Traumatic Events in the Life of an ESL Learner, Part 1

Preface: Over the last few years, I've often found myself mentioning to friends the various insights that beset me since becoming a father. Chiefly, that children are magically, simultaneous reminders of our mortality and immortality. I spend a good part of every day thinking about a concept that I previously detested: legacy. What do I want to share? What do I want to teach? What do I want them to know about me? And like clockwork, I'll revisit some topics within the sea of my own memories that I'd want to bookmark and write about. One such topic, pervading throughout my life, is multilingualism.

Is your primary language today the same language that you first acquired and grew up using? For me, it's complicated but I'd have to answer no. Outside of what I use for my family, my primary language is now English. But it's not my first language. That would be Northeastern Mandarin. My mother was an English Language professor when I was born, and made it a personal project to train me to speak English. To what extent upon arriving in the US at age 6, I have no recollection, but apparently enough that after starting school stateside, I was swiftly kicked out of the ESL program and was reinserted into "general population", to borrow prison-inspired terminology.

I'm a firm believer that the "stickiest" memories are the traumatic ones. Events that seem no big deal to an adult may easily seem like the end of the world to kids. So, I've picked out some of the most traumatic memories stemming (mostly) from being a non-native speaker of English.

The B-word

Mrs. Schneider and me, last day of second grade.

Fun fact, my second grade class of around 30 kids, taught by Mrs. Schneider, had no fewer than four Christophers (including one Kristopher) and three Stephanies. Ah Christopher... truly the Liam of the mid-80s. Anyways, one day, as recess was coming to an end and the class was still enjoying the last few seconds before getting settled down, some of the boys huddled together and one of them (maybe it was one of the Chrises) was holding back giggles while whispering to the group that so-and-so was a [spelled-out] "B-I-T-C-H". Now, as this was going on, I happened to pass by this group of mischievous classmates, and, caught within earshot of what seemed like a spelling challenge, I said, in normal voice, "a bitch?"

The rest of this plays out in my head like a movie. First, I'd like to confirm that I clearly had no idea what bitch meant. By second grade, I had become a pretty voracious reader of (age-appropriate) books, especially fables and fairy tales, so it's easy to imagine that I'd come across the word witch plenty often. So just by replacing a single, innocent consonant, I didn't think much beyond "yeah, I can totally voice this word". Apparently, just as I made my momentarily proud utterance, the post-recess commotion had just gotten quiet enough so that Mrs. Schneider heard me pretty clearly. She rushed over and swiftly escorted me to the hallway right outside the classroom door. I don't remember her exact words, but I imagine there was some kind of interrogation that would have ensued. I do remember my response. I cried on two occasions during second grade. This was one of them (the other was saying good bye to Charles, my sixth-grade pen pal and the coolest human being who ever lived). And I clearly, vividly, remember blurting out, "I don't speak English!" in between tearful gasps. This wasn't technically true, but that's how I truly felt in the moment, based on how monumental of a f*ckup it all seemed in the moment.

Now, I said that I didn't really catch the first part of that conversation among the other boys: importantly, the part that led to the infamous Word of the Day snafu. In hindsight, I imagine they were probably talking smack about Mrs. Schneider. Which, if true, was pretty unfair, since Mrs. Schneider was — with the exception of that one fateful day — super nice and an overwhelmingly pleasant memory. So, Mrs. Schneider, if you're still alive and are reading this, you now know the whole story of what happened. I wasn't a bad kid and didn't have a dirty mouth (at that point, anyway).

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The trauma continues...