Aa. Bb. Cc.
When I was five, my mother asked me how homework was going.
Specifically, she said "ni zhu hao homework ma?"
I did not know what homework meant, so I stared at her blankly and lied.
"Yes."
She opened my backpack and found weeks of neglected worksheets. I vaguely remembered them and muttered a pathetic, "Oh yeah."
It was a short interrogation, where I confessed that I simply forgot about the worksheets. I thought school was about nap time and home was about TV time, then more nap time. By my confession, it was clear to my mom that I did not give a crap about my school assignments.
My mom explained that these worksheets are my homework assignments, meaning they are to be completed at home and then returned to my teacher.
Oh.
I spoke cantonese at home, so I often did not understand my teachers. Quite frankly, I didn't think I needed to. Kinder garden was broken into nap time, play time, more nap time, and then reading time. Since most of the books had pictures, I was able to piece together the general, uninteresting story line. Most of the other kids, like myself, had a limited vocabulary with illogical sentences strung together by baby talk. I didn't see a purpose to know, learn, or speak English. Homework was just gibberish to me.
That night, I did homework for the first time.
My mother wasn't mad. She wasn't disappointed. She was processing school not just for me, but for herself. Having no education whatsoever, my mom only knew of concepts in school, like studying, homework, tests. She had no actual experience with it herself.
I stared at the dotted lines of my homework assignment and looked at my mother for guidance. I didn't understand what I was supposed to do. There were no instructions on the paper.
My mom sat next to me and taught me to trace the letters of the alphabet. It started to make sense. In fact, I might have even exclaimed the Chinese equivalent of "DUH."
Those worksheets were the building blocks of English. It was the first time I learned to write. It was a tender moment between my mother and I as we completed one assignment after another, like we were in it together. Even though I was lost, staring at an assignment with no understanding of its purpose or value, my mother guided me. I didn't feel so alone anymore.
I realize things are much, much different now between my mother and I. My difficult childhood and her broken marriage turned us into people we didn't expect to be, and pulled our relationship into some hard and dark places.
Now, I don't turn to my mother for help. Now, I fight with my mother on doctor's appointments, time, and money. I think about that tender moment, and if I can ever replicate it.
Sometimes, I look at my mother and I can clearly see she has aged. I wonder where the time went, and how fast it'll go. I wish I could go back in time, to being 6 and riding the bus with my mother, my head on her lap. All I wanted was to pull the bus strings when our stop was up. My life was so simple.
