My Driving Instructor - a Bed Time Story with Justen

So far, driving is mostly fun - although I'm struggling with the forward/reverse S-shape lanes. 

I like driving, but I'm not that fond of my instructor. He's not a bad guy; he was never meant to be a teacher. That, and the fact that he has one annoying habit.

This is the best approximation to my instructor's face that I could find.

Earring included.

Namely, speaking his own dialect of English. Now, I'm not faulting him for having bad English - Mom teaches English, so I understand how most people have a tough time learning the language. But I do blame him for insisting on using English, when I made it clear that I could understand him perfectly in Chinese. This is kind of hazardous because now I have to decipher what he's saying AND concentrate on driving a car.

I have no idea why he doesn't just use Chinese.

Very confusing.

It was like when McCain announced his running-mate. 

On that particular Thursday, I knew I was going to finally conquer the S-lane.

Then I got stuck the a corner backing out.

 

Like this. But between two curving bits of concrete.

"B-but - how? -" I thought I was following instructions perfectly; I  thought I had timed that turn down to the last millisecond. I had no idea how I screwed up that backwards turn. If I went 1 metre backwards or forwards, the car was going to get scratched. My head is about to explode with pressure.

Before I can ask how I should get the car back on safe ground, my instructor wags his finger at me and starts going off:

"Ohhh! You meka wrong.

You loo 32 poin!

In test, no secca chan (no 2nd chance).

You unnasan (understand)?

You unnasan?

Can't do another affa wrong.

I think you no unnasan me; you unnasan?

You loo 32 poin. You turna too early!

You unnasan? You meka wrong again. This is 32 poin.

No secca chan!!

You unnasan?"

(And no, I'm not mocking the fact that he's Chinese.

That's retarded. I'm half Chinese.)

My mind is going a thousand miles a second (that's a lot) - I'm trying to figure out what went wrong, how I get out of here, and now my brain has to translate something that's half Chinese, half English.

I ask, "I'm sorry, but can we go back to Chinese?"

He heard, "Your barely-understandable brand of English is making my ears bleed."

He opens his mouth.

And a fist comes out to punch me in the face:

"Ms. Wang, you must understand that when you came

to register for classes that the desk workers judged you by

your appearance. They didn't know you could speak Chinese.

You must be sympathetic to the situation, because it is what is it.

It's because of your appearance that they paired you with

the English-speaking instructor on staff."

What, him?

"I used to have a Fillappina student and she couldn't

understand Chinese, so I had to use English. You have to

be more sympathetic, Ms. Wang...."

(Please remember that during all of this, WE ARE STILL STUCK)

I let him cool down, and of course I apologize to him with lots of sympathetic smiling. Finally, he turns, and looking straight forward he said, in Chinese, "3/4 left turn in slow reverse."

And like magic we became unstuck. We didn't speak much during the rest of the lesson. I was too terrified and he was too embarrassed.

That's the end of the story.

A story of coming of age, of exotic dialects, of bruised egos and hilarious tantrums.

A story that will last through the ages, I think.

The galaxy may implode, but my story will last.

I've learned that the most innocent words can sometimes bring the most insult.

But I know deep, deep, DEEP down, my instructor is a lovely man. I'm pretty sure.