It was someone else dressed in this striped red uniform, someone else who slung the same red backpack everyone was required to use on her shoulder, hiding the real reason she was trembling by the weight of the backpack. It wasn’t me who smiled a watery smile with a pounding heart, social anxiety kicking in stronger than before. It was my first day of sixth grade, back to school after abruptly leaving my 5th grade class back in America. When Covid hit, I refused the masks and social distancing, rejecting the virus by dismissing it just as I would a trend. Little did I know the impact Covid-19 would make, nearly breaking the world in a few years. Little did I expect the challenges I would be forced to overcome, so different than the ones my friends would have to face. A few months into Taiwan, I took an entrance exam to enter a prestigious international school: Kang Chiao. Soon enough, I was accepted and since then, time flew by. What I convinced myself was just a nice vacation transformed into my permanent home. Shock was just one of the many feelings flashing at me when I realized 6th grade was still considered elementary for Taiwan students. Me, so desperate to prove my independence and maturity in middle school, took a double blow. Not only will I be in elementary school, I was also going to be separated from my sister once again, after looking forward to joining her at her middle school this year.
The wind was protesting against the resilient sun, billowing in all directions, attempting to conquer every corner the sunlight touched. Slowly, I trudged to the bus stop where a single bus sign and lonely bench waited for me. Across from the bus stop was the mall Yuanqi, and beside it was a bank, with its big bold words lighting up on a blue background. My dad’s reassuring words fell on deaf ears, the thudding of my heart sending tremors through my body and deafening all logical thought. Soon, the school bus hissed in front of me. More like a tour bus with its pink and white gradient on the outside and two floors of seats, it was too cheerful for such an occasion. Stepping out of the bus was a middle-aged lady, reminding me of my aunt. She held a thermometer in one hand and hand sanitizer in the other. Her vest, matching the pink shade of the school bus, contrasted the sour expression on her face. Around me, younger students clamored in excitement, hurriedly rushing away from their parents and gathering in a line right in front of me. One by one, the school-bus lady took their temperatures and ushered them on. My heart was in my throat, embarrassed that my dad was accompanying me when all other parents scattered, leaving as soon as the bus arrived. The lady greeted me with an attempt at a smile, ushering me on the bus where, I realized, another lady was waiting for me. She had on the same bright pink vest. She was relatively younger, looking less stern. Showing me to the back of the bus, that was when I noticed the others. My heart was pounding again when I met the eyes of the girls my age, sitting in the area I was. As the school bus lady explained that I was a new student, their eyes looked me up and down, just like a predator would seize up their prey. Then, their features broke into a smile and small wave. I returned the smile shakily, flustered and rushing into my seat. The bus ride to school was a long lonely hour of staring out the window while others talked and laughed after a long summer without seeing each other. Their effortless ability to string Chinese words together reminded me of the linguistic challenges I would soon face. I felt punched in the gut with the harsh edges of my reality. I couldn’t read or write Chinese. I couldn’t string the words together without making at least one grammatical mistake. Desperate but having no solution, I stared off out the window, spacing out after every few minutes.
The little shops around my house zoomed quickly by. The entrance to the night market, then the familiar breakfast cafe. Soon, we were on the freeway. High in the giant bus, everything else seemed so small. Up on a bridge now, I could see the park my family and I drove to just a few days ago. A distinct feeling of longing overtook me, stinging the back of my eyes. My brows knit, concentrating on how I was even supposed to get to my class upon entering the campus. Crossing the bridge, the bus puffed its way up the mountain, where the international school would sit high and magnificent, amongst the clouds. The little shops selling dan bing for breakfast transformed into tall trees and green shrubs. An impenetrable mist lingered in the air, making little water vapor droplets condense and collect on the window. Then, the bus pulled a sharp left and the mist parted, leaving the astonishing view of the castle-like school.
