
When I was 7, my parents decided to put me in a Chinese language program class – so I could get in touch with my roots, I guess.
Which is a little weird considering that my parents (whom consider as my roots as roots can be) don’t speak any Chinese at all.
At that time, learning Chinese (or anything Chinese related) was forbidden so we had to sneak around. Instead of Chinese books my little backpack was stuffed with English books instead. Just incase I got stopped on the streets (never happened).
Soon afterwards, I noticed that I was different. While the other kids were conversing happily with their teachers in Chinese, I was walking around muttering “This is a horse”, “That is a pig”.
2 years of seeing me struggling with the Chinese words for farm animals, my parents decided that enough was enough and pulled me out of the class.
Continue Reading