Backpack. Notebook. Button inviting people to “Talk to me in Chinese.” Check. My flat top and chocolate skin definitely show that I am a foreigner. At the Nanjing University field, I can’t tell if I’m sweating from anxiety or the humidity. It was Day One of practicing Chinese with natives. Whenever I walked up to someone, I was pulled back by an invisible bungee cord. I was finally taken to a lady sitting on the bleachers. Even though I was only using basic phrases, each word was burdened by the possibility of messing up. As I returned to the University building, I could only think “that was embarrassing.”

A few days later, my friends and I searched for a place to eat. Passing through the small doors of a noodle shop, my friends ordered lunch in Chinese. When it got to me, my heart raced. What if I mess up and get the wrong thing? What I thought was “beef soup” escaped from my lips as “pork soup”. When a bowl of noodle and pork soup was placed in front of me, I realized my mistake. It wasn't what I ordered, but I ate anyway.

As the month continued, I became comfortable with my conversational skills. If I wanted a before-school snack, I had to buy it in Chinese. Restroom? I had to ask in Chinese. Soon I was conversing with my host family in half-Chinese. I began to talk to the cashier as I bought my daily breakfast bread in almost fluent Chinese . I learned the phrases "Don't touch my hair" and "Don't stare at me" to politely use whenever possible. As I waited for the metro one day, an older lady carrying a bag of vegetables sat next to me. "Hi", she said in heavily accented English. Reading the button on my shirt, she broke out into a long story in rapid Chinese. "Ting bu dong! Ting bu dong! Wo zhi shuo yi diandian zhongwen," I said frantically. She replied with "Sorry" and began to ask me simple questions. "Ni cong na lai? Ni jinnian ji sui? Ni weishenme zai nanjing?" This time, I confidently responded to her questions.