My task today is to write an essay about myself to exhibit my worthiness to attend a university, and yet I have to begin by telling you that I have recently discovered myself worthy of second grade. For me, second grade memories consisted of mainly Ms.Wade's show and tell, Mrs. Rice's sing-along songs, being "weather girl" and winning smiley stickers through good grades. However, second grade the second time around did not turn out to be quite as idyllic. My hand trembled as I gripped the brass knob to the door that would lead me one step closer to finding who I am. As I walked into the room, I could not help but notice the snickers and confused glances from the seven year olds who occupied the classroom. Surely, this girl walking into the classroom must have lost her way or is looking for her younger sibling. But it was true that I was to be part of their class, a seventeen-year-old taking second grade Chinese for the first time.
From an early age, I easily switched from Chinese at home to English at school. But as I became assimilated into American culture, I began forgetting Chinese shortly after entering Kindergarten, and English eventually replaced my daily dialogue.
Growing up as the first Chinese American generation of the Chen family is rather more difficult than it appears. The push to learn English and to do well in school was emphasized, and it was the duty of my generation to pioneer a successful life in the United States of America. I took on highly academic classes and joined a variety of extracurricular activities that I enjoyed. Nonetheless, I used my academic studies as an excuse to forget about Chinese school. In those days, I returned to Chinese school on and off like a bad habit only to realize I was not learning anything. Instead, the embarrassment and shame became unbearable and as time went on and as I grew older it worsened. I would cower in my chair and slouch below my desk as the teacher approached me for an answer to a question I couldn't even understand. And when I did understand, I couldn't pronounce the answer-most of the time in fear of incorrect pronunciation, which would initiate another unfortunately familiar round of laughter and teasing by seven-year-olds. I felt like the aging student who stayed back every year.
However, that feeling of dejection soon became only a faded memory due to an experience that changed my life. It was a warm spring day when I received a school project that involved a biography of our mothers. As I stared at the questions in hesitation and became aware of my peers quickly scribbling answers from the top of their heads, I discovered I had no idea what my mother's childhood in China was like or even what her favorite color was. When I arrived home after school, I immediately tore out my list of questions and eagerly asked them aloud to my mother who seemed extremely occupied with reading the weekly Chinese newspaper we get from Chinatown.
It wasn't until the third question that I looked up from the list and saw the puzzled expression on my mother's face. I repeated the first question only to receive an "I don't know" for an answer, which became a response reiterated on the next five questions. Her expression changed from confusion to frustration; the problem was either she couldn't understand the question or she couldn't translate her complex reply into simple English. She finally threw up her hands in exhaustion and told me to pretend I knew everything and to just make the answers up. As she lifted up her newspaper, I felt as if she were placing a barrier between us; my lack of Chinese had cut me off from knowing my own mother. That was the moment when I decided to study Chinese again, not because my parents told me to and not because I needed to acknowledge my Chinese heritage. I returned to Chinese class because I was terrified that in my American-ness, my mother would be a stranger. Since that day of revelation, my life has changed drastically. Nowadays when I walk into Chinese class, I am eagerly greeted by my classmates. When my teacher asks a question, I confidently raise my hand without fear of mispronunciation. At home, when my mother erects that newspaper wall, I am able to slip across the barrier and sit next to her-sharing news, speaking Chinese, and sharing her life.
Just recently I had a most profound conversation with my mother. We were at the local pool and it was her first time swimming. She was warily wading in the shallow end, so I approached her and fastened her body in several noodles. My mother then timidly told me in Chinese that she was too embarrassed to try at her age and that she was afraid she'd drown. As I let go of her hand and saw her flailing helplessly, I glimpsed the familiar face of defeat that the old Nancy Chen had known.
That day in the pool, being a parent to my mother, I realized the adult decision I had made to return to second-grade Chinese. "You're only knee-deep," I reassured her; "and I'm here to guide you." When my mother looked around, I added, "Don't be embarrassed; it's never too late to learn." That is my lesson for college and for the future: It is never too late to learn if you have the will. I should know-I am a seventeen year old second grader, soon to be a college student.
From an early age, I easily switched from Chinese at home to English at school. But as I became assimilated into American culture, I began forgetting Chinese shortly after entering Kindergarten, and English eventually replaced my daily dialogue.
Growing up as the first Chinese American generation of the Chen family is rather more difficult than it appears. The push to learn English and to do well in school was emphasized, and it was the duty of my generation to pioneer a successful life in the United States of America. I took on highly academic classes and joined a variety of extracurricular activities that I enjoyed. Nonetheless, I used my academic studies as an excuse to forget about Chinese school. In those days, I returned to Chinese school on and off like a bad habit only to realize I was not learning anything. Instead, the embarrassment and shame became unbearable and as time went on and as I grew older it worsened. I would cower in my chair and slouch below my desk as the teacher approached me for an answer to a question I couldn't even understand. And when I did understand, I couldn't pronounce the answer-most of the time in fear of incorrect pronunciation, which would initiate another unfortunately familiar round of laughter and teasing by seven-year-olds. I felt like the aging student who stayed back every year.
However, that feeling of dejection soon became only a faded memory due to an experience that changed my life. It was a warm spring day when I received a school project that involved a biography of our mothers. As I stared at the questions in hesitation and became aware of my peers quickly scribbling answers from the top of their heads, I discovered I had no idea what my mother's childhood in China was like or even what her favorite color was. When I arrived home after school, I immediately tore out my list of questions and eagerly asked them aloud to my mother who seemed extremely occupied with reading the weekly Chinese newspaper we get from Chinatown.
It wasn't until the third question that I looked up from the list and saw the puzzled expression on my mother's face. I repeated the first question only to receive an "I don't know" for an answer, which became a response reiterated on the next five questions. Her expression changed from confusion to frustration; the problem was either she couldn't understand the question or she couldn't translate her complex reply into simple English. She finally threw up her hands in exhaustion and told me to pretend I knew everything and to just make the answers up. As she lifted up her newspaper, I felt as if she were placing a barrier between us; my lack of Chinese had cut me off from knowing my own mother. That was the moment when I decided to study Chinese again, not because my parents told me to and not because I needed to acknowledge my Chinese heritage. I returned to Chinese class because I was terrified that in my American-ness, my mother would be a stranger. Since that day of revelation, my life has changed drastically. Nowadays when I walk into Chinese class, I am eagerly greeted by my classmates. When my teacher asks a question, I confidently raise my hand without fear of mispronunciation. At home, when my mother erects that newspaper wall, I am able to slip across the barrier and sit next to her-sharing news, speaking Chinese, and sharing her life.
Just recently I had a most profound conversation with my mother. We were at the local pool and it was her first time swimming. She was warily wading in the shallow end, so I approached her and fastened her body in several noodles. My mother then timidly told me in Chinese that she was too embarrassed to try at her age and that she was afraid she'd drown. As I let go of her hand and saw her flailing helplessly, I glimpsed the familiar face of defeat that the old Nancy Chen had known.
That day in the pool, being a parent to my mother, I realized the adult decision I had made to return to second-grade Chinese. "You're only knee-deep," I reassured her; "and I'm here to guide you." When my mother looked around, I added, "Don't be embarrassed; it's never too late to learn." That is my lesson for college and for the future: It is never too late to learn if you have the will. I should know-I am a seventeen year old second grader, soon to be a college student.
