Stepping out from my Chinese final was a less-than-triumphant moment for me. Travelling purposefully down the halls of the Buchanan B block brought surprising tears to my eyes. I am finally done with Chinese, academically speaking at least. I found myself quaking with irony and fear, recalling the exuberation I would feel at the end of each passed exam in Singapore. It meant a year less of Chinese and as I worked my way toward the AO levels when it would all

Stop

I didn't think I would ever need to touch the loathsome language. ever. again. But somehow, deep in my bones, I always knew that God would call me back into the Sino world again. And here I am, three years later with twelve credits of upper level Chinese courses under my belt.

But no, no joy in completion or renunciation of learning. But rather, a tender sort of nostalgia in understanding that in taking ludicriously difficult chinese courses filled with native speakers, in White Land Canada I have brought to the battle front of my identity. Who am I as a Canadian Born, Singaporean-bred, Anglo-speaking, Protestant, Straits Chinese Girl?

In wrestling with my ethnic and cultural identity, these courses have imbued in me a burning desire to be more Chinese, to speak, think and be Chinese. And ending my courses have filled me with fear that this will be the last strings of contact I will have with the Chinese culture before giving it all away.

But perhaps, as God would have it, this is only the beginning.
Where are you taking me?
Give me strength to go. Alone.