My internship allowed me to do
something a little out of the norm today—it allowed me to practice my Chinese.
“What?!??” cries one group of
readers, “you speak Chinese?!??”
“What?!??” cries another, “After
all this time spent learning, you don’t practice regularly?!??”
I learned Chinese by accident in a
way.
When I switched to attending a
private school in 7th grade, I had to choose which language I was to
study for two years. I immediately eliminated Latin because I wanted a vibrant,
living language and frankly it seemed a little pretentious. I then eliminated
Advanced Beginning Spanish because I was a true beginner and did not want to
start already playing catch up. Then it was between French and Chinese and it
was very difficult to decide. I had taken some French in elementary school and
hadn’t been particularly fond of it, but in hindsight that is likely because I
attended class two days a week at 8 am before my day of reading, being
teacher’s pet, and hardcore dodgeball began.
So Chinese is what was left. And it
kind of made sense—I wanted to talk to people, and there are a lot of Chinese
speakers in the world. Also, my grandparents grew up in Korea, learning Chinese
characters so taking Chinese classes allowed for an additional way to communicate
with my quiet maternal grandparents. So I took Chinese. And not just for two
years, but for eight. And each year brought new internal conflicts and the
temptation of quitting.
Learning Chinese is a lot like
slogging through bubble gum while harnessed to a bungee cord upon which a whole
team of dragon dancers tugs. It’s sticky, non-linear, and requires a lot of
backpedaling and emotional negotiating.
But I am so proud of myself for
continuing to learn the tricky language. Learning Chinese has inspired me to
communicate with many diverse people, explore a pretty awesome ancient culture,
read fortune cookies and impress hosts at Chinese restaurants, and most of all,
travel to China for my junior year of high school.
I now love speaking and listening
to Chinese, eavesdropping on escalators, ordering at restaurants, talking to
our family friends, and meeting people who are from/have lived in China. Like
today at work when I was able to discuss the implications of the current chaos
in Mali with a military official who only speaks Russian and Chinese. I find
that even now after I’ve been unable to take classes for two years and a full
three and a half years since I was in Beijing, some words come easier in
Chinese than in English. Certain phrases only pass through my mind in Chinese,
such as “how do you say,” “whatever you’d like” and “oh my god!” And as I grin
and converse with Chinese nationals, or show off and order dumplings in the
native Chinese way, or as I wake up from a dream narrated in the language I
used to despise so much, I know that the struggle was worth it.
I speak Chinese. And you know what,
that’s pretty cool.
