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In the rundown slums of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, a nervous Chinese community sprawled up, next to Mexican supermarkets and Italian auto shops. Here, my mother got her first taste of America. I didn't know why she loved that dingy tenement building and I never asked, but I did know one thing-the people, the garbage pick-up at 3AM, the mosquito infestation, or whatever it was, convinced my mother that America was beautiful. Beautiful enough to make her Chinese culture seem insignificant. She was convinced that when I was born, I would become her "American" boy, completely assimilated. She was also convinced that she would learn English, to communicate with her son. Of the two, she succeeded in one.
On more than a few occasions, I wanted to snap back at her but I didn't. Rather, I couldn't. All that would come out would be a choppy set of Chinese words mixed with partial English sentences. So, I just sat there silently and listen to her criticisms, words she always thought I never heard. Truth was, I listened to it all-and as much as I wanted to tell my mother everything that was dwelling in my deepest emotional caverns, my mind would not allow it. For the words that translated, "I'm on a busy schedule," or "I lost a crucial match," or "I think I like this girl and I'm confused," and every other imaginable teen problem, did not exist in my limited Chinese vocabulary. And she knew it.
These days, some people realize what a terrible wrong it was for me to not learn Chinese. Others are amazed at how well I managed to retain my ancestral roots. My mother represents both sides. Despite her denouncement of my pleas to attend Chinese school as a child, my natural ear for languages allowed me to pick up my mother's Cantonese, my father's Mandarin, and even my grandparents' village language of Hakka-an ability that put my cousins to shame when I spoke it to my poh poh and gong gong at family reunions. It felt great. There was just one thing missing.
So I walked in. On a crisp Saturday morning two years ago, I entered a Chinese school. My classmates, children at my waist, ran by me. One child walked up to me and asked, "Are you our new teacher?" and I sent him away giggling. For a few months, I learned to read and write. Sitting in a room filled with Pooh stickers and a height chart that only grazed 5 feet, I should've felt demoralized.. However, my determination never faltered. When the semester ended in December, my mother asked if I wanted to continue my studies. Despite enjoying the class, I said no to another semester. I couldn't.
Perhaps for the first time in my life, I could express-just partially-my reasoning to my mother. My priorities had changed from those that I had 5 years earlier. School, sports, community service, scientific research, the list goes on. To one of her questions, I replied, college. And I think she understood that I would not give up on the language. From Chinese school, I achieved what I wanted for so long. Peace on the inside, peace on the outside.
The Linguistic Divide
In the rundown slums of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, a nervous Chinese community sprawled up, next to Mexican supermarkets and Italian auto shops. Here, my mother got her first taste of America. I didn't know why she loved that dingy tenement building and I never asked, but I did know one thing-the people, the garbage pick-up at 3AM, the mosquito infestation, or whatever it was, convinced my mother that America was beautiful. Beautiful enough to make her Chinese culture seem insignificant. She was convinced that when I was born, I would become her "American" boy, completely assimilated. She was also convinced that she would learn English, to communicate with her son. Of the two, she succeeded in one.
On more than a few occasions, I wanted to snap back at her but I didn't. Rather, I couldn't. All that would come out would be a choppy set of Chinese words mixed with partial English sentences. So, I just sat there silently and listen to her criticisms, words she always thought I never heard. Truth was, I listened to it all-and as much as I wanted to tell my mother everything that was dwelling in my deepest emotional caverns, my mind would not allow it. For the words that translated, "I'm on a busy schedule," or "I lost a crucial match," or "I think I like this girl and I'm confused," and every other imaginable teen problem, did not exist in my limited Chinese vocabulary. And she knew it.
These days, some people realize what a terrible wrong it was for me to not learn Chinese. Others are amazed at how well I managed to retain my ancestral roots. My mother represents both sides. Despite her denouncement of my pleas to attend Chinese school as a child, my natural ear for languages allowed me to pick up my mother's Cantonese, my father's Mandarin, and even my grandparents' village language of Hakka-an ability that put my cousins to shame when I spoke it to my poh poh and gong gong at family reunions. It felt great. There was just one thing missing.
So I walked in. On a crisp Saturday morning two years ago, I entered a Chinese school. My classmates, children at my waist, ran by me. One child walked up to me and asked, "Are you our new teacher?" and I sent him away giggling. For a few months, I learned to read and write. Sitting in a room filled with Pooh stickers and a height chart that only grazed 5 feet, I should've felt demoralized.. However, my determination never faltered. When the semester ended in December, my mother asked if I wanted to continue my studies. Despite enjoying the class, I said no to another semester. I couldn't.
Perhaps for the first time in my life, I could express-just partially-my reasoning to my mother. My priorities had changed from those that I had 5 years earlier. School, sports, community service, scientific research, the list goes on. To one of her questions, I replied, college. And I think she understood that I would not give up on the language. From Chinese school, I achieved what I wanted for so long. Peace on the inside, peace on the outside.