This post was written on February 22, 2026 and backdated.
When I signed up for online private lessons to learn Chinese calligraphy, I knew this was just a temporary way to test the waters. If I wanted to commit fully to this practice, I needed a true community, and a sense of belonging (more on that below).
So I searched around a signed up for classes at Eastern Bookstore in Chinatown Manhattan. I must’ve gotten lucky, because it was love at first sight. The teacher, Mr. Lu (呂老師), was funny, humble, chill, but still instilled structure and excellence. He reminded me of my own grandpa, who was my favourite person in my family before he passed in 2019.
Most importantly, HE SPOKE CANTONESE! The online teacher spoke only Mandarin, which I didn’t speak, so we would communicate in English. I couldn’t put words to it at the time, but talking about Chinese calligraphy using English and Mandarin terms felt horrible——like I was a stranger in my own culture. I KNEW the Chinese names of strokes and words and brushes and hand positions, but only in Cantonese. Saying them in Mandarin felt foreign, awkward, and confusing. Every class triggered an identity crisis. I definitely did NOT feel a sense of belonging. This is the power of language.
Mr. Lu actually only spoke Cantonese and Mandarin, not English. I liked this, as it further enforced the connection between Chinese calligraphy and the Chinese languages. He was 83 years old with the energy of a 30-year-old. He was very talkative and would randomly drop knowledge about Chinese idioms, calligraphy masters of the past, really anything and everything.
The classes were drop-in and usually had about 5-10 students, who were all of diverse ages, ethnic backgrounds, and levels. I felt an instant sense of community and belonging, so deep that I felt like I was back home where I grew up in Canada. Language played an enormous part of it, as well as seeing, recognizing, and re-learning a lot of cultural things I grew up with, at the bookstore and around Chinatown in general.
