Learning English

• Dain Jung, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2016

I was eight when I started going to English school. I attended about three times a week, and on the fourth lesson, when we learned to write the letter d, I had to write it ten times and show it to my teacher. When I did, she, unsympathetically, informed me that I had written the letter b, not d. That mistake was never repeated.

In grade three we started English classes. From what I can remember I wasn’t exactly the smartest person in the class, but was considered to be smart because I put my hand up a lot. Nevertheless, people called me smart and so I felt approved.

One day I found myself in Australia. I was nine and the extent of my vocabulary was barely enough for five minutes of conversation. Regardless, I was the only immigrant in the class and the majority of students seemed amazed that a dumb-looking Asian was actually able to communicate in English. The first English lesson was on adjectives, and the teacher asked the class to write a paragraph including as many adjectives as we could. The only sentence I could conjure was “I buyed ice-cream its pink and cold.” The teacher informed me that “pink” and “cold” were indeed adjectives. It may seem ridiculous to you, but at the time it was a life-changing revelation.

Two long years later, I was in high school. I could write stories, albeit never a complete one, and I didn’t stumble upon grammar mid-sentence. I had often been told that I was smart. It didn’t matter at all however, and the beginning of the year was daunting and slow-going. The first oral presentation was a mess; the first written assignment was overdue. It wasn’t until the start of the second semester that I received the results for the essay we did, and was praised for my skill with whittling words. I can’t exactly express what I felt that day. It was that overwhelming. It doesn’t sound that impressive, but it was an affirmation of my abilities. The parade of ticks and smiley faces had returned from a six-month’s absence, carrying hope.

And the foretold success did come. The end-of-year English award was given to me. Curiously, people suddenly seemed to act friendlier after that.
Why am I writing this? Not to brag-if so, then only slightly-but to encourage. I sit at my desk now with a pile of Chinese homework. Exasperation at my own stupidity hangs over my head like a raincloud from a cartoon. But when I feel like quitting, I see my own face, pale and grim, stare back at me from the window, and see a fourteen-year-old girl with long words in her head, not an eight year old girl who didn’t know how to write the letter “d”. And so, I pick up my pencil and carve out characters, slowly but surely.

Dear reader, who were you? Whoever you were, you’re a smarter person now.