Stories from My Youth: VII - My First English Friend
Father first decided to move to Canada after our winter vacation in my third grade. A little bit after a year and a half, our immigration application was accepted, and we, a family of five, landed at Vancouver International Airport on June 8th, 1995.
As my spectacular grade four year had just come to an end, I was given a new challenge – to become the academic superstar I was, only now being ten thousand kilometres from home.
The summer gently skipped by, and too soon was September. The first day of school was vaguely memorable. I remembered stepping inside the school, and was ushered to the gym. At the door of the gym, Mother and Father waved at me, then left. Soon, a white tall male greeted me, and told me that he was my grade five teacher. I smiled and said nothing. While my English skills were the best in my grade back in Hong Kong, it was barely enough to pick out a few words from a full minute of introductory remarks given by the teacher, Mr. Strandberg (whose name took me three weks to remember and pronounce properly).
A few minutes later, a white boy stood by me. He was short and bald. He wore a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. A restless boy, he soon started to jump around, only told by a woman (his mother, I assumed) to calm down. I was amused by him and decided to muster all my courage (which is plenty) and my English (definitely lacking) to greet him:
"Hi, who are you?"
He looked at me funny, then smiled, "My name is Brian."
"Bri-an", I slowly pronounced.
"What is your name?" He asked.
"My name is Johnson."
"Johnson? Well, nice to meet you, Johnson."
"Yes, nice to meet you too."
As more students flooded the gym, so more conversation pour fourth between Brian and I. I no longer remember what was said and done that day, but as orientation came to an end that day, I can still remember my last question to him: "I forget what is your name. Can you tell me one more time?" And with a chuckle he told me.
We soon became very good friends. Although language at times was a barrier, we soon found common interests in sports, particularly soccer (before they introduced me the great Canadian game of hockey). At first, however, I could not understand what he meant by "soccer".
"So what sport do you like, Johnson?"
"I like football."
"Football? Oh, I don't like it one bit."
"Why not?"
"Because football is violent."
"What is 'violent'?"
"It is like, you hit each other." Brian body-checked me. I was so confused – football in Hong Kong is not violent like that.
"But you kick the ball. That is not violent." I said.
"Kick the ball? Oh, you mean soccer!"
"What? Pardon?"
"You like 'soccer', not 'football'!"
"What is 'soccer'?"
"It is your football. We call your football 'soccer', and American football 'football'."
That took a while before I understood it properly. But soccer is a universal game as long as you have feet and a ball. We had fun all the same.
The year moved on, and I got to know more friends. But Brian had always been my close friend. Along with this one other boy, Sean, we did all our sports together, played our tag in the playground, every recess and lunchtime. We were brothers at school, and occasionally Mother would allow me to play with them over weekends or holidays (but only occasionally, as Mother always say, "homework first, play second"). And we would remain as great friends throughout my elementary and high-school years.
It is indeed strange what fortune can be brought about by blind courage. Had I not introduced myself first to Brian, things might turn out to be completely different, and I definitely would not be the same person as I am right now.
As my spectacular grade four year had just come to an end, I was given a new challenge – to become the academic superstar I was, only now being ten thousand kilometres from home.
The summer gently skipped by, and too soon was September. The first day of school was vaguely memorable. I remembered stepping inside the school, and was ushered to the gym. At the door of the gym, Mother and Father waved at me, then left. Soon, a white tall male greeted me, and told me that he was my grade five teacher. I smiled and said nothing. While my English skills were the best in my grade back in Hong Kong, it was barely enough to pick out a few words from a full minute of introductory remarks given by the teacher, Mr. Strandberg (whose name took me three weks to remember and pronounce properly).
A few minutes later, a white boy stood by me. He was short and bald. He wore a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. A restless boy, he soon started to jump around, only told by a woman (his mother, I assumed) to calm down. I was amused by him and decided to muster all my courage (which is plenty) and my English (definitely lacking) to greet him:
"Hi, who are you?"
He looked at me funny, then smiled, "My name is Brian."
"Bri-an", I slowly pronounced.
"What is your name?" He asked.
"My name is Johnson."
"Johnson? Well, nice to meet you, Johnson."
"Yes, nice to meet you too."
As more students flooded the gym, so more conversation pour fourth between Brian and I. I no longer remember what was said and done that day, but as orientation came to an end that day, I can still remember my last question to him: "I forget what is your name. Can you tell me one more time?" And with a chuckle he told me.
We soon became very good friends. Although language at times was a barrier, we soon found common interests in sports, particularly soccer (before they introduced me the great Canadian game of hockey). At first, however, I could not understand what he meant by "soccer".
"So what sport do you like, Johnson?"
"I like football."
"Football? Oh, I don't like it one bit."
"Why not?"
"Because football is violent."
"What is 'violent'?"
"It is like, you hit each other." Brian body-checked me. I was so confused – football in Hong Kong is not violent like that.
"But you kick the ball. That is not violent." I said.
"Kick the ball? Oh, you mean soccer!"
"What? Pardon?"
"You like 'soccer', not 'football'!"
"What is 'soccer'?"
"It is your football. We call your football 'soccer', and American football 'football'."
That took a while before I understood it properly. But soccer is a universal game as long as you have feet and a ball. We had fun all the same.
The year moved on, and I got to know more friends. But Brian had always been my close friend. Along with this one other boy, Sean, we did all our sports together, played our tag in the playground, every recess and lunchtime. We were brothers at school, and occasionally Mother would allow me to play with them over weekends or holidays (but only occasionally, as Mother always say, "homework first, play second"). And we would remain as great friends throughout my elementary and high-school years.
It is indeed strange what fortune can be brought about by blind courage. Had I not introduced myself first to Brian, things might turn out to be completely different, and I definitely would not be the same person as I am right now.
posted by Tristan at 11:26 p.m.
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