學子心得／放下驕傲與尷尬 ABC學中文的心路歷程

隨著我愈來愈深入學習中文，我時常意識到可能在某種程度上我只是在追隨潮流，這令我不安。在與好友、同學和陌生人的交談中——無論是推心置腹還是隨意閒聊——我注意到一個反覆出現的主題：第二代移民正重新燃起尋求自身文化根源的興趣。經過多年刻意與自身文化保持距離，比如不願穿傳統服飾、不讓同學看見午餐盒、避免在公共場合說母語，如今我們卻急切地想找回曾經拒絕的東西。與母國文化建立聯繫已獲得社會廣泛認可，甚至成為一種時尚。

對我來說，這種「回歸母國」的字面意義，就是回到「母親的祖國」。我的母親是中國人，父親是美國人，這樣的組合讓我在北京期間常被問到。當人們問我何時開始學習中文及學中文的原因時，我通常會給出一個簡短而平淡的回答：「小時候會說一點，初中開始正式學習。我母親是中國人。」這個解釋往往就夠了，隨後話題通常會轉向我的混血身分。

但這個回答過於簡化，它忽略了我從小一直學習中文所經歷的諸多細節：有些因尷尬而被隱藏，有些則被我暗自珍藏。

我幼時的確說中文，至少是幼兒所掌握的語言能力。四歲前，我每個夏天基本上都在中國度過，我也上過雙語幼兒園，看動畫片則在英語少兒節目「愛探險的朵拉」、「你好，凱蘭」和中文節目「喜羊羊」之間轉台。那時我的雙語能力是環境所致，而非自主選擇。但進入全英文教學的幼兒園後，語言環境立刻發生了180度大轉彎。因為父親完全不懂中文，英語也逐漸成為家中的主要語言。隨著時間的推移，我愈來愈不願意說中文，尤其是在母親或她的朋友面前。部分原因是我比較害羞，部分原因是不情願，還有一部分是周圍似乎也無人重視中文。

不開口 「母語」快速退步

我記得自己小時候沉默地坐在餐桌旁，聽著母親和她的朋友們用快速的中文說笑，我只是禮貌地點頭或用英語回應，當有人直接問我問題，我就轉向母親，讓她代答。我知道自己的中文正在退步，而越是這樣，我就越避免使用它，從而陷入一種惡性循環。

父母對我中文能力的快速喪失感到震驚，於是在三年級時送我上了周末中文學校。和許多被迫參加這類課程的孩子一樣，我對實際學習幾乎沒有興趣。我不情願地去上課，並默默地注意到一些非華裔同學的表現超過了我。但這並沒有激勵我，反而讓我退縮，堅持要父母為我換其他課外活動。

上中學後，學校提供正規中文課程，而我的中文只剩下最基本的水平。從七年級到十年級，我選修了中文課，認真學習，考試能取得高分，水準逐漸提高。但我仍然避免在現實生活中使用中文，即使詞彙和文法有了長足進步，我仍羞於與母親或親戚練習說中文。

然而大約在這段時間，我對語言學和語言哲學產生了濃厚興趣。語言塑造我們的思維方式，進而影響我們看待世界的方式，這觀點令我著迷。我閱讀了許多會多種語言的作家的回憶錄，他們描述每種新語言如何重塑他們對自身及周圍環境的理解。他們的經歷讓我欽佩，並深深地打動了我。

同時，美國的文化形態也在改變。身為華人，或擁有任何文化背景的移民，即使不被頌揚，至少在主流社會中獲得更多認可。突然間，唐人街成了時髦的午餐地點，旗袍被視為時尚，而會說中文則被視為一項有價值的技能，一種潛在的專業優勢。

文化翻轉 中文產生價值

在這樣的背景下，我加大了對中文學習的投入。十一年級時我選修了中文大學先修課，十二年級參加了大學程度的中文網課程，後來也擔任了九年級中文課的助教。

但我中文獲得突飛猛進是進入大學之後。身為喬治城大學外交學院的學生，我需要熟練一門外語。我的中文課程從中級漢語開始，到大二時已可以選修商務中文。按照大學的標準，我達到了「熟練」的中文程度。

