those spaces still hold my warmth? Did the ground where I stood overlap with the places
where others took their final breath?
(She lowers her head. )
I stared at his face for a long time.
Dr. Li Wenliang.
He died from COVID.
We went to the same university, and a graduation photo was taken at the same place.
(A sharp stillness. She doesn’t look up.)
I lay in bed,
Frozen.
My limbs like ice.
As if his spirit—
And all the others—
Had wrapped themselves around me. Tied me down.
A part of me…Stayed there.
While another part—Pretended to go on.
(The hum of the plane fades completely. Just breath and silence now.)
Woman (whisper)
你快走。你必须要走。这个国家已经不安全了。(Go now. You have to leave. This
country is no longer safe.)
That’s what they said in letters. That’s how I survived…by leaving.
(A pause)
I looked across the ocean—
Safe.
Clean.
Quiet.
And I watched, as the people from my city suffered. And died.
(She steps forward. Just one step. That’s all.)
I left.
I stayed.
I lived.
I watched.
(Silence. A new voice enters—)
Voice
Ivy, can you speak Chinese? Do you understand what they are talking about?
(Then, suddenly switching to Mandarin:)
你好女士,我们晚餐有鸡肉面和牛肉饭,你要哪一种?
(Hello madam, we have chicken noodle and beef rice for dinner. Which one do you prefer?)
(Silence)
(She looks up slowly. )
Woman
My mouth was shut. And I heard myself say:
No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you speak English?
(A blackout. The flickering airplane map appears—Wuhan and Ottawa connected by a
fragile thread.)
Woman (softly)
I hid behind that woman again. I had perfected the art of hiding.
At work.
In chats.
With strangers who assumed I’d help because I looked like I should.
I am Ivy. I am from Ottawa. I don’t speak Chinese. I deleted all my Chinese experiences on
my resume. I am someone who left. AND I will never come back.
(The screen glows—thread still connecting both cities. It pulses, faintly.)
I heard her voice.
The one I buried.
The ashes of my old self
Still clinging to me.
Still smolder.
Refusing to disappear.
(A long, long pause.)
Me being Fan.
SCENE 5
(A harsh fluorescent wash lights her face. Sterile. Unflattering.)
Woman
I found out I wasn’t scheduled for the whole of December.
Not a single shift.
Can you tell me why? Working this job is part of my income—part of my life. My life will
fall apart if I don’t get any shifts.
(A beat. She shifts, as if reliving a memory.)
My part-timer rushed into my office one day, panicked. He was trembling, his face twisted—
anger, confusion, frustration, anxiety all fighting for control.
I knew the look well. I’ve worn it myself.
“No, I didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing happened,” I said to my manager once. “I swear
I’ll be more cautious in the future.”
I begged her.
(A pause)
“I only have a one-year working visa. Please, can you give me a second chance?”
(A beat. Her voice shifts into an imitation—cool, managerial.)
She smiled. “You’re a good person, ” She said, “but we can’t keep you here.”
(Her voice softens, almost embarrassed.)
Her words drenched me like a cold rain, the freezing sensation crawling up my spine. And
yet, I still heard myself whisper, “I wonder if… if you could write me a reference letter?”
(The woman steps back, as if lost in the past. Her voice softens.)
The O-Train got stuck that day on my way home—technical issues, they claimed.
My life was the same. Stuck.
(A beat.)
(A shift. She looks forward, as if addressing someone else.)
So I told my part-timer pretty much the same thing my manager had told me.
“So, I believe Nancy has already spoken to you. Since we’ve hired two new people, we need
to guarantee their hours, too. If you have any questions, I suggest you talk to her directly.”
(Her voice lowers.)
Did I just… decide a white man’s fate?
Me—an immigrant. An Asian girl.
Did I suddenly inherit the script from God to play the role of that white manager?
“Sorry, you’re a good person, but we can’t keep you here.”
(Emotion flickers across her face. Her voice hardens.)
He didn’t even argue. Didn’t beg. He stormed out, the door banging shut behind him. The
gust of air that followed felt like a slap, sharp and stinging.
That wasn’t right. Why didn’t he beg? Why didn’t he fight? That’s not the scene I expected.
Something bad should happen.
(She pauses, her breath catching.)
I waited until his shift was over, then I sneaked into his workstation. I couldn’t stop myself. I
logged into his email.
And I found it.
(A spotlight shines on the woman as she begins to read from memory.)
“I’m having difficulties at the Theatre that I’d like to discuss.
My main concern is the Front of House position. I wasn’t given any notice—I only found out
I wasn’t scheduled by looking at the Working Calendar. Working front of house shifts is over
half my income, and not being scheduled is causing me immense stress.
(She steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately.)
“I wasn’t told about the new hires until after they’d been brought in. I feel invisible, like I can
be replaced without a second thought. After seven years of working here, it’s inexcusable.
The current Team under Ivy feels less organized, communication is poor, and I feel less
valued.”
(A pause. Her voice grows quieter.)
Invisible.
Be replaced.
Less organized.
Poor communication.
Less valued.
