with　thick；　black　Chinese　characters　all　over　the　cover。　I　buried　all　thoughts　of　Latin　in
  sour　grapes　and　sat　there　and　studied　Chinese　instead！
  Chinese　Sailors　Don’t　Speak　Latin
  Forsaking　Latin　for　Chinese　was　my　own　form　of　juvenile　defiance。　However；　I　have
  since　used　Chinese　in　some　way　almost　every　day。　I　confess　to　occasional　curiosity　as　to
  what　all　those　A　students　from　Miss　Leslie’s　Latin　class　are　doing　these　days　with　their
  Latin。
  During　summer　vacation　we　went　to　Miami　Beach　to　visit　my　grandparents。　On　one
  trip；　as　Uncle　Bill　drove　us　from　the　train　station　in　Miami　to　Miami　Beach；　we　passed　a
  large　group　of　marching　sailors。　As　we　drew　abreast　of　the　last　row　I　noticed　that　the
  sailor　on　the　end　was　Chinese。　Then　I　noticed　that　the　sailor　beside　him　was　also　Chinese。
  I　blinked。　The　whole　last　row　was　Chinese。　And　the　next　whole　row　was　Chinese　too。
  The　entire　contingent　of　marching　sailors　was　Chinese！
  I　felt　like　a　multimillion　dollar　lottery　winner　slowly　realising　he’d　gotten　all　the
  right　numbers。　I　had　no　idea　there　were　Chinese　sailors　in　Miami；　but　why　not？　It　was
  during　World　War　II；　China　was　our　ally；　and　Miami　was　a　port。　There　they　were；
  hundreds　of　native　speakers　of　the　language　I　was　trying　to　learn。
  I　couldn’t　wait　to　fling　myself　into　their　midst　sputtering　my　few　phrases　of　Chinese
  at　machine　gun　velocity。　I　didn’t　know　what　adventures　were　awaiting　my　Latin
  classmates　that　summer；　but　I　was　confident　none　of　them　were　about　to　approach　an
  entire　contingent　of　sailors　who　spoke　Latin！
  When　we　got　to　my　grandparents’　hotel；　I　gave　them　the　quickest　possible　hug　and
  kiss；　ran　out；　took　the　jitney　back　over　the　causeway　to　Miami；　and　started　asking
  strangers　if　they　knew　where　the　Chinese　sailors　were。
  Everybody　knew　the　Chinese　sailors　were　billeted　in　the　old　Hotel　Alcazar　on
  Biscayne　Boulevard。　After　their　training；　I　was　told；　they　gathered　in　groups　and　strolled
  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