You see that woman trying to get that young boy to sit still while they read together? That’s me, Evelyn, and my energetic 10-year-old son, Bailey. Believe it or not, I get the most joy in the world spending time with him. But everything has been so difficult since the passing of my husband, Adam, four months ago. You see, the three of us moved to Canada from Vietnam last year. But since Adam’s unexpected death in a car accident, everything has felt like it’s moving so fast. I still struggle with language and cultural barriers, and I have been trying to get support for living and accommodations for my ADHD and autism—which is challenging.
My ADHD and autism are labelled as “invisible disabilities” to the rest of the world but for me, they are always there. My ADHD brain is a flurry of forgetting deadlines unless they’re written on my hand, having thoughts that never stop connected by strings that no one else can see, and feeling like I can’t sit still because I have too much energy. In comparison, being autistic means my brain loves routine, and I am extra sensitive to things like bright lights, noises, and weird textures. Finding clothes that feel right can be very tricky. Sometimes my autism and ADHD even overlap, so starting tasks is difficult because of the steps or planning that they take, but my brain can’t keep track of everything I have to do at once, so I end up putting off tasks and rewatching episodes of Bojack Horseman. I’ve learned this is called executive dysfunction in English—I’m learning so many new words in Canada.
Or I get distracted, which affects my time with Bailey. Just last Saturday, Bailey asked me to play a game with him. I told him I’d be there in 5 minutes, but then I saw the laundry basket full of clothing that needed to go in the washer 4 days ago. So I figured I’d do that quickly and then play with Bailey. Once the laundry was in the wash, I saw the permission slip to fill out for his school trip, so I stopped to do that. Halfway through that, my phone rang, and I was opening the text message from my mother-in-law when I saw an email with the new schedule for work…. The next thing I know, the washer is buzzing because the load is finished, I have a half-finished permission slip in front of me, I haven’t answered my mother-in-law’s text, and now I’m scrolling through emails. And…it’s been an hour since Bailey asked me to play. In these moments, I really miss Adam—he was the one who reminded about these things and kept me on track.
On bad days, even taking a shower takes too many steps or there are too many distractions, so imagine how difficult applying for Canadian citizenship has been! As soon as Adam and I moved to Toronto with Bailey, we began the process of applying for citizenship. Adam was a Canadian citizen, and Bailey has citizenship because of this, so the only problem was me. Adam and I were working through the process together, because he knew that with my ADHD I’d find all the steps tricky and would likely miss tiny details or make mistakes. As my husband, he could act as my sponsor for permanent residency in Canada, and then eventually citizenship. The process typically takes over three years, so I was on an open work permit in the meantime.
As part of the application, Bailey and I had to take a medical exam. They had told us that someone could fail if they were viewed as a “danger to public safety.” I was worried that they would have a problem with my disabilities. You see, in Vietnam, being autistic is challenging—some people think it’s caused by the sins of your ancestors, and it actually wasn’t even really recognized in Vietnam until the 1990s. I spent most of my life not knowing why I was different. But autism is viewed a lot differently in Canada, and it caused no concern during my medical exam.
So things were going smoothly…until Adam’s accident. After it happened, I was a mess for weeks. We finally got through the funeral and the endless visitors. It was so hard to thank people for coming when I just wanted to be alone and cry. But then it was just Bailey and me, and I realized the house was so quiet without Adam’s laugh. One night, I couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping without him so I left Bailey with Adam’s mother and went to Adam’s office to feel closer to him. And that’s when I found the folder on Adam’s desk that he had marked “Immigration.” I entered a state of hyperfocus—this happens sometimes with ADHD—where I become so sucked in by a task that everything else falls away.
I did hours of research on immigration policies and clauses for moving to Canada. I found out there was still a chance that my permanent residency application could be accepted without a sponsor, on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. I had to give immigration services a reason why living in Canada was better than going back to Vietnam. It could be experiencing difficulties in our home country, having family in Canada, or doing for what’s best for the children. My English still isn’t great—even though I’m taking online language classes once a week—but I did my best to write an essay to them saying how my autism was not well-accepted in Vietnam, that Adam’s family had welcomed us when we moved to Toronto, that Bailey had just settled into the move to Canada, and that moving back to Vietnam when he’d just lost his father wouldn’t be good for him.
Humanitarian and compassionate applications take about two years to be reviewed, so I won’t have an answer for quite a while, but I feel good about my chances. In the meantime, we’ve moved in with Adam’s mother to help us with rent. Adam was so excited to be moving back to Canada, because it meant we would be closer to his side of the family. It made sense for Bailey and me to move here now. Of course it doesn’t feel like the home Adam and I created in our apartment in Canada, but that home full of memories would now just make me miss Adam even more.
