This entry is part 23 of 28 in the series Goldfish
Memorizing new materials and taking exams always come easily to me. Since, traditionally, Asian education systems leaned heavily on rote learning, I had little problem earning good grades at school. However, the “aha” moment always struck me weeks or months after I first learned something—perhaps because I was younger than most of my classmates. It didn’t take me long to realize that there was a huge difference between knowing something and understanding something. I also figured out that, if I understood the reason behind a certain thing, I could easily apply it to similar things. So, I became a perpetual “terrible two,” always asking “WHY?”
Curiosity opened up endless possibilities for me. It turned the world into a playground of knowledge. It guided me through years of academic studies. It gave me the freedom to reproduce composer’s ideas on solid ground.
On a few occasions, my inquisitive approach had become obstructive. Mom suggested for dad to teach me German when I was in high school. We sat down with the textbook. Dad showed me the four cases: nominative, accusative, dative and genitive. He showed me how the articles and pronouns would change based on genders, cases and numbers. Instead of accepting the rules, I asked him; “Why?” This went on for the entire lesson. Dad thought I was the most impossible student that he had ever had. I never had another session with him.
As a participant of a summer festival, I had the opportunity to work with a prominent artist. Every time he instructed me to try certain things, I would ask ‘Why?” He was FURIOUS with me for asking stupid questions. However, he did provide extended answers to all my stupid questions. Many things that I learned that summer had turned into useful tools for me. Did he think I was challenging his authority? Perhaps. What I gained from the experience far outweighed the momentary humiliation.
For as long as my mind is clear, I will continue asking: “Why?”
This entry is part 22 of 28 in the series Goldfish
Right around the time when I started elementary school, Taiwanese comic books reached the height of its popularity. The drawings were similar to Japanese manga. The contents varied widely. However, one would not be mistaken to think of them as Marvel comics in lieu of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. There were many book rental stores—think Blockbuster for books. After school, children would crowd around the store front, sitting on wooden stools and reading comic books. This phenomenon accumulated into children missing school and, in a few cases, running away from home to seek martial arts masters in the mountains.
Always keeping us on a tight leash, mom would not let us get near the book rentals. Instead, she would check out books which she approved of and bring them home. Instead of comic books, we got Western children’s literature. Mom read us Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan, Sherlock Holmes and the like. Somehow, I remember the story of La Dame aux Camélias was also in the selections. I remember thinking the name of the author 小仲馬 (Little/junior Dumas) was funny-sounding. (It was not very close to the French pronunciation.) I remember wondering if there might be a Big Dumas. I vaguely understood that the lady with camellias sacrificed herself for something important. Every time I worked on Traviata, I just couldn’t help wondering how such an intense drama could have possibly been whitewashed for children.
In addition to Mandarin Daily, mom also subscribed 兒童樂園 (Children’s Paradise), a children’s bi-weekly for us. The magazines were published in Hongkong and shipped to Taiwan. There were historical stories, Western fairy tales, comics and games. I looked up the publication history of the magazine recently. It was discontinued in 1995. Amazingly, the original publisher, with the help of an anonymous contributor, digitalized all 1006 issues in 2013 and released them online.
Mandarin Daily had a series of contemporary Western children’s books in Chinese translation. We read Mary Poppins, Make way for Ducklings, Madeline and books by Dr. Seuss. . . . My favorite one was THE MAN WHO DIDN’T WASH HIS DISHES! Perhaps, I secretly dreamt of NOT doing ANYTHING. Phyllis Krasilovsky’s simple storyline and spirited narrations fit my desires perfectly. Barbara Cooney’s creative illustrations made the book come alive. I would look the stack of flower pots wondering if the poor man’s food might taste like dirt. I was curious of all the different types of pans the man had. And, what could be better than having nature take care of your problems: Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain. I never confessed my love of the book to mom. . . Don’t believe that she will approve of it even now.
I also loved a book designed to teach children descriptive writing. I don’t remember the title or the author. It followed the daily routine of a boy, from waking up, getting dressed, to brushing teeth. Underneath each drawing, there were two lines of descriptions. The first one was matter-of-fact; the second; with details and emotions. For example: The boy walks—The boy walks with a smile on his face. I loved that simple daily activities could turned into stories. Unknowingly, I learned from the book.
My “fun” reading stopped when dad gave me two Chinese classics 三國演義 and 西遊記as summer reading before I became a fourth-grader. The first book Romance of the Three Kingdoms tells the epic story of the tumultuous time at the end of Han dynasty. It is full of Shakespearean characters and sensational dramatic developments. The second one Journey to the West is a fantasy based on the pilgrimage of a Buddhist monk 玄奘法師. His entourage includes a monkey Sun Wukong 孫悟空, a pig Zhu Bajie 豬八戒 and a friar Sha Wujing 沙悟淨, all with magical powers.
Wouldn’t it have been fun to read these fabulous books? Yes, but no. Instead of offering me an introduction to these literary wonders, dad gave me the full dosage: the original versions in Classical Chinese, a written language first derived from literature around 400 BC and continued to be used in all formal writings. It coexisted but never mingled with the vernacular until it fell out of use in the twentieth century. So, it was like reading The Adventure of Huckleberry Finn written in the language of Beowulf.
Stubborn and proud, I actually made all the effort to read and understand these books. It was a long and unforgettable summer. I am not sure if I can fully grasp all the intricacies reading these books again today.
