I have five remaining sessions in my Mandarin class. That means I have had 22 hours of the lessons, and ten more hours to go. A part of me likes to think I am making amazing progress, another part of me knows I am not even halfway near the finish line--if there is even one. I try and not think of that "finish line" because that can be too daunting a goal. While my teacher and I meet twice a week, two hours per session, I take it upon myself to have the discipline to study by myself at least two hours in a week, more if work is not toxic. I actually enjoy the auto-didactic sessions and sometimes lose myself in the exercise more than I thought possible.
During our first few sessions whenever I would mispronounce a word while reading the Chinese text aloud, I would hit my palm to my forehead and let out a frustrated growl, followed by profuse apologies, more to myself than to my laoshi. I have since tried to control the intensity of my reactions out of consideration to my laoshi. He seemed shocked at these outbursts. I do not blame him.
Learning Chinese is probably one of the most difficult things I have subjected myself to. That, and writing a novel--still in progress, sometimes I fear will forever be in progress. In an age when most everything is designed to be easy, instant, and just a click away, learning a language--and in fact, writing a novel too--is my constant reminder that for some things, you will have to devote time and a lot of hard work. No shortcuts: not all the money in the world is going to make you better at it without that hybrid seed of desire and determination first taking root. And just as with anything that has real value, it will be worth the heartbreak and frustration. It is precisely because it is never easy that makes it all worthwhile.
(And yes, I think we have long established my masochism in previous entries.)
