Translation of Desire

"I need you to teach me how to find my mother."

Mina Chen looked up from her laptop at the man standing in the doorway of the Taiwanese Community Center's language classroom. He was tall—at least six-two—with dark brown skin, close-cropped hair, and eyes that held both determination and vulnerability. Mixed race, she noted. Black and Asian, if she had to guess.

"I teach Mandarin," Mina said carefully, setting down her coffee. "Not private investigation."

"I know. But I need to learn Mandarin to find her. She's in Taipei. At least, that's what the adoption agency thinks." He stepped into the room, and Mina noticed the way he moved—athletic, confident, but with a carefulness that suggested he was used to taking up less space than his body required. "I'm Marcus Webb. I signed up for your intermediate conversation class, but I was hoping we could do private lessons instead. I'll pay double your rate."

Mina studied him. She'd been teaching Mandarin in Los Angeles for three years, supplementing her grad school income with tutoring gigs and community center classes. Most of her students were ABC kids whose parents wanted them to "remember their culture," or white people who thought speaking Chinese would give them an edge in business.

This was different.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing to the desk across from hers. "Tell me what you know already."

Marcus sat, pulling out a battered notebook covered in sticky notes. "I learned the basics from an app. I can do pinyin, I know maybe two hundred characters. I can order food and ask directions, but I sound like a robot. And I need to sound like a real person when I talk to my birth mother. If I find her."

"When did you find out you were adopted?"

"I always knew. My parents—my adoptive parents—were open about it. Dad's Black, Mom's white. They adopted me from Korea when I was six months old." He met her eyes. "But a year ago, I found out my birth mother wasn't Korean. She was Taiwanese. The adoption was complicated—she was in Seoul when she gave me up, but she'd moved back to Taiwan by the time I started looking."

Mina's heart squeezed. She'd heard stories like this before—adoptees searching for their roots, trying to piece together identities fractured by circumstance and bureaucracy. But something about Marcus's earnestness got to her.

"Okay," she said. "I'll teach you. But you need to understand—learning Mandarin takes time. If you're serious about finding your mother, we're looking at months of intensive study. Maybe a year."

"I've got time. And I'm serious." He pulled out his phone. "What's your rate?"

"For private lessons, sixty dollars an hour. Three times a week minimum if ...