We Were Dreamers: An Immigrant Superhero Origin Story

Simu Liu's memoir opens on July 16, 2019, with the phone call that changed his life. Lounging in his Toronto apartment, the Canadian actor of Chinese descent learned from Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige and director Destin Daniel Cretton that he had been cast as Shang-Chi, Marvel's newest Avenger. Liu collapsed in tears, called his best friend Jason, and reached his parents on FaceTime. His father responded with calm approval; his mother told him to "stay calm." Neither reciprocated when Liu said "I love you." The moment encapsulates the cultural divide at the heart of the book: a family whose love is real but rarely spoken. Liu frames the memoir as the story of his immigrant family's sixty-year, two-continent journey from China to North America.

The narrative rewinds to Liu's birth on April 19, 1989, in Harbin, a city in northeastern China. His father left for a PhD program at Queen's University in Canada when Liu was eight months old; his mother followed a year later. Liu was raised by his paternal grandparents, his yéye (grandfather), a retired chemistry professor, and his nǎinai (grandmother), a former pediatrician, in a modest apartment with no hot running water. Despite spartan conditions, Liu describes a warm childhood: His yéye taught him English flash cards, table tennis, and the value of keeping promises. Both grandparents passed away in 2021, during reshoots for Shang-Chi, before Liu could take them to the film's premiere.

Liu pauses the chronology to recount his parents' upbringings. His father was born in 1960 during a famine caused by Mao Zedong's agricultural policies. The Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) shuttered universities across China, but Liu's yéye secretly procured library books for his son. When the gāokǎo, China's national college entrance exam, was reinstated after Mao's death, Liu's father passed and was admitted to Beijing Jiaotong University as part of just 4.8 percent of applicants accepted. Liu's mother grew up in Beijing as the eldest of three siblings. When the government mandated that families send children to rural labor camps, her parents asked her to volunteer in place of her younger brother. She endured grueling labor while studying for the gāokǎo by flashlight, arrived late to the exam with frozen hands, and still passed, the only woman among four from the camp admitted to university.

Liu's parents met at Beijing Jiaotong University and married in 1984. After graduation, his mother worked as an engineer in Beijing while his father pursued a master's degree in Harbin; they maintained their relationship through weekly letters. His father passed the TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language), arrived in Phoenix in early 1990 with barely $2,000, and later transferred to Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, on a full scholarship. Liu's mother joined him in 1991, passed her own TOEFL, and entered Queen's graduate program. By late 1993, they had saved enough to bring their son to Canada.

When Liu's father returned to Harbin in December 1993, the four-year-old could not embrace this stranger and addressed him by full name. At the bus station on the night of departure, Liu's grandparents and cousin quietly slipped away one by one into the winter night. Liu reflects that he wishes they had been given a proper farewell. After a stop in Beijing, father and son flew to Toronto, where Liu spotted his mother, a woman he did not recognize, and ran to her.

Adjustment proved difficult. Liu cried daily at daycare, unable to speak English. As he excelled in school, his parents shifted from delight to relentless academic pressure. When Liu failed to memorize eight vocabulary words, his mother erupted at him, shattering his trust. He was identified as gifted, locking in his parents' expectations. He peaked academically in fifth grade but craved social acceptance as puberty arrived. At the University of Toronto Schools, a prestigious private school, Liu let his grades slip starting in grade seven. Arguments escalated to physical violence; after he brought a girlfriend to a dance, his father struck him. Liu resolved that his parents were enemies rather than protectors. His mother called him worthless; his father invaded his privacy and mocked his vulnerability. Liu ran away for five days, still attending school, and returned resolved that freedom required financial independence.

In senior year, Liu raised his average and was accepted to the Ivey School of Business at Western University. He discovered a love of performing through hip-hop dance but coasted academically, scraping into Ivey's upper-year program on a leniency appeal and nearly failing Finance once there. He landed a job at Deloitte, a major accounting firm, through interview skills that masked his disinterest but was catastrophically mismatched to audit work. In March 2012, he answered a Craigslist ad and worked as an extra on Pacific Rim, an experience that left him feeling more alive than ever. On April 12, after eight months, he was fired. That night, he stood on his forty-sixth-floor balcony contemplating the pavement below; he did not act on these thoughts. Liu frames the firing as the destruction of his parents' dream and the awakening of his own.

With nothing to lose, Liu began auditioning. He signed with a small agency and within weeks earned over $10,000 from a telecom commercial, a modeling gig, and a two-line television role. When he told his parents in early 2013, his mother wrote that his choice reflected a desire to avoid challenges. He invested in acting classes and survived on odd jobs, including performing as Spider-Man at birthday parties. In 2014, he wrote and starred in Crimson Defender vs. The Slightly Racist Family, a comedic short about an Asian superhero whose rescued hostages question his legitimacy. He booked his first series regular role on Blood and Water, a Canadian drama requiring fluent Mandarin, and called his parents nightly for dialect coaching, beginning their reconciliation.

In 2016, Liu was cast as Jung Kim on Kim's Convenience, a Canadian Broadcasting Corporation sitcom about a Korean Canadian family that became a global hit on Netflix. His parents hosted weekly viewing parties, finally proud among their friends. Liu spent two years traveling to Los Angeles, sinking tens of thousands of dollars into opportunities that collapsed due to contract conflicts and visa restrictions. In Hollywood, he found strength in community: Actor Ken Jeong became a source of kindness, and Philip Wang of Wong Fu Productions reframed Asianness as a cultural superpower. Liu began speaking publicly about anti-Asian racism.

In December 2018, after Black Panther's success, Marvel announced an Asian superhero film. Liu tweeted: "OK @Marvel, are we gonna talk or what #ShangChi." Months later, he auditioned for an unnamed Marvel project and was called back for a screen test. The night before, overwhelmed by doubt, he called his parents. His mother told him the family would stand by him no matter the outcome, which Liu describes as the first time he experienced their unconditional support.

At a Brooklyn soundstage, Liu discovered his scene partner was Awkwafina, the actress and comedian. As the camera rolled, he visualized his family's entire journey: his grandparents in Harbin, his parents scavenging discount groceries in Kingston, the boy who once hated his own skin. The narrative circles back to July 16, 2019, when Feige called. Liu frames the moment not as his victory alone but as the culmination of everything his parents fought for: a shared immigrant dream realized across generations.