I got a phone call from a childhood friend I had not heard from in almost nine years. It had been so long that I had forgotten what he sounded like, and it took me a while to figure out who he was. Apparently, he is coming to America as a foreign exchange student to an art institute in Chicago, and he was asking for advice, especially in learning English. Although he had taken English courses since elementary school, he was a bit nervous, so I told him about my experience.
When you are nine years old, you have little to worry about. Even if you are leaving your native country and beginning a new life in a foreign country. You don't think about the language barrier, the inevitable culture shock and discrimination you may face because of your skin color when you are nine.
I trusted my parents implicitly. They told me that learning English would be a breeze and that I would make new friends. They told me fantastical stories about America and how much I would love it there. And I believed them.
As soon as I got to America, my father put me in elementary school. My parents gave me an American first name and taught me a few useful English phrases.
I will never forget my first day in school. My father came with me, to make sure that all the forms were filled out and to wish me luck. The bell rang, and the kids outside the classroom began to line up. At my father's urging, I did the same. Then the teacher arrived and said something. All the kids began to enter the classroom, and I began to panic. My father waved good-bye and left. He just left me there to fend off for myself. I could not believe what was going on. My first instinct was to run to my dad and demand to know what was going on, but I was hustled into the classroom.
So I sat, among foreigners and strangers, wondering what would happen next. Nervously, I looked around and felt immensely uncomfortable and out of place. Then the teacher grabbed a sheet of paper and began to say something. I felt like running out of there, but I realized that I did not know how to get home.
One by one, the students answered back, and I figured out that the teacher was calling roll. I vaguely recognized her speak out my new American name, and I knew I had to say something, but I did not know how to say anything in English. I just raised my hand and hoped for the best.
Then my nightmare came true. She looked at me in a strange way and said something to me in English. I looked at her and tried to think of the few phrases that my parents had taught me, but my mind went blank. Suddenly, all the eyes were on me, and I began to sweat.
The teacher said something more, but I did not know how to answer back. I could not take it anymore, so I yelled out in Korean, "I am going to go crazy!" Apparently another student in the class also spoke Korean and managed to translate what I wanted to say to the teacher. Later, I was escorted out of the classroom, and I thought they were going to kick me out of school.
The next thing I know, I was brought into this room with a strange-looking person. She pointed to herself and said, "Mrs. Norman." And she pointed at me, and I said my American name. Then she sat down suddenly in her chair and yelled out, "Sit!" I looked at her and wondered if I was in a mental hospital. I wanted to tell her that I was not deaf, but I couldn't. So I followed her and did what she told me to do. That was the beginning of my learning to speak English.
It took another six months before I could fluently speak or read English. The first time I really spoke and understood English was right after waking up from a car accident. I remember waking up in my car, which was a wreck, and the EMTs were saying something to me. Amazingly I understood them and was able to tell them I was fine and that they should treat my mom and my sister first. To this day, I still think the car accident had something to do with my learning English.
Needless to say, my friend wasn't very encouraged by my story.
