Someone changed my life — and I may never get the chance to pay them back.
Eleven months into learning Japanese, I keep thinking the same thing: I wish I had understood what languages actually do much earlier.
I was a terrible student. I scored 9% on an 8th-grade English test and decided I was finished. No high school. Just quit.
Then that summer my high school English teacher wrote me a letter.
He said I should get the diploma even if I never used it. If I walked away now, I would never get that chance again.
The first morning of high school, I showed up. Because of that letter. Because of him.
He only taught me for one year. I still remember his classes. After he explained an article once, I could recite the entire thing. While the rest of the class read along out loud, I closed the book and recited it from memory.
I scored the highest in the class. Highest in the region on the college entrance exam. I kept topping exams through college, and later got full scholarship from America. A vibe brought by a single teacher out of me, that’s real and even today it’s still unbelievable.
It was a no-name countryside high school. I was a nobody. That teacher still cared.
In college, my sweetheart was stunned when I recited the Gettysburg Address from memory. That night she looked at me like I was the smartest person she had ever met.
After I came to America, I somehow basically stopped learning language. My English barely moved. My Chinese got worse. I forgot that language is not just words — it is culture, connection, the ability to talk to people as they actually are.
Now I travel and meet people everywhere. I wish I could speak to them in their own language.
I’m giving myself one more year with Japanese. After that: Spanish and Cantonese. Then French. Then Korean, Vietnamese, German, Italian…
I just want that high-school fire back. The one a teacher lit in a kid who almost walked away.