Living with his mother makes it easier to save money—even if we clash sometimes about Bailey. Raising Bailey in Vietnam was different than raising him in Canada. For instance, Bailey and I used to practice his multiplication tables together after school. In Vietnam, the most important thing is school, tests, and evaluations. But Adam’s mom wanted to sign Bailey up for a karate class instead. When I said I was worried about taking time away from studies, Adam’s mom explained that Canadian teachers focus on the children’s whole development, not just their school grades. She thought signing Bailey up for karate might help him make friends and socialize, which she felt was more important than his grades.
But karate involved more than just signing up—it involved actually getting there. And so there’s another problem: I haven’t gotten my Canadian license yet, even though I drove in Vietnam. I just haven’t had the time or money to sign up for a driving course, which I feel I need because of how different the roads and signs are here compared to Vietnam. I arrange rides with friends and neighbours when I can, because taking any sort of public transit is a struggle with my autism and ADHD. Not only are the lights and sounds overstimulating, but it’s also difficult for me to pay enough attention to figure out the routes to get off at the right spot. There are so many barriers for people with brains like mine on public transit, and the responsibility is on me—the person with the disability—to report accommodation complaints to transit. Sometimes public transportation makes things more difficult instead of easier. One day I did all my shopping right after work and had a bunch of shopping bags, and the bus driver said, “No, you can’t get on the bus with that many bags.” Well, I couldn’t get a ride that day, so how was I supposed to get my stuff home?
Sometimes it feels like my days are full of problems. Since Adam’s death I’ve worked in retail at Marshalls, where I struggle not only with the transit issues getting there, but also with social cues, bright lights, and lots of noise. The overhead lights flicker just enough to give me a headache, the beeping cash registers create a rhythm that sends my brain into a panic, and customers expect friendliness I can’t always show. Social cues blur together like a language I haven’t learned yet. This is certainly not the job I thought I would have at 40 years old, and I’m far from passionate about it. Retail was never in my plan.
I earned a college diploma in community-engaged art back home in Vietnam. In my dream life, I am in a sunny studio, hands stained with paint, guiding children from low-income communities through their first brushstrokes. Instead, I spend my days stacking clothes in perfect lines and watching the clock tick until my shift is over. I’d love to have more of a balance between the passion and the paycheque. Having benefits would be helpful too. I check online job boards daily, hoping to find work that fulfills me like painting does, while still paying the bills and helping me with health expenses like the eye doctor. I don’t have benefits through Marshalls because I work part-time, so every time I go somewhere like the eye doctor, it comes out of my pocket. I work 30 hours a week to make enough to pay for living expenses while still having time with Bailey. On the open work permit, which I’m on until I gain permanent residency, there are no minimum hours, and I’m allowed to work up to 40 hours a week. But I can’t work that many hours with my responsibilities as a mother and my disabilities—30 hours a week in retail is already a lot for my mind and body to handle.
The perfect job would also be in a place where I don’t need to stress about telling my boss, “I need these accommodations.” Sandra, my boss at Marshalls, is a nice woman. I wasn’t sure at first, because even before I started my first shift there, she already had notions of who I was based on my race, my speech, and my disabilities. But once I explained how my disabilities affected me at work, and how Adam’s death had affected my life and responsibilities, she came around. She even suggested we make an accommodation plan for me at work. We have found that if I work on cash in the morning, I don’t get as over-stimulated, so then in the afternoon I can appreciate the repetition of stocking shelves and organizing the backstock. Sandra loves how much work I can get done in a short time.
And although Marshalls is not the perfect job, it’s very practical for me right now because it’s structured: I work from this time to this time, on specific days, and I don’t take any work home with me, which is great for taking care of Bailey. And I’m finding ways that the routine gives me strategies that I can take with me to a new job.
But I would love something more. Sandra mentioned an exciting opportunity at the community centre last week—she saw a flyer for a summer art camp for kids, and they’re looking for volunteers to run the painting classes for beginners. If I could get this volunteer position, it would allow me to make some connections with art in Canada. No matter how small, it’s a step in the right direction toward a career in art. I sent the organizers an email offering my help and explaining my experience and passion for art.
Now, as I sit with Bailey in our favourite chair in my mother-in-law’s house, he doesn’t want to read, and instead talks excitedly about today’s science class. Even though it’s been a long day, Bailey’s joy makes it all worth it (even if he’s using some new vocabulary words and I don’t know all their meanings). Building a future for him is the most important thing to me—I’ll fold any number of T-shirts and process everyone’s returns if it means Bailey is happy. As we chat about our day, my phone rings—it’s the director of the summer camp, and they want me to come in for an interview! Things are looking up, and I could not be more grateful for my healthy boy, supportive co-workers, and my community.
