Even though English was my first language, my father was steadfast in his belief, influenced by a friend's conviction, that Chinese should be my “mother tongue.” Despite growing up in England, my brother Alex and I were, according to Dad, inherently “Chinese.”
At home, the expectation was that Alex and I would converse in Chinese. In reality, our attempts were half-hearted, often limited to familiar phrases, barely scratching the surface of fluency.111Please respect copyright.PENANAO8nXCv2scb
Much like my German and Polish childhood friends in England, Alex and I were native English speakers, reasonably proficient in our ancestral tongue. However, in my father’s eyes, "proficient" was not nearly enough. Determined to instil a deeper understanding, he arranged for a Chinese tutor to visit us every Saturday morning for a rigorous three-hour lesson.
I vividly recall my tutor, Ms Qin. She had lived in Beijing and spoke Mandarin with a distinctive northern Chinese accent, reminiscent of a Scottish brogue in Britain. Her accent was occasionally amusing, but she was an exceptional teacher. Ms Qin didn't merely teach the language; she brought Chinese culture to life, weaving it into our lessons with such finesse that it became inseparable from the language itself.
In the beginning, I struggled. The tonal nature of Mandarin was a world away from the English intonation I was accustomed to. The characters seemed intricate and bewildering, each stroke a puzzle piece that needed careful placement. There were moments of frustration when the language felt like an insurmountable barrier rather than a bridge to my heritage.
Yet, Ms Qin was patient and encouraging. She saw beyond my struggles to the potential within. She recognised my talent for writing and speaking, and she nurtured it with unwavering support. She urged me to join the Chinese writing club at school, a suggestion that initially filled me with trepidation. But her belief in me was infectious, and I soon found myself penning my first pieces in Chinese.
With time, what began as a daunting task transformed into a labour of love. I started writing novels and poems in Chinese, each piece a testament to my growing appreciation of the language. The more I wrote, the more I felt connected to my roots, each character a thread weaving me closer to my heritage.
These days, as a doctor and entrepreneur, finding time to write is challenging. My schedule is demanding, leaving little room for creative pursuits. Yet, deep in my heart, I know that my love for writing remains undiminished. The seeds Ms Qin planted years ago continue to flourish, and I hold on to the hope that I will return to it when time permits.
Ms Qin's influence on my life was profound. She did more than teach me a language; she opened a door to a world rich with culture and history. Her lessons extended beyond the classroom, instilling in me a lifelong appreciation for my heritage. Despite the initial struggles, I now embrace the language with passion and pride.
In retrospect, I realise that Ms Qin's greatest gift was not just teaching me Chinese, but showing me the beauty within it, the connection it fostered, and the cultural tapestry it revealed. Her guidance transformed my struggles into strengths, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
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