Incognito until…: 01 (Taiwan)

I decided to learn Japanese during my first winter in Taipei.

In my Beginners class at theYMCA, I was invisible as I looked just like the rest of the class.  Nobody gave me a second look.

Ditto in the Intermediate class — for the first couple of weeks.

The Intermediate level entailed a lot more, and harder, grammar than the Beginners level.  Everything was taught in Chinese.  I was making notes in English.

The teacher walked around the class as he was teaching.  Suddenly, he came to a halt beside me, and asked, in Chinese, “Why are you writing your notes in English?!?”  I said, “Because I’m from Singapore, and English is my first language.”  He took a longer look at me, as though he was trying to see if he could find some feature in me that would distinguish me from the rest of the class.  

My fellow students also perked up and took a fresh look at me.  After the lesson, I felt all eyes on me as I left the room, as if they, too, were trying to find out what might be different about me.

(Taiwan, 1975)

Incognito until…: 02 (Taiwan)

A similar thing happened a few months later when a friend, Jin, came over to Taipei.  

I showed him around.  

We got on a bus.  Nobody gave us a second look.  

We stood in the crowded bus, strap-hanging.  Nobody gave us a second look.  

Then, Jin opened his mouth to ask me something — in English.  

It is very common for Singaporeans to speak in English to each other, even if they are both/all Chinese (or Malay, or Indian).

When Jin put his question to me, it was as if he’d set off a firecracker on the bus:  up jerked all the heads, with all the eyes trained on him — the source of the alien sounds.  

They saw a Chinese face, so they turned to look at me, as if to find the reason for this Chinese man speaking English: his companion must be a Westerner.  

But no, they saw a Chinese face on me as well.  

In disbelief, they looked back at Jin, then at me, then at him, then at me.  Yes, both Chinese faces indeed.  Then why are they speaking in English?  

The eyes travelled from our heads to our toes — slowly down, slowly up, then slowly down again, scanning our faces, clothes, shoes, trying to find some clue for our using English with each other.

(Taiwan, 1975)

Linguistic reefs: 01 (Singapore)

It’s the linguistic False Friends that are the hidden reefs.  

One example I cited to my Chinese community centre Mandarin students:  

In my dialect (Teochew / 潮州 / Cháozhōu), “stingy” is made up of two sounds, which are “鹹 / 咸 xián / salty” and “澀 / 涩 / sè / tart*”.  

(*澀 / 涩 / sè:  “tart” is the best word I can think of for the furring-up effect on one’s tongue when one eats unripe fruit, especially persimmons / kaki / sharon fruit.)  

One day, a Teochew speaker tried to describe, to some Cantonese speakers, a man (who was present) as being “stingy”. 

(BTW, this was done good-naturedly, as the Chinese tend to go for what I call “rough humour”, i.e., the closer one is to someone, the freer one can feel about giving that person a hard time.)

They simply converted the two Teochew dialect sounds (“salty tart”) into the Cantonese pronunciation.  Unfortunately, those two sounds in Cantonese = to be lecherous, so the Cantonese listeners all looked at the poor man in disgust.

(Singapore, 1960s)

Animal language (London)

On my morning school runs escorting two children to school, we walk through the grounds of Ally Pally (Alexander Palace) in north London.

Lots of people walk their dogs there.

On the way, I often come across earthworms that have found their way onto the tarmac paths, so I pick them up with sticks and throw them back onto the grassy area, so that they won’t get squashed underfoot.

One morning last week, a small dog suddenly stopped by me, and started to do a growly bark.  I wasn’t quite sure why it should be growling at me — surely it didn’t feel threatened by me?  

I asked, “What??  Why are you barking at me??”

The little dog growled again, and lowered the front half of its body, as if it was ready to bounce up and run off.

This was repeated a number of times.

Ah, Eureka!!  It wanted me to throw the sticks in my hands for it to go and fetch.

The only thing is: the sticks were the size of a toothpick for one of them and a chopstick for the other.  How the little dog could’ve thought they’d be candidates for Fetch is beyond me.

What I have learned from this episode , though, is:  after the event, it occurred to me that the dog’s growl on this occasion was from the back of the throat, not the usual frontal loud bark.  So, that growl was a request or invitation, “Come on, throw them, throw them, I want to go fetch!!”

(London, 2022)