谈 • 恋爱 Speaking of Love By Jasmine Z Chin @jasminezchin Jasmine Z Chin is a storyteller, musician and mother who engages with themes of maternal and mental health, creativity, cultural identity, and childhood. Born and raised in Singapore, this child of the Hakka Chinese diaspora has been fiercely loved and kept humble by communities across Beijing, Oxford, London, Boston, and Seoul. She currently settles in Honolulu, in the occupied Kingdom of Hawai’i.
“昭敏，在大学有谈恋爱吗?” I am struck by the warmth in my Chinese language teacher’s question during one of my few visits to my high school. She calls me by my Mandarin name, Zhao Min. The vowel sounds beautifully round and the tone effortlessly crisp. She asks if I am seeing someone, if I am dating someone, if I am in love with someone while at university in England. I am free to interpret her question as I please. 谈 speak； 恋爱 love. Who knew three characters could come to life in so many ways and yet all lead to the same dead end. “没有,” I shake my head. I have neither the language nor the heart to tell her that I feel undesirable. No one wants to speak of love with me.
46 | Overachiever Magazine
A tender smile spreads across her face, while she utters a sentence I will remember for life, “在大学 谈恋爱可以是个很美好的经 验。” Being in love at university can be such a beautiful experience. The romantic in me clings on to this interpretation, wanting to believe I am worthy of this beauty, this phenomenon she speaks of. Outside her window, snow begins to thaw in the light of the late morning sun. *** At university, my tongue betrays me too much. I stand in line at a sandwich shop, practising the various ways one could pronounce “Cajun.” By the
time it is my turn, my courage evaporates. “Pesto chicken panini, please,” I order what I know. I am asked by the girl next door if I need more time in my exams “because English is not your first language.” I wonder what she hears when I speak. I tell her it is my first language, and we walk to our rehearsal in smothering silence. I am penalised because I have failed the rhyming round of a drinking game. Again. My jaw suddenly feels tight and heavy. I refuse to speak and take burning sips instead. I learn that my vowel sounds are thin and harsh on the ears, incompatible with the French, German, and Italian songs we are singing. My throat seizes with horror when my singing teacher demonstrates my sounds, her voice tense
