Personal Experience: Cantonese and English Language

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A Mother’s Daughter

I smelled different. I wasn’t allowed to shave my legs, I attended Chinese School for ten years, and my favorite meal consisted of a warm barbecue flavored pork atop a bowl of white rice.

Still, I loved the fireworks on the Fourth of July. Still, I would swim in the public pool and eat blue popsicles in the summer. At home, my mother would speak Cantonese to me and I would respond in English. As an American-born girl of twelve in a predominately white town, we had a system. In public, I was the mother—checking out our library books, reading the labels on the packages of ground pork and beef in the supermarket. I was the one who taught my mother how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was the one who taught her how to send a text. We fell into a familiar rhythm. Eventually, she stopped trying to take control; “You’re the expert,” she would say, “Let me learn from you.”

At some point along the way, I lost my Chinese.

Cantonese, my first language, gradually became a memory. Born to first-generation immigrants who returned to Hong Kong when I w...

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