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him ruthlessly on every detail of his foreign visit。
Once a visitor who’d been through my interrogation to the point of brain blur said
to my mother upon leaving； “What a kid！ He was fascinated by every detail of every hour
I ever spent in another country； and the only other place I’ve ever been is Canada！’
How Latin Almost Ruined It
Walking into Miss Leslie’s Latin class on the first day of ninth grade was the culmination
of a lifelong dream。 I could actually hear Roman background music in my mind。 I didn’t
understand how the other students could be anything less than enthusiastic about the
prospect of beginning Latin。 Electricity coursed through me as I opened the Latin book
Miss Leslie gave us。 I was finally studying a foreign language！
The first day all we did was learn vocabulary。 Miss Leslie wrote some Latin words
on the blackboard； and we wrote them down in our notebooks。 I showed early promise as
the class whiz。 I quickly mastered those new words； each then as precious as Arthur’s
foreign stamps had been eleven years earlier。 When Miss Leslie had us close our books
and then asked “Who remembers how to say ‘farmer’ in Latin；” I was the first to split the
air with the cry of “Agricola！” I soaked up those foreign words like the Arabian desert
soaks up spiled lemonade。
What happened thereupon for a short time crippled； but then enriched； my life
beyond measure。
I was absent from school on day four。 When I returned on day five； there were no
more Latin words on the blackboard。 In their place were words like nominative； genitive；
dative； accusative。 I didn’t know what those words meant and I didn’t like them。 That
“nominative…genitive” whatever…it…was was keeping me from my feast； and I resented it
like I resent the clergyman at the banquet whose invocation lasts too long。
The more Miss Leslie talked about these grammatical terms； the more bored I got。
Honeymooners would have more patience with a life insurance salesman who knocked
on their motel door at midnight than I had with Latin grammar。 I clearly remember
believing languages were nothing but words。 We have words。 They have words。 And all
you have to do is learn their words for our words and you’ve got it made。 Therefore all
that “ablative absolute” stuff Miss Leslie was getting increasingly excited about was
unneeded and； to me； unwanted。
Miss Leslie； noting that I； her highly motivated superstar； was floundering with
elementary Latin grammar； kindly offered to assign another student to tutor me on what
I’d missed the day before； or even to sit down with me herself。 I remember declining the
offer。 I remember deciding； with the logic of a frustrated fifteen year old； that grammar
was just another of those barriers designed by grownups to keep kids from having too
much fun。 I decided to wait it out。
I shut off my brain as the cascade of changing noun endings and mutating verb
forms muscled out the joy of my beloved vocabulary words。 I longed for the good old
days of being the first in the class to know agricola。 More and more that Miss Leslie said
made less and less sense。 I was trapped in a Bermuda Triangle。 My aura of classroom
celebrity disappeared； along with my self esteem； my motivation； and almost my
affection for things foreign。
I limped along； barely making passing grades； I only managed to pass thanks to the
vocabulary section on every test。 My knowledge of vocabulary plus some good
grammatical guesswork and a little luck got me through Miss Leslie’s class with a low D。
Some of the other students seemed to be enjoying my lameness in Latin； after my
being the overpraised and preening star of the class for the first three days。 To assuage
the hurt； I got hold of a self study book in Chinese。 By the last few weeks of school； it
was apparent that there was no way I could make better than a weak D in Latin； but that
was enough to pass。 I hid my humiliation behind that outrageously foreign looking book
with thick； black Chinese characters all over the cover。 I buried all thoughts of Latin in
sour grapes and sat there and studied Chinese instead！
Chinese Sailors Don’t Speak Latin
Forsaking Latin for Chinese was my own form of juvenile defiance。 However； I have
since used Chinese in some way almost every day。 I confess to occasional curiosity as to
what all those A students from Miss Leslie’s Latin class are doing these days with their
Latin。
During summer vacation we went to Miami Beach to visit my grandparents。 On one
trip； as Uncle Bill drove us from the train station in Miami to Miami Beach； we passed a
large group of marching sailors。 As we drew abreast of the last row I noticed that the
sailor on the end was Chinese。 Then I noticed that the sailor beside him was also Chinese。
I blinked。 The whole last row was Chinese。 And the next whole row was Chinese too。
The entire contingent of marching sailors was Chinese！
I felt like a multimillion dollar lottery winner slowly realising he’d gotten all the
right numbers。 I had no idea there were Chinese sailors in Miami； but why not？ It was
during World War II； China was our ally； and Miami was a port。 There they were；
hundreds of native speakers of the language I was trying to learn。
I couldn’t wait to fling myself into their midst sputtering my few phrases of Chinese
at machine gun velocity。 I didn’t know what adventures were awaiting my Latin
classmates that summer； but I was confident none of them were about to approach an
entire contingent of sailors who spoke Latin！
When we got to my grandparents’ hotel； I gave them the quickest possible hug and
kiss； ran out； took the jitney back over the causeway to Miami； and started asking
strangers if they knew where the Chinese sailors were。
Everybody knew the Chinese sailors were billeted in the old Hotel Alcazar on
Biscayne Boulevard。 After their training； I was told； they gathered in groups and strolled
around Bayfront Park。
I waited。 Sure enough； in late afternoon the park filled with Chinese sailors。 I
picked a clump of them at random and waded on in； greeting them in phrases I’d been
able to learn from the book my parents had bought me。 I’d never heard Chinese spoken
before。 No records； tapes； or cassettes。 I could hit them only with the Chinese a D student
in Latin could assemble from an elementary self study book in Chinese conversation in
Greensboro； North Carolina。
It sounded extraplanetary to the Chinese sailors； but at least they understood enough
to get the point that here was no Chinese American； here was no child of missionary
parents who’d served in China。 Here was essentially an American urchin hellbent on
learning Chinese without any help。
They decided to provide the help。
You don’t have to win a war to get a hero’s welcome。 The Chinese naval units
stationed in Miami seemed suddenly to have two missions – to defeat the Japanese and to
help me learn Chinese！ A great side benefit to le