14. "I have a dream..."

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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The classroom buzzed softly with the murmur of students settling into their seats, their voices blending with the whirr of the ceiling fan. It was a familiar sound now, the sound of mornings spent in this small corner of Guangzhou where I, a young and still uncertain teacher, was learning to make sense of my role in this vast, foreign land. The walls were bare, the desks neatly aligned, and the flickering fluorescent light above cast everything in a dull, sterile glow. But it was the students - always the students—that brought the space to life.

Today, I was teaching a new group: a class of aspiring aircraft engineers. Though they had never interacted with a foreigner before, their proficiency in English was well beyond basic. I still, however, found myself feeling like an unfamiliar presence in the room, unsure of what they might expect from me, how they would respond to a teacher who was still a stranger to this country. As they filed into the room, I scanned their faces, wondering who would be the first to catch my attention, who would emerge as the quiet one, the joker, the eager student.

And then, sitting right at the front, was Martin.

Martin

His face was bright and open, framed by a pair of square, wire-framed glasses that sat a little too big for his face, giving him an endearing, slightly nervous look. He looked at me with a mix of awe and expectation, his smile almost too wide for his face, as if every word I was about to say was the key to unlocking something immense. He was tall and lean, his posture straight. Only a year younger than me, but I had already learned that age mattered little in this new world - his life, like that of most of my students, had been sheltered in ways I hadn’t yet understood, compared to the experiences many Westerners of his age had. I could sense that, though he looked at me with admiration, there was also a quiet uncertainty beneath his eyes.

I caught his gaze for a moment, and he held it, waiting, eager.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice almost drowned by the noise of the others settling down.

"Martin," he replied, the name rolling off his tongue with a certain pride. "I am named after the President of the United States."

I paused. My mind scrambled. Presidents of the United States… I wasn’t much of an American history buff, and the name didn’t immediately connect with any I knew. "Oh?" I said, trying to hide my confusion.

Martin’s eyes glowed, as if he had just shared a great secret. "I named myself after Martin Luther King."

The words hung in the air between us for a moment. I blinked, stunned. It was not a misstep or a misunderstanding - I could see it clearly in his face. He was earnest, his smile unwavering, his eyes full of pride.

I was caught between two worlds. The first, of an Englishman, unsure how to process such sincerity. The second, of a teacher, wondering whether to correct the small, unintended mistake or let it pass, to preserve the warmth of the moment. I hesitated. How could I tell him, in that moment of such honest enthusiasm, that Martin Luther King had never been a president?

But I said nothing. The moment was too fragile, too innocent, for correction.

"And why did you choose that name?" I asked, my voice quieter now, my curiosity piqued by the depth of his conviction.

Martin's face softened even further, and he leaned forward, speaking in careful English. "Because I have a dream," he said. "To one day speak English so fluently that I sound like a foreigner. I am so happy to meet you and be in your class."

It struck me then - the purity of his words, the simplicity of his dream, and the sheer beauty of his hope. There was no arrogance, no desire to impress, no self-consciousness. Only the quiet determination of someone who, at that very moment, believed that anything was possible. And in a strange, unexpected way, it filled me with a sense of awe, not for him, but for the power of language and learning, for the way it connected us, both so far from home in a place neither of us had expected.

I smiled at Martin, feeling a sudden warmth towards him that was more than just teacherly affection. He was different from the other students. His enthusiasm was infectious, his sincerity a reminder that there was far more to teaching than the simple transfer of knowledge. In that moment, he reminded me of the reason I had come to China in the first place - to make connections, to bridge gaps, to share in the quiet dreams of those who, like me, were far from home, trying to find their place in a world that felt vast and unfamiliar.

As I began the lesson, Martin listened intently, hanging on every word, jotting down notes as if each sentence carried a weight greater than the next. I couldn’t help but glance at him from time to time, watching the way he absorbed everything, the way his eyes brightened with each new phrase I taught.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. Martin’s words stayed with me, though, echoing in my mind as I went through the motions of teaching, writing on the board, giving explanations, answering questions. I found myself glancing back at him from time to time, watching as he took in everything I said, his eagerness palpable. There was no doubt that his presence in the classroom made an impression, but it was his dream, and the sincerity with which he spoke of it, that I would carry with me.

And so, as the lesson came to an end and I prepared to leave, I couldn’t help but think that this young man, with his bright eyes and his unshakable belief in his own potential, would remain in my thoughts long after the class was over. His enthusiasm had been infectious, a reminder of what it meant to start anew, to be open to the world, and to never stop dreaming. I had no way of knowing what lay ahead for Martin - what he would accomplish or where his dreams would take him - but I knew one thing for sure: I would be looking forward to teaching him again, and to learning from him, too.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink - it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.