Do you speak Chinese?

By Rosalyn Cua  -  Richmond, British Columbia

1999

You see all those Chinese kids speaking English, even to their parents? Oh so sad, they never learned their own language. You’re lucky you know your language. Speak Chinese and instantly you gain the respect of your people. Speak English and you’re no longer a part of us. Never betray your own culture!

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2000

At my first job working in a retail store, old Chinese ladies warm up to me so quickly. They shuffle to me, the only visible Asian staff, smiling, asking, “Do you speak [insert Chinese dialect]?” in their native tongue. And I tell them, politely, respectfully, no, “I only speak English” in my second language. “No Chinese?” their faces fall. And then they turn cold, eyes puzzled. I know what they are thinking. “How can you be Chinese and not speak the language?”

So I ask my mother to teach me how to say “No, I don’t speak [insert Chinese dialect].” I learn how to say it in Mandarin and Cantonese. And when I say it, people look at me befuddled, and I know what they are thinking: but you just spoke it!

The old Chinese ladies come up to me and I fervently hope that one of them speaks Hokkien, my mother tongue. Then I can converse with them freely and fluently, just like a good Chinese girl who knows her language and who is studying for a Bachelor of Commerce instead of a “flimsy” Bachelor of Arts. See, I do know Chinese! I can prove it to you. I’m not betraying my culture.

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1995

I am new to Vancouver, and English is everywhere. Grade 8, ESL level 4 is what the Canadian ladies from the School District #38 prescribes after a test of my linguistic abilities. I cannot believe I have to go through ESL. My sister doesn’t have to—she already has perfect English. I want to have perfect English too.

“My teacher says to speak English every chance I have,” I declare to my mother. So I start speaking English when I get home, at the dinner table, when I wash the dishes. To my sister. To my mother.

What is that rolling off your tongue? Speak English all you want at school, but in this house, you speak Chinese. You hear?

___

I have an accent. A curious Filipino-Chinese accent. I work hard to get rid of that accent. An accent means imperfection. Years later, someone would remark that I speak with a hint of British. How did that happen? Nonetheless, I would swell with pride. It means that my English is good; it’s white English.

My mother also has an accent. Hers is more pronounced, more stubborn. From time to time she speaks “Chinglish” and mispronounces certain English words. Without even thinking, I correct her. She looks half embarrassed, half hurt. “Yeah, yeah, aren’t you better,” she says, mocking humility.

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1996

I go to a high school that is 60% Chinese, where Whites are a minority. In between classes in the halls, Cantonese and Mandarin shoot out, invading my ears. The whites hate the din of Chinese nonsense in the air. They find it invasive too. Too much chatter! These loud Chinese girls, they talk too much. The Math teacher gets frustrated, pounds on the table and barks at the girls to stop talking in Chinese. The white students roll their eyes. I’m embarrassed, even though I speak not a word of Mandarin or Cantonese. I feel guilty, because I hate the nonsense chatter too. But I try to pick up on what their saying, to redeem my culture in the secret sounds and syllables as foreign to me as my distant relatives in Hong Kong, in the Philippines, in New Zealand. For the most part, though, they talk too fast. To those who understand nothing, it’s all just noise.

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1998

God, don’t you just hate Mandarin school? I’d rather spend my Saturday mornings watching cartoons.

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2004

This happens to me twice in one week: Two senior Chinese ladies coming up to me, asking me questions in Cantonese. Surprisingly, I understand them. At London Drugs, this lady comes up to me holding two Alberto hairsprays, asking me the difference between the two. One reads “normal hold” and another “extra hold”. Well, I know what the difference is, but how to explain when you don’t speak the language?

I get off the bus at UBC, and this older lady asks me where place X is. I don’t really know what place she is referring to, but I know she is asking for directions to a specific place. Thank goodness this other girl is walking in close proximity, and when I shrug and shake my head apologetically, the girl steps in and starts talking to the lady in Cantonese. I also use the “shrug, shake and smile” strategy with the London Drugs lady, but she is insistent, and asks her question again.

“I don't speak Cantonese,” I say with kind eyes and an embarrassed smile. It is so awkward, I can’t stand it.

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2000

What happened to your Mandarin? What happened to the 12 years of Chinese-language instruction? Gone with the wind?

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2003

I am starting to see the Chinese language a bit differently. Once loathed for being too detailed and cumbersome when I had to write calligraphy, I now see a certain beauty and balance in the characters of the little I remember. Now I look at the characters and struggle to remember what they mean or what they sound like, and I want to know.

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2004

Sometimes I am embarrassed by my English. It’s too white. “You write so well, very eloquent,” my creative writing teacher says with a smile. “You should pursue English,” encourages another professor. Thanks—but then I feel guilty. Who am I to be so good with English? I should be good with Chinese instead.

And then, on television, I see this European male, white as can be, conversing in fluent Mandarin with a Chinese politician. I am impressed. I don’t think, “Oh, he must have abandoned his white, European culture to be so well-versed in the Chinese language. Now all his white buddies must think he’s a hypocrite.” I don’t think that.

Perhaps, then, those old Chinese ladies will understand. Look, I can be good with English and still be Chinese. I’m still one of you

Background Information:

Rosalyn Cua is a 4th year Interdisciplinary Arts student in Ethnic and Intercultural Studies at the University of British Columbia.  She and her family immigrated to Canada from the philippines in 1995.  Her plans after graduation will include further studies or careers in diversity education and minority studies.  ""Do you speak Chinese?" is an extension of an entry originally published on her web blog.  An aspiring writer, Rosalyn writes about life as a woman student of colour and an emerging social activist at www.back-space.ca/lite.