Lessons in heritage slowly start to sink in
Long before I had any children, I knew I wanted to raise them to learn Chinese. For me, the language exists in the reptilian part of my brain, sounds I can instantly pick out even if it’s spoken two aisles over in a grocery store.
My own lessons were imperfect and sporadic. My grandmother, who spoke only Chinese, taught us how to count and sang nursery rhymes, such as “Liang Zhi Lao Hu,” or “Two Little Tigers,” to the tune of “Frère Jacques.”
When I was in the third or fourth grade, my parents started me off in the kindergarten class at a weekend Chinese school. For many kids from immigrant Chinese families, it’s a rite of passage — those Saturday mornings trapped inside, copying the characters over and over until they enter your muscle memory.
Assimilation swamped like a tsunami, and after a couple of years, I rebelled and stopped going to Chinese school. In college and after graduation, I grew interested and started taking classes where I learned seemingly esoteric vocabulary such as “gong chang” (factory) and “nong ming” (peasant) and how to toast, “wei ni jian kang” (to your good health) — all of which served me later when I went on reporting trips to the Chinese countryside, abundant with peasants, factories and banquets with local officials.
I wished I’d kept up my Chinese lessons in childhood. For reasons of culture, of future opportunity, of heritage, I wanted the twins to speak Chinese, too, and I vowed to start them early. Very quickly, I faltered. Being a parent is humbling, a series of compromises you make to get through the day.
When they were toddlers — repeating and repeating and talking nonstop — I wanted to take advantage of this golden moment of language acquisition. Although I tried speaking to them in Chinese, my conversations felt stilted. I managed to teach them how to count to 10, hello, goodbye, and how to sing “Two Little Tigers.”
But at a Chinese class for toddlers, Didi wanted to play with the toys and bolted from the room. Gege grabbed at books and toys, and every time the teacher asked him a question in Chinese, then in English, he ignored her.
“Nooooo!” he shouted when I urged him to repeat after her. He didn’t like feeling stupid.
The other children sat obediently with their parents, and one superstar answered every question. During snack time, I learned that his parents spoke to him only in Chinese — which sent me into a spiral of shame.
“I’m sorry,” I told the teacher. “They’re just not ready.” Not then and I feared not ever.
As we drove off, I regretted that I hadn’t tried harder. My husband, whose grandparents were Serbian immigrants, remembered snatches of phrases from saint’s day celebrations, but for him, the language wasn’t tied up with his culture and identity. Was it worth taking the twins to Mandarin classes, he wondered, if the education was only sporadic?
Still, he wanted to comfort me. “They’re very young to take this kind of class,” he said. “It’s not too late.”
I started singing “Two Little Tigers,” and to my amazement, from the back seat, the twins repeated after me. Hardly anything, very little, and yet more than the nothing I could not bear.
In the years that followed, I tried cartoons dubbed into Mandarin, a CD of children’s songs that I played on repeat in the car, and a few private lessons with various teachers. Each time the twins squirmed away, bored or hostile.
When they entered kindergarten, I thought perhaps at last they’d get more used to formal instruction, to sitting still and listening, and I enrolled them in a twice-a-week after-school program. Often Didi fell asleep in protest and Gege said he hated it.
Late in the summer, as we drove past the Chinese school site, Didi cried out in excitement. “Zaijian, Chinese school!” Goodbye in Mandarin.
“How come we never go anymore?” he asked.
“Because it’s summer,” I said. “And I thought you hated Chinese school.”
They didn’t reply, neither agreeing or disagreeing. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to them that they had a choice.
More recently, Gege pulled out a catshaped eraser from a birthday goody bag.
“Mao,” he said, delighted with the toy, delighted with the word. Cat, in Mandarin. He’d remembered, too.
In Lenora Chu’s “Little Soldiers” — a fascinating exploration of the Chinese education system — she critiques the single-minded focus on quantitative achievement. Yet she also admires the emphasis that it is perseverance, not intelligence or ability, that’s the key to success.
And so, I signed them up for classes again. Some days the twins sit quietly doing their homework, copying out characters. Other days, they demand to speak English. We’re taking it day by day, week by week.
“Huo,” the teacher says. Fire. She gives them clues about how to decipher the character — like logs topped by flames.
“Tian.” Sky, like the tallest person, his head brushing against the heavens. “Yu.” Rain, like drops viewed through a window.
The class repeats after her.
For culture, reasonsof futureof opportunity, of heritage, I wanted the twins to speak Chinese, too.