然而，我並不覺得自己熟練了中文。

我的中文課的同學大多是研究生或華裔第二代。我在課程中表現良好，論文和考試都取得高分，但當被要求說中文時我還是猶豫不決。我嚴重依賴谷歌翻譯、ChatGPT和強大的記憶力，掌握中文詞彙和文法。我能寫出結構良好的文章，但感覺文化知識淺薄且容易遺忘生字。當有人用中文對我說話時，我還是會愣住。即使經過近十年的正規教育，我仍無法自信地用母親的母語與她交談。

我想要的不僅是技術上的熟練——我想要流利、自如和自信地使用中文。我希望能在履歷上列出會中文，並確信自己能在專業或私人場合進行有意義的對話。這種渴望促使我申請了中國的暑期留學計畫。

在商務中文教授的支持下，我參加了北京清華大學的高級漢語計畫。又一次，我發現自己與中文為母語的同學或博士生同處一室。課程形式緊張：沒有教科書、電腦或筆記，只有數小時的對話。這種教學方式起初令人畏懼，但最終對我的中文學習起到了有效地促進作用。

這種沉浸式環境迫使我調動所有學過的中文，甚至是深埋記憶中的碎片。我第一次能夠自在地與陌生人交談。我開始用中文思考，而不是用英文思考後再進行中文翻譯。我用中文解釋中文新詞彙，而不是依賴英文的對應詞。我終於理解那些會多種語言的學者在回憶錄中描述的感受——學習用另一種語言思考能夠從根本上改變你的世界觀。

成語共鳴 探索情感表達

中文的詞彙和成語——尤其是四字成語——能夠表達英語往往難以傳達的思想和情感。身為一個天生習慣用隱喻思考的人，這種溝通方式深深引起我的共鳴。它讓我意識到，我的某些世界觀早已在很久以前就被這門語言塑造，只是我未曾清醒地體認到。如今，隨著中文能力的提升，我能夠探索新的視角──不僅是關於語言，還有哲學、宗教、政治，以及最重要的，關於我自己。

這段漫長而不完美的旅程教會我最重要的一課，是謙遜的必要性。如果我能早點放下驕傲——無論是五歲時不願開口，還是青少年時期因犯錯而感到尷尬——或許我就不會失去這門語言。如果我能提早接受不適感，如今的口語能力或許就能與讀寫程度相符。語言學習需要正視自己的脆弱，它要求我們在追求語言上的清晰和文化上的連結的過程中，願意跌跌撞撞，磕磕絆絆。而現在，我第一次覺得自己準備好了。

(崔罕娜是喬治城大學的三年級學生，將於秋季在倫敦政治經濟學院進行為期一年的交換)

Reflections on Learning Chinese

As I progress in my study of Chinese, I often find myself quietly unsettled by the realization that I may be, in part, a follower of trends. In conversations—ranging from thoughtful to fleeting—with close friends, classmates, and strangers, I've noticed a recurring theme: the resurgence of interest among second-generation immigrants in reconnecting with their heritage. After years of distancing ourselves from our cultures—hesitating to wear traditional clothing, hiding home-cooked meals, avoiding speaking our native language in public—we now seem eager to reclaim what we once rejected, perhaps because it has become socially acceptable, even fashionable, to do so.

For me, this return to the "motherland" is, quite literally, a return to my mother's land. My mother is Chinese, my father American—a combination that has prompted its fair share of questions throughout my time in Beijing. When people ask when I began learning Chinese and why, I usually offer a quick, unremarkable response: I spoke a bit as a child and began formal instruction in middle school. My mother is Chinese. That explanation tends to suffice, and the conversation often shifts toward my mixed ethnicity.

But that answer is an oversimplification. It omits the nuances of my experience—some I've hidden out of embarrassment, others I've quietly held with pride.

I did speak Chinese as a toddler—as much as a toddler can speak. I spent summers in China until the age of four, attended a bilingual daycare, and split my screen time between Dora, Ni Hao, Kai-Lan, and 喜洋洋. I was bilingual by circumstance, not by deliberate choice. But when I entered kindergarten and began attending an English-only school, the shift was immediate. At home, English became the default language as well, since my father doesn't speak or understand Chinese. Over time, I grew more reluctant to speak Chinese, particularly around my mother or her friends. Part of it was shyness, part of it was apathy, and part of it was a quiet resistance to engaging with something that no one else around me seemed to value.

