I regret not paying attention to my Chinese lessons. You see, I have spent my entire preschool and grade school days at Stella Maris Academy of Davao, where almost everyone you meet is fair-skinned, chinky-eyed, and with a surname that consists of only two to three letters.
For eight years, I have repeatedly written stroke after stroke after stroke those Chinese characters in our shadi-po. I was fluent during those times of our graded oral recitation. I sang songs in Chinese. And I knew how to pray in Chinese fairly well. But all these felt like a formidable task that I dreaded it just the same as my Math lessons.
Surviving that eight-year plight didn't mean anything though, for all I can clearly utter right now are the words wo ai ni, ni hao ma, and count from one to ten. If there's anything I knew by heart, it would be the cussing in Chinese. Haha. Well, who doesn't?
For eight years, I have repeatedly written stroke after stroke after stroke those Chinese characters in our shadi-po. I was fluent during those times of our graded oral recitation. I sang songs in Chinese. And I knew how to pray in Chinese fairly well. But all these felt like a formidable task that I dreaded it just the same as my Math lessons.
Surviving that eight-year plight didn't mean anything though, for all I can clearly utter right now are the words wo ai ni, ni hao ma, and count from one to ten. If there's anything I knew by heart, it would be the cussing in Chinese. Haha. Well, who doesn't?