The bus rumbled and moved forward, stopped and started again. Green lights turned red and red again turned green. Cars honked and people talked. People walked past me, people stood in front of me. I bet all that happened, but I am not so sure. I was too busy in a faraway place—somewhere in Scotland, to be exact—learning the spells and magic of the wizard world and happily stalking the lives of a Harry Potter, a Hermione Granger, and a Ron Weasley, the campus celebrities.
Then I was interrupted—unceremoniously whisked away; out of my book and back into the dirty, Muggle bus. It was dark outside. I turned to my left, willing to Avada Kedavra the creature that got me kicked out from Hogwarts and back into the simple Muggle world. I saw an elderly woman, gray hair tied up in a messy bun, strands of white elegantly adorning a nest of grey. She seemed tired, wearing a red jacket and a brown scarf; I saw no wand, no indication of any extraordinary power—definitely a Muggle. She said something in a language I could not comprehend. I whispered back, “Pardon?” She spoke again, this time differently. This time I could hear her. I understood. “You can read that English book?” she asked in Mandarin.
I was surprised. I replied to her in the same language with a simple, “Yes”. She said I was so smart and hardworking to be reading on a bus. I did not think I deserved this compliment. My thoughts spilled out as I explained to her how I was rereading Harry Potter for the sixth time to avoid reading a required Shakespeare reading and how I probably deserve an award for being a slacker extraordinaire. She listened to me with my broken Chinese, and replied with a single phrase: “But you can read.” I did not know how to respond. As the bus turned, she began to speak. She talked about immigrating a few months ago with her husband. With a little over a thousand dollars in cash and limited English ability, she arrived with high hopes and expectations. She settled in NYC’s Chinatown. After a few weeks in the America she dreamed about, her hopes came spiraling down like a first year in flying class.
As we talked, I learned about her ambitions, her hopes, her losses and sacrifices. Through her, I learned not only perseverance, but also intimacies about Chinatown, the Chinatown culture, and the lives of Chinese immigrants than I knew before. She helped me realized how lucky I was to be reading my own copy of Harry Potter for the sixth time, and how lucky I was to have supportive family and friends willing to help me accomplish my goals. My bus friend told me she was proud of me, proud of a young Chinese girl with such a strong interest in science; she told me to cure cancer, to find a cure for her leg pain, to save lives and to even become the first female President. She encouraged me to work hard; I could do just as well and even better than any boy could. My new friend told me to do what I love, and to bring what I love to world. Her words inspired me. For the rest of the bus ride, I tried to teach her English as fast as I could—how to read certain words and how certain letters sound. I started straight from the beginning—Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Chapter One.
Then I was interrupted—unceremoniously whisked away; out of my book and back into the dirty, Muggle bus. It was dark outside. I turned to my left, willing to Avada Kedavra the creature that got me kicked out from Hogwarts and back into the simple Muggle world. I saw an elderly woman, gray hair tied up in a messy bun, strands of white elegantly adorning a nest of grey. She seemed tired, wearing a red jacket and a brown scarf; I saw no wand, no indication of any extraordinary power—definitely a Muggle. She said something in a language I could not comprehend. I whispered back, “Pardon?” She spoke again, this time differently. This time I could hear her. I understood. “You can read that English book?” she asked in Mandarin.
I was surprised. I replied to her in the same language with a simple, “Yes”. She said I was so smart and hardworking to be reading on a bus. I did not think I deserved this compliment. My thoughts spilled out as I explained to her how I was rereading Harry Potter for the sixth time to avoid reading a required Shakespeare reading and how I probably deserve an award for being a slacker extraordinaire. She listened to me with my broken Chinese, and replied with a single phrase: “But you can read.” I did not know how to respond. As the bus turned, she began to speak. She talked about immigrating a few months ago with her husband. With a little over a thousand dollars in cash and limited English ability, she arrived with high hopes and expectations. She settled in NYC’s Chinatown. After a few weeks in the America she dreamed about, her hopes came spiraling down like a first year in flying class.
As we talked, I learned about her ambitions, her hopes, her losses and sacrifices. Through her, I learned not only perseverance, but also intimacies about Chinatown, the Chinatown culture, and the lives of Chinese immigrants than I knew before. She helped me realized how lucky I was to be reading my own copy of Harry Potter for the sixth time, and how lucky I was to have supportive family and friends willing to help me accomplish my goals. My bus friend told me she was proud of me, proud of a young Chinese girl with such a strong interest in science; she told me to cure cancer, to find a cure for her leg pain, to save lives and to even become the first female President. She encouraged me to work hard; I could do just as well and even better than any boy could. My new friend told me to do what I love, and to bring what I love to world. Her words inspired me. For the rest of the bus ride, I tried to teach her English as fast as I could—how to read certain words and how certain letters sound. I started straight from the beginning—Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, Chapter One.
