First Sounds

#2026-0402

First Sounds

(A story from Dreamlike Reality)

In those early school days, I first learned how to make sounds.

Not just any sounds, but the careful, deliberate sounds of bo, po, mo, fo—the beginning of language as it was given to us. At the time, I did not know that these small symbols would stay with me for the rest of my life. To us, they were only something to repeat, something to finish as quickly as possible.

When I entered Changliu Elementary School in September 1961, I was placed in Jia Ban—Class A. There were three classes in each grade: Jia, Yi, and Bing. I remained in Jia Ban throughout my six years there, though at the time, it was simply where I belonged, without question.

In the first few weeks, we had a teacher whose name I can no longer recall. He introduced us to the basic system of pronunciation—the thirty-seven symbols that formed the foundation of spoken Mandarin. We repeated them again and again, until we believed we had learned them well.

Then, several weeks later, a new teacher came.

His name was Mr. Yanshu Jian.

One day, after listening to us for a while, he asked the whole class to read the symbols together, from beginning to end. We did so smoothly, almost proudly, our voices rising and falling in what we thought was a perfect rhythm.

When we finished, he did not smile.

Instead, he shook his head.

Our pronunciation, he said, was mostly wrong.

The room became quiet.

We had not expected that. In our minds, we had already learned something important. But Mr. Jian asked us to slow down—to pronounce each sound carefully, clearly, one by one. He demonstrated, listened, corrected, and then asked us to try again.

There was no impatience in his voice, but there was firmness.

From that day on, the sounds were no longer something to rush through. They became something to attend to, something that required care.

Looking back now, I know how much that mattered. Without his patience, I might have carried those early mistakes much farther than I should have.

To us, he was a handsome and gentle teacher. But he was also strict when it was necessary.

I learned that one day in a way I did not forget.

A classmate of mine, Jinbao, took a toy I had made and broke it. It was a simple thing—a long, thin plastic tube that had once held juice, now filled with tiny grains of dry sand. To me, it was something I had made with care.

I told him it was mine. He did not listen.

Anger rose quickly in me. Before I could think, I kicked him hard. He cried out in pain.

When Mr. Jian heard what had happened, he called both of us forward. He struck my palms with a short plastic ruler. The pain was sharp, and I felt a sense of injustice rise within me. Jinbao had started it—why should I be punished as well?

But Mr. Jian spoke calmly. He told me that I should not answer harm with harm. He spoke to Jinbao differently, teaching him another lesson.

At that time, I did not fully accept what he said. I only remembered how it felt.

Yet that moment stayed with me, just as the sounds had stayed with me—something not fully understood, but not forgotten.

There was another memory from that year, quieter, but perhaps more lasting.

Our school was in a remote mountain village, and most families were poor. One day, Mr. Jian suggested that we take a group photograph. Those who wished to be included would need to pay for their own copies.

Only a few students agreed.

I was one of them.

I do not remember how I made that decision. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps something else. I only remember standing there, among seven students and our teacher, facing the camera.

It was the first photograph I had ever taken in my life.

Years later, when our family moved, that photograph was lost.

But the moment of standing there has never entirely disappeared.

By the time I entered Grade Two, our teacher changed.

Mr. Xincheng Cheng came from Guangxi, a place that, to me, was distant and almost unimaginable. At home, most of us spoke Taiwanese or Hakka, and we had only just begun learning Mandarin in school. Mr. Cheng spoke Mandarin with a different accent—one that sounded unfamiliar to us, though we could still understand him. He taught as other teachers did, yet there was something in his voice that made him seem slightly apart, as if he had come from a place not only far away, but somehow beyond our small world.

Life in the classroom continued in its usual rhythm. We studied Mandarin, mathematics, and a subject called Common Sense, which included both nature and society. But something in me had begun to change.

I found that I liked certain things more than others. I enjoyed singing. I enjoyed drawing. Even when these were not required, I practiced them quietly, as if they belonged to me in a different way.

Outside the classroom, we played freely. The school had no fence, and the fields beyond were open to us. We ran, chased one another, and imagined battles, calling out who had been “killed,” only to begin again moments later.

The world seemed wide then, even within the small space of the school.

One day, Mr. Cheng asked if anyone had a puppy that could be given to him. A few days later, Jinbao brought a small dog to school.

For a time, nothing seemed unusual.

Then, months later, some classmates found what they believed to be the remains of a dog in a nearby field. There were whispers, guesses, and rumors. Some said it was the same dog. Some said our teacher had eaten it.

At that age, we did not know what to believe. The story passed quietly from one to another, changing slightly each time. For a while, we avoided that part of the field.

Looking back now, I think it was not the truth of the story that mattered, but the feeling it left behind—a sense that the world was larger, and not always easy to understand.

Amid all this learning, there was also a quieter awareness—one that came without words.

In my class, there was a girl named Yuqin Wu.

Her father owned a Chinese medicine shop. She dressed neatly, often in a blouse and skirt, and carried herself with a quiet confidence. When I glanced at her, I felt something I could not explain.

It was not friendship, and not something I could name.

I only knew that she seemed different—something I could feel, but not yet speak.

Then, when we moved on to Grade Three, she was no longer there. I was told that she had transferred to another school in Puli.

She did not return.

Many years later, she came to visit my home with some former classmates. By then, she had grown into a woman, and her name had changed to something I could no longer remember clearly. Yet in my mind, I still preferred the name I had first known.

Some things change. Some things remain.

The sounds of bo, po, mo, fo had long since become part of my speech.

The photograph had been lost.

The stories about teachers had faded into uncertainty.

But certain impressions remained—clear, quiet, and unchanging.

Even now, when I think back to those early school days, I sometimes feel that I am still sitting in that classroom, listening carefully, learning how to speak—not only with my voice, but slowly, without knowing it, learning how to understand the world around me.

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