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around Bayfront Park。    
I waited。 Sure enough; in late afternoon the park filled with Chinese sailors。 I  
picked a clump of them at random and waded on in; greeting them in phrases I’d been  
able to learn from the book my parents had bought me。 I’d never heard Chinese spoken  
before。 No records; tapes; or cassettes。 I could hit them only with the Chinese a D student  
in Latin could assemble from an elementary self study book in Chinese conversation in  
Greensboro; North Carolina。    
It sounded extraplanetary to the Chinese sailors; but at least they understood enough  
to get the point that here was no Chinese American; here was no child of missionary  
parents who’d served in China。 Here was essentially an American urchin hellbent on  
learning Chinese without any help。    
They decided to provide the help。    
You don’t have to win a war to get a hero’s welcome。 The Chinese naval units  
stationed in Miami seemed suddenly to have two missions – to defeat the Japanese and to  
help me learn Chinese! A great side benefit to learning foreign languages is the love and  
respect you get from the native speakers when you set out to learn their language。 You’re  
far from an annoying foreigner to them。 They spring to you with joy and gratitude。    
The sailors adopted me as their mascot。 We met every afternoon in Bayfront Park  
for my daily immersion in conversational Chinese。 A young teenager surrounded by    
 
native speakers and eager to avenge a knockout by a language like Latin learns quickly。  
There was something eerie about my rapid progress。 I couldn’t believe I was actually  
speaking Chinese with our military allies in the shadow of the American built destroyers  
on which they would return to fight in the Far East。 If only Miss Leslie could see me  
now!    
Naturally my grandparents were disappointed that I didn’t spend much time with  
them; but their bitterness was more than assuaged when I bought gangs of my Chinese  
sailor friends over to Miami Beach and introduced them to my family。 My grandparents  
had the pleasure of introducing me to their friends as “my grandson; the interpreter for  
the Chinese navy。”    
I exchanged addresses and correspondence with my main Chinese mentor; Fan  
Tung…shi; for the next five years。 Sadly; his letters stopped coming when the Chinese  
Communists completed their conquest of the Mainland。 (He and I were joyously reunited  
exactly forty years later when a Taiwan newspaper interviewed me and asked me how I  
learned Chinese。 One of Fan’s friends saw his name in the article。)    
That summer; in Will’s Bookstore on South Green Street back in Greensboro; I  
walked past the foreign language section and spotted a book entitled Hugo’s Italian  
Simplified。 I opened it; and within ten or fifteen seconds the “background music” started  
again。         
Arrividerci; Latin         
Italian; I discovered; was Latin with all the difficulty removed。 Much as a skilled chef  
fillets the whole skeleton out of a fish; some friendly folks somewhere had lifted all that  
grammar (at least; most of it) out of Latin and called the remainder Italian!    
There was no nominative…genitive…dative…accusative in Italian。 Not a trace; except  
in a few pronouns which I knew I could easily take prisoner because we had the same  
thing in English (me is the accusative of I)。 Italian verbs did misbehave a little; but not to  
the psychedelic extent of Latin verbs。 And Italian verbs were a lot easier to look at。    
I bought Hugo’s book and went through it like a hot knife through butter。 I could  
have conversed in Italian within a month if there’d been anybody around who could have  
understood – a learning aid which the Greensboro of that day; alas; could not provide。    
I was clearly a beaten boxer on the comeback trail。 Why was I all of a sudden doing  
so well in Italian after having done so poorly in Latin?    
Was it my almost abnormal motivation? No。 I’d had that in Latin; too。 Was it that  
Italian was a living language you could go someplace some day and actually speak;  
whereas Latin was something you could only hope to go on studying? That’s a little  
closer to the mark; but far from the real answer。    
My blitz through Italian; after my unsuccessful siege of Latin; owed much to the  
fact that in Italian I didn’t miss day four! I’m convinced that it was day four in ninth  
grade Latin that did me in。 No other day’s absence would have derailed me。 When I left  
on day three we were bathing in a warm sea of pleasant words。 If only I’d been there on  
day four when Miss Leslie explained the importance of grammar; I might have felt a bit  
dampened; but I’d have put my head into the book; clapped my hands over my ears; and  
mastered it。    
 
