During one of my early Mandarin classes, a classmate raised their hand and asked why “the day after tomorrow” is called 后天 and “the day before yesterday” is 前天. The teacher smiled, the kind of smile that tells you something interesting is coming, and said, “Because 后 means behind and 前 means in front. The day after tomorrow is behind you. You can’t see it yet. The day before yesterday is always in front of you because it has already happened. You can see it clearly.”
I remember sitting there with my notebook open but not writing anything. As someone who grew up speaking English, and as a Nigerian who often heard things like “look forward to your future,” this idea felt completely upside down. But at the same time, it made a strange kind of sense. If you think about it, the past is the only thing we truly see. The future is hidden until we step into it.
For the next few weeks, I kept catching myself pausing whenever I said things like “I’m looking forward to something.” My mind was slowly rearranging its map. Instead of seeing time as a road stretching ahead of me, I started imagining myself walking backward, watching everything I had already lived spread out in front of me.
That small moment in class was the first time I realized something important. Learning a new language is not only about vocabulary or grammar. It quietly changes the direction you face.
Language Affects How We Categorize the World
One of the first things Mandarin taught me was that languages do not divide the world in the same way. We usually assume they do because we grow up inside one system and it feels natural. But the moment another language starts showing you its own categories, you realize how much you have been taking for granted.
A clear example is the Mandarin pronouns 我们 (wǒmen) and 咱们 (zánmen). In English, we simply say “we” and move on. In Mandarin, “we” can include the person you are talking to or it can leave them out completely.
And then there is zánmen which always includes the listener.
At first, this felt strange. I remember thinking, why have two words when English manages with one? But as I kept listening to native speakers, I noticed something deeper. Mandarin was quietly training me to pay attention to group belonging. It was asking me to be clear about who I meant each time I said “we.”
One afternoon after class, a friend said, “咱们去吃饭吧.” She meant, “Let’s go and eat.” The moment she said zánmen I felt something warm. It was a simple sentence, nothing dramatic, yet it made me feel included. It was as if the language itself reached out and pulled me into the circle.
A few days later, a different teacher used wǒmen while talking about a staff meeting. I was not part of the staff team and the “we” she used did not include me. Same English translation, but completely different feeling. It made me pause and think about how often English hides these emotional details.
Growing up in Nigeria, both English and Igbo rely a lot on context. We understand group belonging through tone, facial expression, shared history or the situation. The grammar itself does not force you to make that decision every time you speak. Mandarin, on the other hand, insists gently but consistently. It asks, “Who exactly is in this group you are talking about?”
Once I became aware of it, I started paying attention to the word “we” even when speaking English. In meetings, in WhatsApp groups, when teaching or planning with colleagues. Sometimes my “we” was generous. Other times I realized I was unintentionally excluding someone. I had never noticed that before.
Learning Mandarin did not suddenly make me obsessed with group boundaries. It simply made me more conscious of how people form belonging. It helped me see the invisible lines we draw without thinking.
That was when I understood something important. Languages are more than collections of words. They are cultural maps. And the things a language chooses to label or separate are often the things that matter to the people who speak it.