I remember sitting silently at dinner tables as rapid-fire Chinese filled the room, nodding politely or responding in English, letting my mother speak on my behalf when someone addressed me directly. I knew that my Chinese was slipping, and the worse it got, the more I avoided using it—entering a self-perpetuating cycle of disengagement and embarrassment.

Alarmed by how quickly I was losing the language, my parents enrolled me in weekend Chinese school in third grade. Like many children forced into such programs, I had little interest in actually learning. I showed up begrudgingly, relied on shortcuts, and quietly observed that some of my non-Chinese peers were outperforming me. Rather than let that motivate me, I withdrew, insisting I pursue another extracurricular instead.

By middle school, when Chinese was offered as a formal language class, I had only the most rudimentary skills. I took Chinese from seventh through tenth grade, earning high marks and making slow but steady progress. Yet I continued to avoid speaking it in real-life contexts, still feeling too embarrassed to practice with my mother or relatives, even as my vocabulary and grammar improved.

Around this time, however, I became deeply interested in linguistics and the philosophy of language. The idea that language shapes how we form thoughts—and therefore how we see the world—fascinated me. I read memoirs by polyglots who described how each new language reshaped their understanding of themselves and their surroundings. Their experiences struck me as both admirable and deeply moving.

Meanwhile, cultural dynamics in the U.S. were also shifting. Being Chinese—or having any kind of cultural background—was becoming, if not celebrated, at least more accepted in mainstream spaces. Suddenly, Chinatown was a trendy lunch destination. Qipaos were considered stylish. And speaking Chinese was seen as a marketable skill, a potential professional advantage.

Within this context, my commitment to studying Chinese deepened. I took AP Chinese in my junior year, enrolled in a college-level course as a high school senior, and later served as a teaching assistant for a ninth-grade class.

But the most meaningful progress came in college. As a student at Georgetown's School of Foreign Service, I was required to demonstrate proficiency in a foreign language—an expectation most students meet and then exceed by pursuing a minor in the same language. I began my Chinese coursework at the intermediate level, and by sophomore year I was studying Business Chinese. According to the university's standards, I achieved "proficiency" in the language.

Still, I didn't feel proficient.

Most of my classmates were graduate students or heritage speakers. I did well in the course—earning strong grades on essays and exams—but I hesitated when asked to speak. I relied heavily on Google Translate, ChatGPT, and a strong memory. I could produce well-structured writing, but the knowledge felt shallow and easily lost. I still froze when someone spoke to me in Chinese. Even after nearly a decade of formal education, I was unable to confidently converse with my mother in her native tongue.

What I wanted was not just technical proficiency—I wanted fluency, ease, and confidence. I wanted to be able to list Mandarin on a résumé and know that I could hold a meaningful conversation in a professional or personal setting. That desire led me to apply to summer study abroad programs in China.

With the support of my Business Chinese professor, I enrolled in a program at Tsinghua University in Beijing. Once again, I found myself in a classroom with native speakers and PhD students. The course format was intense: no textbooks, no computers, no notes—just hours of conversation. It was intimidating at first, but ultimately transformative.

That immersive environment forced me to draw on all the Chinese I had ever learned, even the pieces buried in the recesses of my mind. For the first time, I felt comfortable speaking with strangers. I began thinking in Chinese rather than translating from English. I defined new vocabulary with other Chinese words, rather than relying on English equivalents. I finally understood what the polyglots in those memoirs had described—that learning to think in another language can fundamentally shift your worldview.

Chinese has vocabulary and idioms—particularly the 成语—that express ideas and emotions with a richness English often lacks. As someone who naturally thinks in metaphors, this way of communicating resonated deeply. It made me realize that some of my worldview had already been shaped by this language long ago, in ways I hadn't consciously acknowledged. Now, with a stronger grasp of Chinese, I could explore new perspectives—not just on language, but on philosophy, religion, politics, and most importantly, myself.

One of the most important lessons I've learned through this long and imperfect journey is the necessity of humility. If I had set aside my pride earlier—as a five-year-old unwilling to speak, or a teenager embarrassed by mistakes—I might never have lost the language. If I had embraced discomfort earlier, my speaking skills might now match my reading and writing abilities. Language learning requires vulnerability. It requires a willingness to stumble in pursuit of clarity and connection.

And now, for the first time, I feel ready to do just that.

(Hannah Block is a junior at Georgetown University)