After Italian I surged simultaneously into Spanish and French with self study books。  
Though by no means fluent in either Spanish or French by summer’s end; I had amassed  
an impressive payload of each。 I was ready to stage my come from behind coup。    
Regulations in my high school demanded that a student complete two years of Latin  
with good grades before continuing with another language。 After that; one could choose  
Spanish or French。 I had completed only one year of Latin with poor grades; and I  
wanted to take both Spanish and French!    
I had not yet learned the apt Spanish proverb that tells us “regulations are for your  
enemies。” I learned the concept; however; by living it。    
Miss Mitchell was the sole foreign language authority of the high school。 She  
taught Spanish and French。 She was considered unbendable – in fact; unapproachable –  
in matters of regulation fudging。 I didn’t know that on the first day as classes were  
forming。 I’m glad I didn’t。    
I went to her classroom and asked if I might talk something over with her。 I told her  
I was particularly interested in foreign languages; and even though I’d only had one year  
of Latin and didn’t do well in it at all; I’d really like to move into Spanish and French。 If  
she could only see her way clear to let me; I’d appreciate it forever and try awfully hard。    
She asked if I had a transcript of my grades from Miss Leslie’s Latin class。 No; I  
didn’t; I explained; but I had something more to the point。 I’d bought books in Spanish  
and French over the summer and gotten a good head start。 I hoped a demonstration of my  
zeal would win her favour。    
Like a tough agent softening sufficiently to let a persistent unknown comic do part  
of his routine; Miss Mitchell invited me to do my stuff。    
I conversed; I read; I wrote; I recited; I conjugated; I even sang – first in Spanish;  
then in French。 Miss Mitchell gave no outward sign of emotion; but I knew the magic had  
worked。    
“I’ll have to talk it over with the principal;” she said; “but I don’t think there will be  
a problem。 We’ve never had a case anything like this before。 If I can get approval; which  
language; Spanish or French; would you like to take?”    
In a fit of negotiatory skill I wish would visit me more often; I said; “Please; Miss  
Mitchell; let me take both!”    
She frowned; but then relented。 I got to take both。    
From the ambitious boxer floored early in round one by Latin grammar; I was all of  
a sudden the heavyweight language champ of the whole high school!         
Ingrid Bergman Made Me Learn Norwegian         
I did well in high school Spanish and French。 When you’ve pumped heavy iron; lifting a  
salad fork seems easy。 When you’re thrown into a grammar as complex as Latin’s at the  
age of fourteen; just about any other language seems easy。 I never quit thanking Spanish;  
French; German; Italian; Norwegian; Danish; Swedish; Romanian and Yiddish just for  
not being Latin。 I’ve always been particularly grateful to Chinese and Indonesian for  
having nothing in their entire languages a Latin student would recognise as grammar。    
It was so enjoyable building my knowledge of Spanish; French; Italian and Chinese;  
I never thought of taking on any other languages。 Then I saw an Ingrid Bergman movie  
and came out in a daze。 I’d never imagined a woman could be that attractive。 I went    
 
directly to the adjoining bookstore and told the clerk; “I want a book in whatever  
language it is she speaks。”    
Miss Bergman’s native tongue; the clerk told me; was Swedish; and he bought forth  
a copy of Hugo’s Swedish Simplified。 It cost two dollars and fifty cents。 I only had two  
dollars with me。    
“Do you have anything similar – cheaper?” I asked。    
He did indeed。 He produced a volume entitled Hugo’s Norwegian Simplified for  
only one dollar and fifty cents。    
“Will she understand if I speak to her in this?” I asked; pointing to the less  
expensive Norwegian text。 The clerk assured me that yes; any American speaking  
Norwegian would be understood by any native Swede。    
He was right。 A lifetime later; at age thirty; I wheedled an exclusive radio interview  
with Ingrid Bergman on the strength of my ability in her language。 She was delighted  
when I told her the story。 Or at least she was a nice enough person and a good enough  
actress to pretend。         
Rumours of Russian         
When I arrived at the University of North Carolina; I got my first real opportunity to  
speak the European languages I was learning with native speakers。 Students at the  
university came from many different countries。 The Cosmopolitan Club; a group of  
foreign students and Americans who wanted to meet one another; gathered every Sunday  
afternoon in the activities building。 I felt like a bee flitting from blossom to blossom until  
it is too heavy with pollen to fly or even buzz。    
A rumour rippled across the campus in my senior year that seemed too good to be  
true。 The university; it was whispered; was planning to start a class in Russian。    
Sure enough; the rumour was soon confirmed。 It was a historic event。 Not only was  
the course the first in Russian ever offered by the University of North Carolina (or  
possibly by any university in the South); it also represented the first time the univer

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