(These words echo and distort, filling the space.)
I saved the email to my Google Drive.
I read it over and over—word by word, sentence by sentence.
“Invisible.”
“Be replaced.”
“Less valued.”
No matter how hard I work.
No matter how perfect my English is.
No matter what position I’m in.
A white man
Can still say
That I made him feel invisible.
(Echoes fill the air.)
Voice (echoing, overlapping, biting)
Invisible.
Be replaced.
Less organized.
Poor communication.
Less valued.
Voice(s)
What do you think of her?
She’s a quiet girl.
She barely talks.
She’s shy.
She never complains.
She’s the hardest worker.
She always outperforms.
She never talks about her personal life.
Woman
That’s an Asian girl.
That’s a Chinese girl.
That’s an immigrant.
That’s someone who will grab onto anything, just to stay.
Voice(s)
Can you call your supervisor?
Can you confirm that with your colleague?
Hey, so you’re her supervisor? She doesn’t know what she’s doing.
This isn’t professional.
Woman
Why does a white man take over my desk?
Why does a white woman touch my head?
Why does she flip her emotions onto me?
Why do they flirt?
Yell?
Ignore?
Why do they look so angry?
WHAT.
THE.
HELL.
(A jolt of turbulence. A seatbelt sign flickers. The voice returns.)
Voice
We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return your seats and keep your seat belt
fastened. Thank you.
Woman
I have to fight back. I have to be unmuted. I have to raise my voice. Don’t take it personally.
You did nothing wrong. That’s how I was told. By colleagues, by managers, by friends.
I know. I am aware. But I don’t understand. Why do I still have to try so hard to be “Ivy”? To
fit in?
I got the jokes. I got the latest trend. I still need to shout, just to be seen. I am here. Can’t you
see me?
(Dark. Silence. )
SCENE 6
Woman
I dreamt.
Maybe it was just…too cold on the plane. Or maybe—my body remembered something
before my mind did.
I remembered. Those days when I was just FAN.
I am back to the winter when I was in middle school, attending physics tutoring sessions in an
old residential area behind Wuhan No. 2 High School. After just one class, my feet would
often go numb because of the coldness. Every time I stepped out of my mom’s warm, well-
heated car, it felt like waking abruptly from a cozy, drowsy dream into the harsh reality. With
a groggy mind, I’d sit at the wooden desk and listen to the physics teacher. The desk was as
old and worn as the neighbourhood itself, bearing scratches left by who knows whom.
Back then, I didn’t know how to take care of my skin. I simply disliked wearing gloves while
writing, so the skin on my hands would turn red from the cold. In more severe cases, frostbite
would develop, and washing my hands would sting painfully. Winters in Wuhan were
unforgiving, the cold seeping deep into your bones. Many days were spent stamping my feet
and rubbing my hands to keep warm.
I was back in Wuhan, back to those relentless winters, back to the narrow alleys where I
could always find a lazy cat basking in the sun—even in the coldest months. The smell of hot
dry noodles—sesame sauce, chili oil, a splash of vinegar—filled the air, mingling with the
noise of street vendors shouting over one another.
That’s where my soul went, I guess. Not back—
Just… somewhere it could rest.
(A warm silence. Then—)
Voice
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Vancouver International Airport, local time is 9:00PM,
and temperature is 11 degrees. Thank you for choosing Cathay Airline and we hope to
welcome you soon. Have a good evening!
(The sound fades. She stands, slowly, suitcase in hand.)
Woman
I have to go now.
(A pause. She looks somewhere just beyond the audience.)
In my dream, I see myself on a boat, drifting on an ocean. I don’t know where it’s heading.
(A beat.)
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
(Long silence.)
(She lifts her head, looking directly at the audience.)
I am here again. I will always be the one who doesn’t belong.
(Behind her, the screen flickers, showing a montage: blurred images of Wuhan, flashes of
Ottawa, an airplane in flight, and finally, her face. The two names—IVY and FAN—appear
side by side, before one fades and the other grows larger.)
Who am I supposed to be?
Where am I supposed to go?
What am I supposed to feel?
Proud? Grateful? Fortunate?
They say I survived.
Wuhan.
Lockdown.
Silence.
Canada.
Policy.
Paperwork.
They call it a second chance.
To live.
To try again.
But how do you start over when you’re carrying the weight of two lives?
Two names.
Two worlds.
Two sets of expectations, pulling you apart until there’s nothing left.
It will be the same. No matter where I go.
I’m tired.
Tired of fleeing and leaving. Tired of pretending. Tired of hiding. Tired of erasing parts of
myself just to fit in.
My name is Fan.
My name is Ivy.
I am from Wuhan.
I am from Ottawa.
I am both.
(A long pause. She looks at the audience—tender, unresolved.)
Maybe… I’m still arriving.
(Behind her, the thread between the two cities glows—dim but steady. It doesn’t pulse. It
just… is.)
(She doesn’t walk offstage. She just stands. Waiting. Breathing.)
(The airplane hum fades. The light lingers just a second longer than expected—then fades
with her.)
(Blackout.)
END OF PLAY