I’ve always felt that how well a kid is able to adapt to a new environment has a lot to do with their personality, especially how outgoing they are. I like to describe myself as an extroverted introvert. But honestly, I’m not really that introverted. It’s just that my shyness as a kid probably gave people that impression, especially my teachers and the other kids at school. I’m actually an extrovert. An ESFJ, according to the Myers-Briggs personality test.
I was pretty good at art. I probably would have gone to art school if my Taiwanese parents hadn’t said no to my dream of becoming an artist. I remember one time when I was in seventh grade. I was quietly working on my artwork at the big table on the other side of the classroom, all by myself, not sitting next to any of my classmates. But I wasn’t introverted. And I didn’t actually want to be alone. I was just shy.
I didn’t know how to make friends. Hell, I didn’t even know how to hold a conversation, let alone have a conversation in English—my third language, which I was only just starting to learn how to speak. One day, the music teacher from the classroom next door happened to stop by to talk to our teacher during class. The big worktable where I was sitting happened to be right next to the door. So as soon as she walked into the classroom, she noticed what I was working on and complimented me on how good she thought it was. I immediately froze. I raised my head to see who was talking to me and just awkwardly looked at her. She thought she had offended me. Maybe she thought I was someone who didn’t like people staring at their artwork. So she started apologizing to me. Profusely. I had absolutely no idea what to say or how to react. And I think whatever expression was on my face totally threw her off and scared her away. Anyway, that’s just one of the many stories about how awkwardly shy I was as a kid.
Looking back, it’s kind of funny because I wasn’t actually someone who wanted to be alone. I wanted to talk to people. I wanted to make friends. I wanted to belong to a group of friends. I wanted to be cool. I even wanted to join the dance team. I just had absolutely no idea how to do any of those things, and I absolutely could not muster up the courage to join the dance club.
As I was going down memory lane through my thoughts, I suddenly remembered a distant memory involving a family friend. He’s no longer with us, but I’m grateful that a part of him—and the memories I have of him—still lives on in us.
This happened during the fall semester of seventh grade. One day, my cousin and this family friend took me and my brother to the mall.
By the way, I’m actually the baby of the family. I’m the youngest cousin, with everyone else being more than ten years older than me. My brother is also six years older than I am, so I was pretty much always the youngest person around.
I don’t remember which store we went into. I just remember that it felt somewhat like a Hot Topic. He ended up buying me a T-shirt that said, “Oops, I think I killed a bunch of ninjas!” There was a cartoonish little girl in the center, surrounded by a bunch of ninjas lying on the ground with Xs over their eyes.
I wore that T-shirt many times. It was actually one of my favorites.
I don’t remember ever telling him that I really liked it. I think he might have asked me if I liked it, and I probably just stared at him and awkwardly nodded.
Even though I didn’t really understand what the shirt said.
But every time I wore it to school, all the other kids loved it and would compliment me on my T-shirt.
Later that same day, we went back to my aunt and uncle’s place and hung out in the living room. At some point, he asked if he could have some of the candies I had.
There was a small bag of candy sitting on the side table, but honestly, I didn’t know whose candy it was.
I wanted to tell him in English, “Those aren’t mine.”
Except I didn’t really know how to say that.
So instead, I said, “That is not me.”
I think that confused the hell out of him.
My brother happened to walk by and said it for me. But then he told me that the candies had actually been given to me, so they were mine.
I was confused too.
At the same time, I was frustrated and embarrassed that someone hadn’t understood my English.
My immediate thought was basically:
Oh my god. Please stop talking to me. I’m so stressed right now. Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!
So yeah. That’s another story about me being too shy to speak English.
I think that experience actually made me even quieter for a while.
But it’s interesting to think back on it now. I’m kind of amazed that I still remember such a small interaction from seventh grade—something that probably meant absolutely nothing to anyone else, but somehow stayed with me all these years.
And I’m especially grateful that I still have this little memory of him.
I don’t remember what we talked about that day. I don’t even remember the name of the store.
But I remember the T-shirt.
I remember the candy.
And I remember trying so hard to communicate in a language I was still learning.