The bus pulled into a dark garage I never knew existed. Turning 2 lefts and a sharp right, it came to an abrupt stop. The students lined up, single file, and upon reaching the exit, zoomed down to meet their friends waiting for them at the bottom of the bus. Slowly, I walked down the stairs, the nervousness almost nauseating. Stepping off the bus was like stepping into a horde of zebras. What I didn’t realize was that there were other buses arriving the same time we did. Identical looking students rushed around me. I looked about, trying to find where to go and trying to find the girls from the bus with no success. I followed the general direction and trudged up the ramp leading into the building. Now on the first floor, or so I assumed, the students sorted themselves into each classroom. Because they were young, I realized I was on the wrong floor. I went up a flight of stairs, then another. As I went up floor by floor, the ages of the students became older and older. Thinking I was finally on the right floor, I walked through the hallway, looking for my class, 604. Again, I had no luck. I ended up lost, unable to find the stairway I came from. Frantic, I noticed the number of students in the hallways decreasing, getting to class before the bell rang. Swallowing my pride, I asked an adult in the hallway with the best chinese I could muster for directions. Showing me to the staircase and telling me to go directly to the top floor, I quickly thanked her and rushed off. The top floor was dark and quiet, unlike the bustling energy the lower floors gave off. My footsteps echoed through the hall loudly. Finally spotting 604, I took a deep breath and let it out shakily. My adventure has finally begun, I thought to myself.
I stepped into the classroom where the light quickly blinded me. I took a second to adjust my eyes to the lighting and soon saw my teacher, handing out table mats, name tags, and assigning baskets. He was a middle aged man with two daughters. His last name was Zhang- we called him Zhang Lao Shi, Teacher Zhang. We made eye contact from across the room, and his eyes lit in recognition. He rushed over and, in a gentle tone, asked me if I was Wu Xin Tian, my
Chinese name. I nodded, and he showed me to my seat. I knew I would like him immediately- I could tell he was strict, but very reasonable. He introduced me to Candice, who would be my “little angel” the first few weeks, showing me around. I smiled and waved, her returning the gesture. Zhang lao shi showed me around the room, helping me get my textbooks and explaining what subject each one was for. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful I found my classroom and a good teacher, thinking that this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
It was later that day when I realized that everyone knew each other after all. The little cliches have been formed, apparently since day one, and I quickly caught on. The girls who rode on the bus with me were named Zhan Zhan and Fan Yi Jie, Phrisia and Sabrina. They, along with 6 other girls, were part of the popular group in school. They were social, loud, and, as I later found out, had their fun through gossip. Soon, the bell rang again, signaling break time- we had a total of two break times, one before lunch and one after. During this first break, everyone scattered out of the classroom, leaving me awkward, my mind scrambling for a solution. I made up my mind and headed outwards, going where my feet would take me. I roamed the building, pretending I was looking for someone. Although it was pointless, I gathered a mental map of the school. The school was breathtakingly awesome. High up in the mountains, there was so much land to use. On campus, there was an open courtyard where a mock-airport was placed as well as a whole airplane, for learning purposes. There was a room nearby as a mock-grocery store as well as another outdoor area for rock climbing, as high as 5 floors of the building. These were all the activities interlaced with the curriculum at Kang Chiao.
After the first-day-back-to-school assembly after break, it was time for lunch. Lunch was in the classroom, due to new Covid procedures. The school provided lunch, buffet style. There was fresh vegetables, meat, fruit, soup, and dessert, all of which I stared at in awe. This was so different from what I expected- the soggy burgers and raw vegetable salads in America. Lining up for lunch, that was when I met my first friend that would stay with me the whole journey through the 6th grade. She was in front of me, carrying her tray, when all of a sudden, she turned around with a sweet smile. She asked me what my name was and introduced herself as Yuan Wei Ling, Christy. I was bursting with excitement- I just made my first friend ever. Her English was nearly flawless, as I learned a lot of students’ English was too, and it felt nice to talk to someone in my mother language.
A couple of months passed and I was finally adjusting to the school. I no longer got lost and could navigate my way through the campus.
Nevertheless, every day was a new challenge in terms of academics. In the mornings, I trudged to my homeroom where we would learn math, Chinese, and Taiwan history. I struggled with Taiwan history the most, so different from the American history I was used to. Math was the least of my concerns–the American math system was way ahead and luckily, I had already learnt the course material a few years ago. All I needed to do before each chapter was translate the Chinese terms like “最大公因數” to English “greatest common factor”.
