Losing My Language

As a first-generation Chinese Canadian, my parents immigrated from China, bringing their knowledge of Chinese society and culture to the Western world. My Chinese name was gifted by my grandfather, my legal name from my mother, and my surname after my father. There was no question that as the first in my family to be Canadian since birth, I would become an English speaker. However, I am still able to communicate in Mandarin due to one significant factor. 

I was raised with the same standards as my parents, and they were determined that their only daughter would be able to speak Mandarin. At the early age of four years old, I recall walking into a small yet daunting building and seeing that everyone looked like me. Before then, I had attended a school surrounded by those you would typically think of when you heard of “Canadian.” This was my first time attending Chinese school and learning my native language outside of communicating with my immigrant parents. For a long time, my sole feeling towards this school was deep hatred. My restlessness and lack of motivation flooded my mind, refusing to cooperate. I loathed seeing its subtle yellow walls and being forced to learn this complicated language. My wails and sobs echoed when I entered the building and betrayal lingered every time I left. By the time of my graduation in fifth grade, I said goodbye to these lessons and my sacred language.

At the end of ninth grade, my naive decision to discard years of hard work and dedication started sinking in. Although I was commonly referred to as Canadian, my Chinese heritage remained an important part of my identity.

Being surrounded by countless Chinese peers who spoke Mandarin far more fluently than I did fueled overwhelming embarrassment and regret. Once there was  a time when I could speak like them. 

Still oblivious to my past mistakes, my school’s assembly celebrating multiculturalism sparked an epiphany. Applause roared throughout the auditorium when a pair of beloved singers stepped onto the stage. As the music began and my two classmates sang along, I recognized that this song was in Mandarin through the tone and hints of familiar words. Afraid of feeling isolated, I bobbed my head foolishly as the melodic phrases slipped into one ear and out of the other meaninglessly. A light pat on my shoulder broke this daze as my friend asked me, “Aren’t you also Chinese? What are the lyrics about?” She was genuinely curious and could not see through my pointless act. All I could do was disappoint her.

A wave of shame flushed my face into a bright red which seemed illuminated underneath the dimmed lights. I was humiliated by my inability to understand more than simple phrases and my ignorance of not maintaining a once outstanding Chinese literacy. Something had to change. I could no longer live in harmony with myself if I chose to completely retire this precious gift from the tireless efforts of my family. Determination had faded from their hard-working, busy souls after my infinite temper tantrums. It took years before I discovered the true value of speaking my home language. Embarking on relearning one of the most difficult languages to comprehend had just begun through this simple realization. 

Currently, I am actively using language applications to help me regain my knowledge of Chinese characters and improve my reading and writing skills. From simple phrases to complex sentence structure, my goal is to successfully understand as many Hanzi characters as my dedication will let me. Whenever given the opportunity, I will communicate with my elders in their native tongue to practice fluency and confidence in speaking and listening. I know that as I continue practicing, my speech will improve to the point where I can be assertive and clear. Through this, I hope that one day I will not just reach my original level of education but also become someone who can proudly say, “对,我说中文和英语!” (Yes, I speak Mandarin and English!)