I was born in an European country, yet my roots were firmly planted in Chinese culture. This duality gave me a gift: the chance to grow up bilingual. My parents, fluent in Dutch, made a conscious decision to raise my sisters and me with the Cantonese language—the tongue of most of Hong Kong and Guangdong province. My mother also speaks the Peng Chau dialect, her own parents having grown up on the tiny island of Tong Peng Chau. She picked up Mandarin too, listening and imitating others since she was a little girl. Both of my parents make use of their languages in their work like many other bilingual (mental) health professionals and people in other professions.
As I mentioned in my last reflections, I never attended Chinese school growing up, unlike many of my Chinese friends. It wasn’t until my young adult years that I began to wish I had. It was always a little awkward to admit that while I could speak the language, I couldn’t read it. I was a quiet kid—passionate and lively in artistic settings, but painfully shy at social gatherings, especially with family. Everyone would be speaking Cantonese, cracking jokes with words my parents had never taught me. I grew comfortable speaking Dutch, which I did most of the week at school. The fact that my parents were fluent in Dutch made it easier to start conversations in that language. And when I did speak Chinese with others, it would be laughed at and there would be comments and comparisons about the children’s ability to speak or write Chinese. Like many other young Chinese kids growing up here, I felt discouraged from speaking Chinese.
My first high school offered Mandarin classes during freshman year. I joined, feeling embarrassed to start at the same level as a non-Chinese student. The teacher encouraged me to attend a Chinese school, but I refused. If I already felt embarrassed among non-Chinese kids, I was afraid to imagine how I would feel around Chinese kids. I would feel alone.
At my second high school, five years later, Mandarin was part of the curriculum. Still a beginner, I joined a class of students who had been learning Mandarin for five years and had recently returned from a school trip to China. The same feeling of inadequacy washed over me, and I worked hard to catch up. The Chinese teacher kindly offered to tutor me during lunch breaks in the library. One day, I lost track of time and arrived late to my next class. The teacher refused to let me in and demanded I get a note. This time, my attempt to learn Chinese was met with an angry teacher and laughter from my classmates. In that moment, it felt like a final judgment, as if no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t be enough. I felt alone. That day left a mark on me, and I didn’t return to school after that.
During my final years at university, I began thinking about my future as a psychologist. Would my Chinese language skills remain limited to conversations with family, or will my language ever be good enough to use it as a tool to help others, like my parents do? With only a few years left in university, I realized it was time to decide. I resolved not to let fear of embarrassment or the feeling of inadequacy hinder my learning of Mandarin this time. I was determined to persevere.
I found my current Chinese tutor, Phoebe, online through Amazing Talker. As we started out conversing in English, we would soon switch to using Cantonese to learn Mandarin. The familiarity of the words made it easier to translate and the grammar easier to understand. Without the pressure of peers and only a very kind and patient tutor to converse with, I got less embarrassed of my limited Cantonese and Mandarin language.
Amid job interviews after graduating, I began looking for volunteer work. I came across a vacancy for a Chinese-speaking volunteer to visit a woman with dementia. Though I was unsure whether my Chinese language was good enough, the organization assured me that even a little knowledge of Chinese would suffice. I expected to meet an elderly woman at the dementia home, but Giselle (*not her real name) turned out to be younger than my own mother. Although she had been fluent in English, her condition had left her speaking only Mandarin, with no one around her to speak it with.
Every weekend, I continue my Chinese lessons with Phoebe, exploring new themes like the weather or cooking. Then I’d practice with Giselle, asking her about the rain hitting the windows or how she likes her food prepared. One day, during a walk, I asked Giselle what dandelions were called in Mandarin. “Púgōngyīng,” she replied with a laugh. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I confessed, “My Mandarin isn’t very good.” She turned to me with a warm smile and insisted, “It is.”
I smiled back and explained, “I learned it so I could use it to help others in the future.” She laughed—a genuine, lighthearted sound that caught me off guard. In that moment, I realized where I was, who I was with, and which language we had been speaking all along. I quickly corrected myself, saying, “I learned Mandarin so I could talk with you today.” She squeezed my hand gently, her eyes filled with kindness, and whispered, “Xiè xie nǐ.”
We took a break and sat on a bench, blowing the púgōngyīng we had collected alongside the road. As the dandelion seeds danced away in the wind, I felt a profound connection—a realization of the true purpose of language. It wasn't about getting every word right, striving for perfection or meeting ideals. It was about understanding each other, bridging worlds, and making someone feel just a little less alone.
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