“Ba shu xue ke ben na chu lai, take out your math textbook,” my teacher would say and look pointedly at me with a knowing look, understanding that it was the subject I was most comfortable with. I followed along each and every problem, treasuring every number, knowing that the next subject would be history. Math homework was my favorite thing to do, speeding through every problem with ease and confidence. Making time for homework and review for other subjects, I would do the math homework three weeks ahead. I found out that there were some minor differences in the math they taught, however. In America, instead of a “x” for multiplication, we learnt that it was interchangeable with a single dot. When I wrote the dot as a multiplication sign, my teacher was quite impressed and my classmates stared at it in wonder. Me, puzzled as to what was so special about it, laughed awkwardly and thanked the teacher.
In history class, I sank low in my chair. We were expected to take notes and it would be a breeze if only I knew half the words my teacher told us to write down and even one third of the words the textbook was saying. Every time the teacher signaled for us to jot down a note, I could only ask Zhan Zhan, who sat next to me, for help. We got along well and she seemed like a nice girl. She wrote the words for me in my textbook– I was thankful for that part, at least. Science was another challenge. The science we were learning was yet again different from what we were learning in America. Not only was the concept foreign but also the explanation. Back in my old school, we learned about atoms, oxidation, and chemical reactions. Here, we were learning about how to tell the north wind from the south wind and how to use levers/pulleys. I did not understand one bit of it, as the textbook was a jumble of Chinese characters and colorful diagrams, labeled in Chinese as well. Our science teacher was easygoing, most of the time. However, to those who are particularly loud, he was strict and constantly scolding them. Sadly, we had assigned seating in his class. As a result, I wasn’t sitting with anyone I was acquainted with. When the science teacher asked for us to take down notes, I just stared helplessly at my textbook, wishing class was over.
Along with my homeroom classes, all students took two English classes, one for grammar and one for everyday applications. Even compared to math, it was in these classes where I felt most at ease. Mr. Divine was my everyday application English teacher— with every assignment, I seemed to impress him more and more. Because of this confidence boost like the ones I would get in America, I felt like I belonged. He was young, in his early thirties, and looked Italian. He was as welcoming as an Italian as well. Ms. Jocelyn was my grammar teacher. She was also young, maybe mid twenties. She had warm but sharp features. Her hair was like caramel;- her features reminded me of Emma Watson. Because grammar was not emphasized in America, her class was slightly more challenging. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the classes in my mother language.
In these classes, I was not with my homeroom class- instead, I was with another group of students from mixed homerooms- 601, 602, 603, 604, 605, and so on. The first day of English was a group activity. I thought I had the worst luck in the world when everyone scrambled to
find their friends, already in premade groups. Looking around, I was waiting for any stragglers so that I could seize my chance and ask to be a part of their group. When I realized no one would be a straggler, I had no choice but to ask the girl sitting next to me to be a part of their group, throwing my pride down the drain. This girl was pretty and had long black hair with big brown eyes. She was sweet and smiled, letting me join her group. Her name was Chloe Chang, and in her team were Monroe, Kitty, and Jessica. I soon realized my bad luck turned into the best luck ever. I just joined the best English group I could ever ask for. We were all at the top of our English class and won challenge after challenge. Chloe was extroverted as extroverted can be she was loud but took care of our team well. I became a part of their friend group and hung out with them during English class. For classes also in the curriculum like PLTW, it was the English group of people that took the class together. As a result, I grew to love team projects and became known for my strong English ability.
The ride home was always a long hour for me. I had an old Samsung phone, and no social media to scroll through. As a result, I could only do one of two things: stare mindlessly out the window or sleep. The school bus ladies seemed content with this as they scolded others for using their phones in the bus or for chatting with their friends. Because we had assigned seating in the bus and were technically not allowed to talk, it gave me an excuse to mind my own business and not socialize with the others. The bus finally stopped where I was supposed to get off. Looking out the fogged window, I could see the familiar face of my father, waiting for me to get off and the darkness of the night slowly approaching. I sighed with exhaustion, another day of school over with.
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