5″x7″ Index Card
Sabrina Chang
Thank you. I pointed wordlessly to the phrase printed across the corner of my paper with a picture of a girl bowing her head displayed right above. At four, I had just moved from Taiwan to America. The six English phrases, plastered across the 5”x7” index card strung around my neck, served as my only source of communication. I mastered the art of pointing at my card and using hand gestures to express my thoughts—thumbs up for “yes,” thumbs down for “no.” I found a way to express my simple needs without ever opening my mouth. To ask to go to the restroom, I would point to the toilet drawing labeled “restroom” on my paper. Over the next three years, I would be excused from class to attend the English as a Second Language (ESL) lessons that isolated me from my peers.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I needed my index card for others to understand me, so I would simply carry it with me everywhere. That was pretty much all I needed to get through the day. Just me and the six phrases.
Growing up, confidence was a challenge for me, and my broken English didn’t help. I learned to stay quiet to avoid mistakes and blank stares. My classmates struggled to understand me, so I kept my mouth shut. Even in the comfort of my own home, I kept to myself.
My parents tried everything to break me out of my shell. My family gatherings were replaced by weekly Toastmasters sessions, giving shy, non-English speakers like myself a place to speak openly. My nights were spent in a dojang, fighting in sparring matches and breaking wooden boards, learning to loudly grunt with every forceful punch and kick. I even took singing lessons to broaden my vocal range and improve my diaphragmatic breathing. “To make your voice louder,” my mom explained. An impossible task for someone who was still trying to find it.
By the end of kindergarten, I was no longer chained to the index card around my neck, and by second grade, no longer confined to the restraints of my hands. As time continued and I slowly became accustomed to American culture, English started to come at ease, and my weekly Sunday Chinese school evolved into painfully dreaded afternoons.
Each year, my Chinese school held an annual speech competition. Every student would prepare a two-minute speech on a topic of their choice. In third grade, I spent hours writing my speech in Pinyin–the spelling of Chinese characters based on pronunciation–with the help of my parents since not only could I not read or write many Chinese characters, but sounding them out became an arduous task. I rehearsed with my family, attempting to perfect the articulation of each character, only to be disappointed by my newly discovered English accent that overshadowed words that once came so easily to me, just three years prior.
“I could barely hear her,” a judge sitting in the front row commented after I performed my speech in front of my class. For two minutes, my classmates watched me stand with my mouth moving but no sounds to be heard as I muttered a few characters under my breath, fearing my English accent would shine through. This moment did not encourage me to practice my Chinese. If anything, it pushed me further away from exploring my family’s language. Soon after, our weekly Sunday meetings became a task I merely attended for the sake of my parents without the intention of truly learning Chinese. With my tennis commitments intensifying, by seventh grade, I had made the decision to cut out Chinese school from my activities. A decision that essentially cut out whatever time I’d devoted to practicing the Chinese language.
The summer after eighth grade was my second time visiting Taiwan since I had left; and as much as I was excited to visit my extended family, roam the night markets, and devour the delicious street foods I had been craving, I was worried about interacting with everyone once again.
Back in my great grandfather’s shack in the mountains of Taiwan, as we sat on wooden chairs around the table, my parents would instruct me, the youngest, to grab the teapot and pour the tea for my elders in our tiny green china cups. With a cup of burning tea in hand, I reminded myself to take small sips. Having grown up in America, I was more familiar with iced tea and large gulps, a combination that resulted in a scorched tongue when I visited Taiwan.
My sister and I would sit silently and watch the adults interact with one another as they recounted their last few years away from each other. I imagined myself excitedly telling my grandparents about school, the friends I met, Halloween, tennis, dances, and life in America, but I was reminded once again of the English accent that I was embarrassed to have developed. At thirteen years old, I became jealous of my four-year-old self’s perfect Chinese.
“How are you doing?” I turned and asked my sister. Occasionally, we would break off into our own conversations in English simply to fill the desire to speak and make use of our presence. She was three years older and was slightly more experienced at speaking Chinese than me, so if anyone asked us a question, I would glance at her and wait for her to form a response that would hopefully make sense to our family. She listened intently to the conversation exchanged between my relatives as I watched. I noticed my great-grandfather, who was 96 years old at the time, also silently watching the conversation. In Taiwan, older generations preferred to speak in Taiwanese rather than Chinese (mandarin), so the conversations often consisted of a combination of both languages out of respect. Having rarely encountered Taiwanese, I could only make out a few words. I have always known My great-grandfather to speak only Taiwanese, making it even harder for me to communicate with him. But as I sat there watching him, he appeared lost with his tearful eyes focusing in the direction of a portrait of my great-grandmother, which leaned against the wall. All I wanted to do was ask if he was okay. I wanted to hear his stories and talk about what my great-grandmother was like when she was alive. I wanted to hear about the fruits and vegetables he grew on his farm. I wanted to just talk to him. At a time when I so desperately wanted to speak, I couldn’t.
“你長得這麼高” (nǐ zhǎng dé zhème gāo) my aunt exclaimed as she entered the sliding doors. Every time I came back, I was always bombarded with “you’ve grown so much” comments from my family. This time, I was 5’4”, a good six inches taller than my height the last time they saw me. I followed with a nod, a smile, and an awkward laugh, my classic response to any comment I received. I found it funny when relatives would come in claiming they “held me when I was a baby” and express their astonishment at how much I have grown. A comment that I would also awkwardly nod and smile to each time as if I remembered who they were. And at times, I wish I did. I wish I were able to get to know them growing up and know them for who they are rather than as a friendly stranger I would revisit every few years.
As more and more people entered the room, I felt more and more out of place. Like a foreign sculpture on display, I sat there silently nodding as everyone observed and talked about me. Having not seen anyone in seven years, many looked different since the last time I saw them, and there were many I did not even recognize. In a room supposedly filled with family, I was confused by my inability to identify almost half of the people around me. This inexplicable feeling of being alone in a house I once called home, with people who once looked after me, was foreign to me until that moment. At times like these, I realize how much time spent with my family in Taiwan I miss out on. With most of my family living across the country, I have only spent a fraction of my life with them. And when I am physically present, it is nearly impossible to hold extensive conversations without awkward stutters.
Even though I struggled to talk with my relatives, I always looked forward to our Taiwan excursions and cherished the moments we had there. 7,795 miles away, my home in Taiwan always seemed like another part of my life that is only revisited every few summers. The division between my Taiwanese and American cultures remained pronounced, and always will. In America, I was Asian. In Taiwan, I was American. Wherever I was, the cultures that seemed to ostracize me stood out. And while my neck is now devoid of the 5”x7” index card that weighed me down for so many years, I sometimes still feel constrained to the six phrases I once pointed to. This time, however, I wish I had an index card filled with Chinese characters that I could easily resort to in times of need. And one day, I hope to officially remove the string around my neck and comfortably voice my thoughts in both languages.
Sabrina Chang is a computer science major, who expects to graduate in 2026. She is from Plainsboro, New Jersey, and enjoys writing but, until recently found herself writing scientific and academic papers for her classes. Through taking a creative writing course, she was able to explore the depths of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry, which tested her imagination and allowed her to use writing to express herself in ways she had not previously explored.
Sabrina wrote “5”x7” Index Card” for an Introduction to Creative Writing class taught by Lindsay Haber. Professor Haber selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.