She first wrote a “T” on the board with a marker, and then hesitantly drew a short horizontal line, which cut through the vertical stroke of “T”, and then turned downward.
Finally, she added another long horizontal line under “T”, and the whole thing turned out to be “五”— a Chinese character, which means “five” in English. “One”, “two”, “three” and “four” were already on the board and she continued to draw “six”, “seven”, etc. I was actually passing by the study lounge, but those Chinese characters caught my eye. So I just went in and stood beside her, witnessing how the characters took their shape under the tip of her marker. Finally, the ten Chinese characters, from 1 to 10 appeared one by one in a neat row on the board, though a few of them were a little bit out of shape.
She was working on her Chinese homework in the study lounge of our dorm, but still I was surprised and even exhilarated to see those characters written in an American student’s hand and I couldn’t help writing more and more on the board. I wrote words and characters that randomly came into my mind. I didn’t know why I wrote them; I simply felt like doing in that way, as if I was pushed by an unknown force. Every character spoke to me with its unique beauty, but baffled all the other guys who had just begun to learn Chinese. Regardless of the rhythmic American pop music beating next door, I was totally drawn to those Chinese characters. Just as Gloria Anzadúa puts it, “Ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity”. While writing out Chinese characters on the board, a sense of “self identity” —“I am my language”; I am Chinese—grew stronger and stronger in me, which had almost been overwhelmed by the domination of English during my first few weeks at Brown.
When I had my first dinner at the dinning hall at brown, I was eating with a few American girls, who were talking excitedly about their summer. I felt myself lost in their American slangs and idioms and couldn’t catch up with their “pace”, so I kept saying “awesome” or “cool” which are the safest responds to a subject that I’m unfamiliar with. But I felt inferior, and even secretly wished that my mother tongue were English, so I would be able to speak English as naturally as they did.
But I’m a Chinese, born and bred. I grew up in the heart of Beijing, where the traditional Beijing culture is originated; I speak Chinese with a strong Beijing accent; my favorite authors, movies and music are all Chinese. But after I came to Brown, everything that carries a “Chinese” identity vanished. Where are the Hutongs (a type of narrow streets in Beijing) and Siheyuans (a traditional Chinese architecture)? Where is the green tea I used to drink? Where is Chinese?
Seeing the Chinese characters being written on the board by an American, I regained my “pride in my language” and the “pride in myself”. Even though Chinese is not a language as useful as English here, it is at least being appreciated by a few Americans. Even though I’m not an American, people befriend me and are willing to hear my Chinese stories. I remember how interested a girl was when she heard me explain the meaning of my Chinese name; I remember a sophomore who talked to me in Mandarin in order to practice her language skills; I remember the smile on their faces when my American friends said “你好” (Nihao, Hello) and “再见”(Zaijian, Goodbye) to me.
My 18 years of experience as a Chinese in China shaped the person I am today, and I never want to totally transform myself in order to “acculturate” in America. But don’t mistake me for a stubborn and conservative Chinese who refuse to change. I learn new things and appreciate different cultures here just as the way my American friends learn and appreciate Chinese. I still wish to speak English as fluently as possible and be able to join a conversation with Americans with ease. But my goals shouldn’t be achieved at the cost of my language and of myself, because it is my language that echoes in my heart, and reminds me of who I am.