I could think of a thousand things I would rather do on a Sunday than go to Chinese school.  

It had been a Sunday routine for me since kindergarten. As long as I could remember, really. 

My week usually went like this—Monday to Friday regular school and after-school soccer practice.

Saturday mornings I had soccer games. Saturday afternoons were spent trying to finish the Chinese school homework that was due the next day. I also had to cram for the weekly test.

Sundays were all-day Chinese school. 

Okay, it was only three hours, but it felt like all day. 

My mom spoke fluent Cantonese. But she never learned traditional Chinese, using the Bopomofo pronunciation system. She never learned simplified Chinese with Pinyin, either. 

As for my dad, he spoke zero Mandarin. 

So, when it came to my studying Chinese at home, it was a struggle for all of us. 

Unlike my classmate, Sally, who spoke only Mandarin at home. She visited Taiwan every summer. She was our class star. The one who aced all the tests in reading, writing, and speaking. 

Half of the class were like me. We struggled constantly.

My good memories of Chinese school were all about other things. Learning Kung Fu. Playing ping pong. Making origami. Snacking with my friends during class break. The annual Sports Day. 

My fond memories were never about learning Chinese. 

The only way to learn Chinese is to memorize and and then repeat. You write the character over and over until you learned it.

If you missed a stroke or a dot, it became a totally different character and with different meanings. 

There were no shortcuts. 

To be considered fluent in Chinese, you need to know around 2,000 characters. My teacher told us there were about 7000 characters. 

Holy moly, I may as well go to Chinese school for the rest of my life. I would be lucky to remember 100 characters. 

It basically worked liked this—I learned ten characters each week. I would remember them just long enough to pass my test. I would forget those ten characters. Gone. 

What was the point? 

Besides we lived in America. I had no intention to moving to China when I grew up. Why did I need to learn Chinese? 

Every time I asked that, Mom would tell me learning a language was also learning culture and history. 

I argued that my dad, who was born in America and did not go to Chinese school, had been doing well. 

I didn’t see any point in this extra school day. It brought me nothing but pain. Maybe it was useful to order food in a Chinese restaurant—but the menu was usually in both English and Chinese. 

I might exaggerate a little about all pain and no fun. It wasn’t 100 percent bad.

Occasionally I did learn some fascinating history or stories from my Chinese teachers.

I learned we still use ancient Chinese inventions today. Things like silk, papermaking, printing, gunpowder, the compass, and seismometer, the machine that measures earthquakes. When I first learned about these inventions, I was proud of my ancestors and being Chinese. 

I just hated memorizing something I would forget soon.

My mom had wanted me to be fluent in Chinese. But, eventually, she got to the point where she wanted three things. One, for me to appreciate my heritage. Two, for me to be able to write my Chinese name. And three, for me to be able to carry on a simple conversation.

So much for being able to speak Chinese like a native speaker!

“When you are older, you will appreciate you went to Chinese school,” Mom said.

Every year, I wished it would be my last year of Chinese school. 

Every year, my mom wished that I would keep going for another year of Chinese school.