Generations Abroad Media (GAM)

Growing up in Manchester as an ABC kid meant Mandarin was always around me - floating in the air but never quite landing in my brain.

At home:

- My mom spoke Mandarin at 3x speed
- My dad answered in English
- My grandma mixed both
- I replied with noises like “mmhmm” and “OKAYY”

Every Sunday they sent me to Chinese school, also known as The Place Fun Goes to Die.
While other kids watched football, I memorized characters like 小, 馬, and 魚, none of which looked anything like the things they meant.

By age 13, I decided:
Mandarin is not my personality.
Mandarin is optional.
Mandarin is… someone else’s identity.

I left Chinese school and never looked back.

Or so I thought.

Then I went to university.

Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I wasn’t “the Asian kid.”

I was just… Aaron.
Another student navigating lectures, laundry, and late-night kebabs.

Then something strange happened.

People started asking me:

- “Do you speak Mandarin?”
- “Can you help me order at this Chinese place?”
- “How do you say hello?”
- “How do you say my name in Chinese?”
- “Teach us a swear word.”

Every time, I had to say the same sentence:

“Sorry… I don’t really speak it.”

And every time I said that, something pinched inside me.

A tiny embarrassment.
A tiny loss.
A tiny sense of… shouldn’t I know this?

One evening, after someone asked again, I called my mom on FaceTime.

“Can you teach me Mandarin?” I asked.

She nearly dropped her ladle into the soup.

Starting again felt awkward at first.

My accent was bad.
My tones were worse.
I mixed up words so badly that:

- I said “I want to kiss” when I meant “I want to eat.”
- I said “My grandma is spicy” instead of “This food is spicy.”
- I said “I am the refrigerator” more times than I want to admit.

But my mom laughed in the warm way - not the “you failed” way.

For the first time, Mandarin wasn’t homework.
Mandarin wasn’t a test.
Mandarin wasn’t pressure.

It was connection.

Ten minutes a night.
Some words.
Some stories.
Some laughter.

And slowly, the language I once ran away from started feeling like a bridge — one I didn’t know I needed.

This Chinese New Year, something unexpected happened.

My grandma called.
Usually I handed the phone to my mom instantly.

But this time, I didn’t.

I said, “奶奶好” (Hi Grandma).
Her face lit up like fireworks.
She replied with a sentence I barely understood.

And I said back, slowly but proudly:
“我在学中文。”
(I'm learning Chinese.)

She started crying - the happy kind.

In that moment, I realized:

I wasn’t learning Mandarin for a grade.
I was learning it to keep my family alive inside me.
To keep our story connected across oceans and time zones.

Mandarin will never be perfect for me.
But neither is identity.
Both are things you grow into - gently, slowly, honestly.

And maybe that’s enough.

I used to think Mandarin wasn't mine.
Now I think it’s something I get to rediscover.

Not for school.
Not for pressure.
Not for expectations.

Just… for me.