ESL Drop-Out by Nana Chen

Nana Chen is a freelance photographer and writer whose work has appeared in Adbusters, South China Morning Post, Dynasty, Silkroad, Scanorama, and other publications.

"Have you considered taking ESL?" The professor said it loudly in front of the class. I said, "Yeah. Ten years ago," in perfect English, with a southern drawl.

"Did you take an English proficiency test this past summer?" I said I'd shown up on the day of the test and was told that if English was the only language I knew, I didn't have to sit through it.

"And English is the only language you speak?" She asked. I nodded. "You don't speak another language at home? What about your folks?" She was no fool.

"They speak Taiwanese and we reply in English," I said. She looked at me for several seconds, "All right. Well, if you want to pass this class, you need to make an appointment to see me in my office." At the end of the semester, I got a "C" and a lecture on the importance of writing well. I forgot it as soon as she finished.

A year later, I was in another classroom. This time I was an ESL teacher to Taiwanese adults in the evenings. I had decided to take a six-month break from college and follow my parents to Taipei. They had returned, bankrupt, and my mother deathly ill. A month passed and I was offered morning teaching hours through referral at a college. I needed the money.

When I asked to pick up the textbooks before classes started, the dean told me not to bother. Besides, the books hadn't arrived. I arrived to the dean's office the first day and waited by the door. A long line of students chatted as they waited for the dean to count their tuition money. She'd spread the bills into a fan in front of her and count them, five at a time. When someone finally brought her attention to me, she looked up, her money fan bent halfway from counting, "Oh. I thought you were a student. You're Nana? Come. Let me finish this first." She put the stack of money into her drawer and turned to hand me a stack of thick textbooks: "History of British Literature—1500 to 1700" in a hot pink cover, "History of Modern American Literature" with a picture on the cover. I felt ill. She took my stillness as rejection and told me I could just use these books until I found something better. She would order other titles.

That night, I'd gone to buy an anthology of short stories from around the world. I figured it'd be a lot easier to prepare for class if I could get through the stories the night before. So my education started, with my students. For the next seven years, I taught and wrote and read. When an editing job at a marketing firm came up, I took it even though I was terrified. What if they asked about my language background? Would I say English was my third language? No. I'd have to lie. A year after working as an editor, I got a raise, then a bonus. My boss told me I was so far the most popular editor in the company's history. I said maybe it was because I was a woman. She said it wasn't the gender. Slowly, I gained enough confidence to ask if I could work from home so that I could start running an English school for children in the evenings. She agreed.

By then I felt I'd come very far in my career and learning this troublesome third language. I should be content, I told myself. At least I wasn't waiting tables in Georgia anymore. I was a college dropout. I should be satisfied with what I had. Nothing helped. I was miserable. I didn't want to be a teacher. I didn't want to be a corporate trainer, nor did I want to edit consumer reports. But I had to be realistic, I told myself. Dreams were not to be lived and felt in my waking hours. There's practicality involved in life. What made me think I had something to offer? Who would want it? And people, especially other women, helped bury these moments of desire to be myself. I was a perfect ancient Chinese maiden if they saw me doing embroidery. I was a perfect girlfriend if they heard that I cooked well, a perfect mother-to-be if I was caught crocheting. I was never just a girl with talent. And for that reason, and my own insecurities, my natural inclination towards the arts remained buried until I was 30. So depressed by then, surrounded by luxury I didn't appreciate, mostly acquaintances who'd never be friends, eating and shopping to feel temporarily content, it was easy to hate myself. And eventually, my health started to suffer. I knew it was time then. Either start reserving a plot of land for my grave or learn to live the life I wanted.

I began by telling my companion of ten years to get lost. It hadn't been working. It never did. "And this time, please don't threaten to commit suicide or tell me you'll have a stroke. Let's just end it," I pleaded. So he threatened to go mad instead and told me everyone would blame and hate me. I learned to speak up, telling him I'd ship him back to his parents if he indeed became an invalid. No more playing with my mind.

Only when it was over did I feel ready to pay attention to myself. I finally quit teaching after 13 years and resigned from my well-paying corporate editing job. Instead, I went to work for a magazine that paid much less. It didn't matter because my brain finally felt active. I could read about topics I was curious about and write on them. What was even more assuring, I was good at it. Around this time, I dared myself to go further by submitting short stories. A few months later, the first piece, Uncle, was published online. So I continued daring myself until I became a travel editor for an online magazine, managing staff editors. Then came a three-book deal with a publisher and eventually an art column. Little by little, the confidence built and I came to like myself more.

I then dared myself to do the other things I'd never had the nerve to pursue. Hiding in a room with only a computer, I emailed examples of my art and photography to galleries and museums around the world. I've since had five photography and art exhibitions in Montreal, New York and Taipei. With each little success, I now remind myself the importance of remaining honest. With each little failure, I drown the bad feelings by working a bit harder. It seems to be working. I have now lived my new life for three years and am looking forward to many more. As for trying other new things, I also enrolled in a ballet class. There I learned to leave some things alone. There's enough to do.