Even though my Chinese proficiency resembles that of an 8-year-old, Mandarin was actually my first language. As a kid, I spent all my time with my mom, a homemaker. She made my home in Chinese, out of those concisely thought-provoking idioms and exclamations of 哎呀. We lived in Calgary, Alberta, where four percent of the population were Chinese immigrants.
When I came of age for my first taste of greater society — not quite three years old — I was to attend an English-speaking preschool. At the preschool, the room was partitioned by a divider that barely went up to my mom’s waist. She volunteered on one side, while I was supposed to mingle with my fellow toddlers on the other. Unfortunately, I did not fancy myself any mingling. I spent my first day wailing and kicking up a fuss. At lunch, my mom spoon-fed me some yogurt, and I calmed down. Still, after the brief intermission, the scheduled sob program resumed, only stopping when it was time to go home.
The next day, it was back to the partitioned room. This time, I silently looked around, watching the struggles of power and property play out on the toddler-and-toy-littered battlefield. I poked a wooden rocking horse. Then, the teacher suddenly commanded us to attention: “Hello, everybody!” Everyone around me cried out in response, “Hello everybody!” Then: “I hope everyone is doing great this morning.” “I hope everyone is doing great this morning,” I answered. Like a hyperactive parrot, I repeated everything she said. At one point, she scolded a little boy for little boy behavior, and I stood right beside her, repeating the message.
No tears were shed that day. For much of my preschool career, I was Teacher’s Parrot. And that’s how I learnt English and avoided being placed in the ESL kindergarten class. My mom insists that no one at preschool gave me instructions for language acquisition. I just figured it out.
The semester has started again. Since I’m taking more (or all, crisis ongoing) non-CS classes, I’ve been finding myself in spaces where students are constantly invited to share their thoughts and opinions. I’m not super used to this, and I often hold myself back from speaking. Even in classes where I am the most senior student (I have a discussion section with about 30 freshmen and two sophomores), I often sit there in silence. When a thought develops in my head, it doesn’t immediately translate into something I have to say. Naturally, the person behind me raises their hand and says exactly what I was thinking, and I kick myself a little bit.
I’m taken back to high school, where I especially struggled with speaking up. Throughout fishbowl discussions and class presentations, tiny medieval construction workers developed infrastructure to trap me inside my head. A your-thought-isn’t-insightful-enough rampart. It’s-an-underdeveloped-notion palisade. The you-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about moat.
Ironically, my manager called me a natural speaker after my final demo presentation this summer. Maybe “natural speaker” is one of those identities I discover as I peel back the mask, but instead of feeling natural, speaking often requires conscious effort. Especially in the academic context. There are more shadows of self doubt and self consciousness. Maybe it’s part of why I initially shied away from the English major, where discussions move so fluidly that my response to an earlier question is soon irrelevant by the time I muster up courage to raise my hand.
Coming to college, I’ve made a conscious effort to cultivate practices of extroversion: public speaking, initiating interactions, and (oh god) networking. I’ve lectured to an auditorium of 150 students, and it was surprisingly more exhilarating than nerve-wracking. Some of my most magical memories and friendships were sparked by my starting a conversation with a stranger on a whim. While there is still a tug-of-war between self doubt and experiential evidence, I’m happy to report that extroversion resources are now easily accessible and require shorter charging times.
Earlier this week, my mom reminded me of this story of how I learned English. I was surprised by my younger resourcefulness, and wondered if I could tap into that now. Is that rendition of me still lying around somewhere in the room of my head, perhaps a bit dusty? Or has it evolved into something else altogether?
Over the past two decades, my mind has accumulated a lot of random junk, both salvaged from the street and dumped onto me. That unfinished wood cabinet that “just needs a little love.” Prying it open, I see an early narrative that I am a quiet, shy person who can’t speak up for herself. The water-stained, lemon-colored couch has cushion covers that can’t be removed. Sewn in is the narrative that I am a sensitive, emotional person prone to bursting into tears and fleeing at the first sign of conflict.
These narratives subsisted on others’ perceptions of me, and I ran laps in the enclosure they constructed. Developing a sense of self and making your way through the world are parallel, simultaneous lanes. The narratives that are cornerstones of your identity: how many are self-constructed? How many were invented by others, including those with good intentions?
If my purest self is one that hasn’t weathered the winds of others and the world — if she was there in my not-quite-three-year-old self — I am outspoken when I want to be. I am strong and connected to my emotions, and I necessarily feel them to help myself meet challenges head-on. When the blacksmiths of the world forge me, they temper my natural properties. If I can learn to integrate into an entirely new environment and command a foreign language, I can take a chance in other situations, too. I can figure out what it is that I want to do, who it is I want to be, and go for it.
Reminded me of your senior column :) beautiful writing as always