“I don’t want to leave!” I yowled, stomping my feet on the stone pavement. “Why do I suddenly have to leave behind everything I have known and move to an entirely new place where I can’t even speak the language?” 

“We are not doing this again,” my mother sighed. “We have already gone over this. You would have to come with us to America eventually, since you don’t have permanent citizenship here.”

“Why do I have to go now?”

“It would be better if you came to America sooner, rather than later. You will be able to pick up the language faster and catch up on school work. By the time middle school comes, it will be too late,” my mom noted, slowly losing her patience. “Plus, you won’t even have the right or any required legal documents to take the mandatory exams needed to get accepted into a school in the first place, let alone get into a good one.” 

“Then, can I stay until I’m finished with elementary school?” I bargained. “It’s just three more years. Why are we in such a rush?”

“No, you are coming with us now,” the anger was very audible in her voice. “This is not negotiable. We have already made all the arrangements. You have to obey whatever I have planned for you to do. End of story. We are not going to argue about this over again. Understand?” 

She turned and stormed out the door as tears formed a puddle inside my eye, blurring my vision, racing to escape and dripping down my face one after the other. 

Crack!

Something inside of me shattered as my tears sought to drown me.

A few weeks ago, my mom came back to China to visit me and my sister. At first, I thought it was just like every other year where she would come back during the summer to spend some time with us before returning to America, and everything would go back to what it was. But, little did I know, the primary reason she was back that year was to get us. When she finally broke the news, I felt like my whole world had just collapsed. (Looking back at it now, the news doesn’t seem as sickening, but at the time it was like a nuclear bomb, demolishing my safety). 

I was 9. At that time, I had been living in China for almost 9 years, which was practically my entire life. Up until that point, all I had been taught were Chinese rituals, cultures, and beliefs, such as wearing red during Chinese New Year, being obedient to elders, getting good grades, and using chopsticks while eating meals. The thought of having to leave behind everything I was familiar with and plunge myself into a completely mysterious life and culture was unimaginable and daunting. 

There was no sunshine on the day of our departure. The sky was gloomy, darkened by various heavy, gray clouds, mirroring my mood. By the time we reached the airport, it had started to rain, heavily, as if the weather could read my mind and was mourning my departure, reluctant to let me go.

 “It’s raining so hard right now,” I turned to my mom. “Maybe it’s a sign telling us that it’s a bad idea to leave today and that we should probably stay one more day or so,” I remarked hopefully, wishing she would change her mind. 

“Don’t be silly, we are definitely leaving today. The rain will stop soon I promise,” my mom enunciated, without looking up from her phone. I sighed and looked out the window, trying to remember every bit and piece of my surroundings, trying to grasp the last pieces of memory that could remind me of the place where I grew up in. More than ever, I wished I had a photographic memory, so I could forever store all the memories I had about China, so I would have something to commemorate when I left for America. 

Upon stepping out of the plane and setting my foot on the concrete ground, a queer sensation instantly hit me. Something didn’t feel right; I felt a strong sense of alienation. Everything around me appeared strange and weird, as if I were an alien who has just arrived on a foreign planet, filled with strange people of various nationalities and races, all speaking an odd language, and wearing strange clothes. This was the first time I encountered people who were not of Chinese ethnicity. A chill ran down my spine, like a cat, all my hair spiked up against my skin as I clung to my mom’s shirt for dear life. Cold sweat ran down my back as I cautiously observed the surroundings. Sensing my anxiety, my mom wrapped her arm around me and pulled me into a hug. 

“Everything is gonna be okay,” she reassured me, putting her hand gently on my back, and stroking it softly. “You’ll get used to this new environment in a few days.” 

Well, unlike what my mom predicted, those “few days” actually mean several months. It took me nearly a whole year to adjust and get used to this foreign place. Part of the reason why might be because I am very reluctant to embrace myself into the new culture and try new things fully. Once at a restaurant, as the spaghetti was being served, I subconsciously asked the waitress for chopsticks, and then suddenly realized where I was, but it was too late. The waitress looked at me weirdly as if I had three heads. After a few minutes of awkward silence, she suggested, apologetically, “Sorry, we don’t really have any chopsticks here. Is it ok if I bring you a fork instead?” 

“Of course, of course. Sorry about that, my daughter is just being silly. I think she suddenly forgot where she was for a second,” my mom replied, red-faced. 

When the waitress left, my mom immediately turned toward me, “Have you lost your mind? Why did you just ask for chopsticks in an American restaurant? This is so embarrassing.”       

My face turned as red as a tomato. “Well, it’s not my fault. I was so used to eating noodles with chopsticks that the words just automatically came out of my mouth before I even realized what I was saying,” I answered, bashfully, staring at my feet. 

The most painstaking obstacle in adjusting to this new life had to be learning the new language. Transferring to a new school was already difficult and dreadful enough, considering the fact that I am super introverted, but on top of that, I couldn’t speak or understand the language. It was a recipe for disaster. The first few weeks of school were a nightmare for me. The only thing I could understand was my name and a few simple, everyday vocabulary words, such as “hi,” “good morning,” and “bye.” I refused or even bothered to open my mouth and talk, due to the fear that I would be made fun of. One day during the summer before the school year began, I was attempting to pronounce some new vocabulary that I had just learned. “Amb, ambu-laz.” I attempt to sound out the word, not looking up. Then, I suddenly heard a chuckle coming from behind me. 

“It’s ambulance, not ambu-laz,” my sister chuckled. The mocking tone in her voice was very audible as she burst into laughter. My face immediately turned blood red as tear droplets started to gather up inside my eye, waiting to escape. This atrocious experience left a deep scar in my heart and severely damaged my confidence. From that point onwards, I became super self-conscious whenever I spoke in English, even after I became fluent in it, worrying to death that people might not understand me because my accent is too strong. This traumatizing experience led to another problem (which even to this day my mom still nags me about): speaking too softly/ quietly. I became so self-conscious that I began to speak in a low voice, without even realizing it, and now it has become a bad habit of mine. The phrase I got the most often, which I absolutely hated to hear was, “Can you speak a little bit louder?” or “ I can’t hear you,” or “You are speaking too softly.” Whenever I hear those phrases, I automatically go into shutdown mode, thinking that I have pronounced something horribly wrong. 

My teachers and classmates tried very hard to communicate with me and help me fit in, but whenever they spoke to me the only thing I could hear or understand was, “Sally, asjfdjflsdjfs good adkfkdjljalj; Ok?” I had no idea what they were trying to say or what they wanted me to do. After a few days though, I began to pick up their body gestures and languages and started to communicate with them through hand gestures and my body language. I would get through the school day by nodding, shrugging my shoulders, and shaking my head. This routine persisted for several weeks, until one morning my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Garfield, came up to me and greeted me, as usual, while I was unpacking my stuff.

 “Good morning Sally, how are you today?” 

I spun my head around so fast that I became a little dizzy. I was so bewildered when I realized that I actually understood what she had just said to me. Under her friendly and encouraging gaze, I slowly worked up my nerve and stuttered, “Good morning Mrs. Garfield, I am fine thank you.” 

A smile slowly spread across Mrs. Garfield’s face, “I knew you could do it!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “This isn’t as hard as you think, right?” 

I returned her smile and nodded. This compliment inserted an unprecedented amount of courage into me. Little by little, I began to open my mouth and talk. At first, it was just a few words, then incomplete phrases, and slowly, I began to talk in full sentences. All the responses I received were all positive, which boosted my confidence level. I discovered that adjusting to a new environment was not impossible. All it took was some courage to embrace and be willing to try new things.