“A C-plus_! Are you kidding me_”I stared at the marked sheet of paper in front of me, struggling to digest the letter grade that was about to taint my long-standing track record of As and cause my 7th Grade progress

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“A C-plus?! Are you kidding me?”

I stared at the marked sheet of paper in front of me,
struggling to digest the letter grade that was about to
taint my long-standing track record of As and cause my
7th Grade progress chart to take a nosedive. Literature
hasn’t always been my strong suit, but I could’ve sworn
on my own life that I was going to ace that test. I made
sure I pored over the passage repeatedly, forcing my
brain to comprehend and absorb each and every word as
though they were the Ten Commandments themselves. I made
sure I answered the literary analysis prompt as
thoroughly as possible, strategically extracting evidence
from the text to delicately craft a concrete pillar for
my well-structured thesis to lean on. I even made sure to
triple-check every detail perfectly; not a single
component of my literary jigsaw puzzle was to be fixed
out of place. The moment I placed my response on the
chipped, weathered oak desk stationed at the corner of
the classroom, I genuinely (and naively) thought I had
written the best essay of my entire academic life. 

Apparently my teacher didn’t share the same sentiment.
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“Relax, it’s only the first test of the year,” said my
friend Brandon, who was sitting to my left, “Why are you
so hung up about this one?” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, this class alone can ruin
my overall academic record, which gives me every reason
to get hung up over a bad grade like the one right in
front of me,” I retorted, becoming slightly annoyed with
his carefree demeanor. “I just don’t get it. I thought I
crushed that test! What part of the prompt did I not
answer?” I grumbled, the gears in my mind already
beginning to turn, forming potential theories about the
reasons behind my unanticipated failure.

“I know you’re new here, but you seem pretty competent
to me,” he replied, switching out his nonchalant
attitude for a more serious one. “I don’t think reading
and writing has always been a challenge for you, right?”

Despite being mildly offended by his question at that
time, Brandon did have a point. Reading and writing in
English had been a walk in the park for me right up till
that period of my grade school experience, when it
turned into a strenuous hike up a seemingly unending
mountain.

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For context, let’s trace things back to where they all
began, starting with a little snippet about my heritage:
I was born in Malaysia, a minuscule Southeast Asian
country sandwiched between Singapore and Thailand, but am
descended from a long line of Chinese ancestry (my
maternal grandfather came into the country as an
immigrant from China for economic reasons). All in all,
that makes me ethnically Chinese but Malaysian
nationality-wise, which in turn means having to learn two
distinct native and national languages; with Mandarin
being the former and Malay the latter. However, my
parents quickly realized the widespread impact of the
English language on both our local society post-
colonization and on an international scale, along with
its significance of being a communication bridge that
connected a wide range of cultures, providing them with a
common linguistic ground. As a result, they put
everything else aside and decided that bringing me up in
an environment that emphasized the use of English was a
top priority.
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