When I was in kindergarten, my parents enrolled me in the Central Chinese High School in America on Saturdays in hopes I’d learn Mandarin at the cost of $200 per semester. As a 5-year-old with attachment issues, I dreaded Saturdays and would start sobbing the moment my mom dropped me off.
Although I eventually got used to the school, the class curriculum wasn’t any easier for me and I struggled to comprehend a single thing. With no prior exposure to the language, I lagged behind. The teaching methods employed were ineffective as well, and teachers would try to teach Mandarin using only Mandarin characters to a class of students who didn’t know the language. In class, they would point to the board and have us repeat after them and then copy down the same characters for pages and pages. That was the primary method used, and also the main contributor to my incomprehension, leaving me only mindlessly copying and repeating.
Oftentimes, my teacher would slam down her wooden stick on our desks when we were loud, leaving me fearing for my life. I would hang my head down and act invisible, praying not to be called on, both in fear of not understanding what the teacher was asking, and not knowing the answer.
As the years went by, there was a growing disconnect. As my English language skills rapidly improved, my Chinese remained stagnant. Teachers continued with their ineffective method of teaching, and it was rare that I would get a teacher who would be able to communicate in Cantonese. Whenever I was called on, I would stutter out an, “I don’t know.”
Facing pressure from my parents and not wanting to experience embarrassment in front of the class, I tried to study seriously. But despite my efforts, all I ended up doing was memorizing and forgetting, resulting in greater disappointment in my inability to comprehend what exactly I was memorizing.
Surprisingly, that was all I needed. Although all I did was memorize and forget, I actually scored well, getting around 95 marks on average. Much of the tests, both written and oral, were entirely memorization. Starting from around second grade, teachers had us recite poems from memory in front of the class. They would then select the best reciters and have us participate in annual school-wide recitals. Because my memory was slightly better than average, I was chosen on multiple occasions, but my stage fright made me dread going on stage every time, having to confront nearly a thousand pairs of eyes.
At the end of the semester, we would have final exams. A week before, teachers would give us study guides that were almost the exact same as the exam. For one particular test, I memorized the answers to 10 questions and a paragraph of text for a long answer prompt.
My efforts paid off, and on multiple occasions, I received certificates and small monetary rewards from the school. But rather than receiving a sense of satisfaction, I only felt more pressured.
Ultimately, it was the mixture of fear, academic pressure, and need for academic validation that allowed me to hold out for 9 years, attending classes for a language I barely understood. But I reached the end of my rope during the start of COVID, while I was in 8th grade. I was tired of the years of no free Saturdays and desperately trying to comprehend what I couldn’t. I began to grow a hatred for Chinese. I knew the years were only going to get harder as time progressed, and relying on just memorization would be insufficient.
So one day, after class was over, I broke down. I cried and asked my parents to drop out. To my surprise, they agreed. This was probably in part due to my brother dropping out prior, but also because they could sense how much I hated the classes.
Overall, I don’t think the experience was worth it, and I wouldn’t want to go back to it. My parents ended up spending more than they needed to on an institution where I learned next to nothing, and I would’ve quit way earlier if not for fear of disappointing them. If I could start anew, I would’ve attended a different school with a different method of teaching Chinese, one that incorporates both Chinese and English so I actually understand the content.
But that wasn’t the end of it. A year later, despite my earlier begging, my parents forced me to take Chinese again in high school. Since I already had experience from Chinese School, I ended up taking Chinese Native II in my freshman year and Chinese Native III in my sophomore year. Luckily, the teaching method here combined English and Chinese, and with my prior knowledge, it made the classes easier.
