from the zero-start, first grade level is pretty sore-thumbs and brain-freeze, also bringing to the surface again in a sort of stirring-up-the-starch-in-the-miso-soup kind of way, and suddenly the tofu-cubed memories of a horrid chinese school experience are in motion.
(In this metaphor, the slimy seaweed pieces are the curly-permed-almost-pubic-like hairs atop the chinese teachers' heads, the gritty taste in my mouth similar to the one i would feel in my stomach when they read things in an exaggerated tone, as if we were babies.)
on the one hand I really wish I had continued to learn chinese, but on the other hand, going through such a vulnerable stage as puberty with added psychological trauma was something I am glad I cut out of my life early. I don't think I would have been strong enough to overcome the situation with the right attitude either. Continue this Saturday-School terror and I would grow resentful of these gracious volunteer A-yi's and Shu-shu's and my fellow students instead of now looking back on them with a sort of forgiveness and understanding.
My least favorite memory of Chinese school:
For most of my Chinese school years I had one close friend. Kun abused me much to her amusement, but I knew she was probably angry or bitter at things that had nothing to do with me. She was funny and we shared the common and perplexing suffering of being in the same class as 2nd and 3rd graders while we were already in middle school. We laughed together at our silly and hopeless situations.
People also confused us both in Church on Sunday for being the same person, probably because we both were social outcasts, had large foreheads, wore thin and round gold-rimmed classes, and parted our hair in the center. But we shared the loneliness and thank God. I didn't mind, not even when she kicked in the back of my knees to make me trip. I didn't mind because I didn't trip and it was kind of a funny feeling, your body propelling forward without you knowing, and then at the last minute, pulling yourself back as if you were a spring bouncing up.
Her father taught Go as one of the after-Chinese school extra-curricular culture class. Go is the game with black and white pieces and the object of the game to win as much territory and kill as many of your opponent's pieces as possible. It was a war game and Kun was aggressive. She'd be my partner because we were friends and that's how you did it in middle school; you cling as hard as you possibly can to social safety, lest you be swallowed by the waves of-- uh
whatever it is we were so afraid of.
In Go, when the opponent's pieces surround you from four sides, your piece gets removed, like in chess. But even when the opponents pieces may not surround a cluster completely, you could be stuck anyway. If you try to escape, you end up killing even more. The opponent doesn't need to remove them, and you can't touch them. The pieces are left sitting there, stuck in this limbo, liminal space, in a double-bind, a catch-22.
One time, Kun was winning all the games. Well, actually, she always wins, but this time I wanted so desperately to win one. For some reason, perhaps out of deep resentment, I felt an evil hateful feeling each time I saw her pluck my little black pieces out. When I saw that I was losing, I felt as if I wanted to cry. But I didn't cry because I kept the tears and convulsions deep in my stomach so no one could see it. I almost-cried because I thought I was a failure. At Chinese, at math, at Go, and at making friends, at just keeping my cool. I almost-cried because I thought I was so stupid to cry about a game. But as much evil-hate as I had for Kun building up at this point, I almost-cried most of all because even if I won, the thing I wanted most desperately and stupidly, I thought maybe Kun would be mad and she wouldn't be my friend anymore. I sucked it all up and had it storm up in the nerves of my brain. I stormed, thinking I couldn't win at all.
My favorite memory of Chinese school:
I am in my Junior year of high school, 16, my self-esteem perhaps above-average for most girls my age. I haven't been in Chinese school in a couple of years. The principal asks my mother if I'm available to teach an after-Chinese school culture class. It's a 1st to 2nd grade drawing class, and all I have to do is do a step-by-step drawing on the board in front of the class and have them copy it. It's rough at first, handling 20 kids. At first they are reluctant. I know how it's like. More school after Chinese school? Come on. I want to go home.
But I am determined to make this class cool. To make this my anti-experience of Chinese school.
They warm up to it. They like that I am young and understand English. They also like my choice of stickers for rewards. My stickers are awesome and are not lame like other A-Yi's, and I let them choose. I do not punish them for telling me that I do things wrong. I say sorry when I make a mistake.
I ask the kids what they want to learn how to draw next. I offer them the options for a vote.
"So, next time, do you want to draw DINOSAURS?"
"ooh! ooh!"
"let me finish...or Pokemon?"
"OOOHHH! POKEMON!"
"POKEMON!"
"YEAH!"
There is no vote. Next class is Pikachu.
The youngest kid in my class is in kindergarten and his mother must sit in class with him. He calls me Miss Lai Miss Lai and his mother says he talks about the class at home and wonders when the next drawing class is, is it tomorrow? No Joshua, it's next Saturday. How many days is that?
The class is such a silly class. I teach no long-lasting skills whatsoever to children who will forget how to draw sharks and animals the next day. But I am filled with pride. His mother calls me over and tells me that Joshua has something to show me.
He flips to a drawing of a tree with a million apples, on the tree, off the tree, filling the page up to the sky. The next page is the page he wants to show me: A million colored Pikachu's filling the page from the left to the right.
"WOW," I say. "That's good! Very good. He's talented. And ... 真的很努力， 哦." (very hardworking)
His mother smiles a tired smile. I will think later maybe Joshua had a learning disability. Just being 5 years old doesn't mean your mother must sit in class with you.
One time he asks me how to draw a cockroach. I draw it on the side and he copies it dutifully, down to the lines in the wings.
It is the best damn cockroach ever drawn by a 5-year-old.
It is the cockroach to dominate all the bad things that have ever happened to me ever.
In my psyche, Joshua's cockroach leads an army of Pikachu's across a huge Go board, destroying the rigidity of black and white, replacing each piece with a small and crayon-red apple.
It ran in our house! My grandparents caught it in the morning, stuck it in a bucket and told us to drive far far away and let it go. We went to church and children were amused by the furry living being, who was probably scared as fuck in its white hell hole.
On the way my mom said, "Grandpa always says he's annoyed the rabbit eats our flowers and veggies, but whenever the rabbit doesn't come at it's scheduled time of day grandpa turns to me and says...Ah? ...where is the rabbit?
Goodbye. Sorry for the scary car ride. Watch out for coyotes and cars and shit.
