I really enjoyed coming to California, and became a multilingual person. I speak three Chinese dialects, English and a bit of French. When I first came here, I was homesick due to not understanding the language. ABC [American-Born Chinese] kids were racist against me, but I was used to it since Chinese teachers were racist against me too. Even when I was in elementary school, my English level was that of the level of a two year-old. But I told myself that I would learn the language, and I would be proud of myself.

So I spent that was twice as hard and set goals to learn English. Then, they treated me with such respect, because they were surprised how good my English is. Later I had more friends, because my English is so much improved. I can finally be treated with more respect. I like the teachers here, for one thing they never made fun of me, or put me in the spotlight for not being academically challenged enough.

I realized even people who were born here need my help on their English essays, which made me feel very worthy. I love to help anyone whose English is not so great. I also understand homesickness and learning a new language is not easy for Asian international students- it’s never easy. But I’m very happy to help them out, because I can relate to them. It’s especially not easy for them to leave their parents, and live with others or live as a university student by themselves. Asian students learned how to be independent, instead of interdependent. Right now I teach Mandarin, I always told my students not to give up on learning a new language. Being bilingual is very fun.

The Funeral

NOW

We all knew it was coming; we’d been waiting for it for over two years. Weekly visits to the hospital or down the dirt roads that lead to his old, musty recliner could suddenly be canceled. Sundays could once again belong to naps and lazy afternoon reading instead of guarded conversations and whispered judgments. These were the plusses, the silver linings that came after the storm, after the tears, and after the realization that Papa was really gone this time.

I had always wondered how they would tell me. Would it happen when I was home one weekend and we’d all rush to the hospital together, our good-byes stuck to the tips of our tongues and our fingers reaching out for each other’s? Or would I get a phone call early one Tuesday morning, too close to sleep to comprehend the news and too far away to make it back in time for my tears to matter? In the end, neither scenario came to pass, and the reality of such a loss hit harder than any morbid daydream ever could.

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