Some Chinese practices: 01 (Calling someone by their full name)

 

In English, in an informal situation, when someone calls someone they know by their full name, it's usually for telling him/her off.  (Note the "disapproval" and "reprimand" in the AI overview below.)

(AI overview says) Quote Calling someone by their full name can signal formality, respect, getting their full attention, or even disapproval/mockery, depending heavily on context, culture, and relationship; it can signify a serious tone, a hierarchical difference (like a boss to an employee), an attempt to connect deeply, or a moment of reprimand, replacing casual nicknames with the complete, official address. Unquote

    I worked in Taipei with an American oil company, Conoco Taiwan (now ConocoPhillips), for two years.

    By Oriental standards in those days, for a girl to be working abroad at age 21 was considered young.  I didn't know anyone (friends or relatives) in Taiwan either, so a kind colleague started to invite me home to spend Sundays with her family -- parents and four children: the eldest of the girls being my colleague, the brother at university, the two younger sisters at school.

    I was, therefore, a regular guest at their home, usually arriving before lunch (their arrangement), and spending all day there with them.

    The first time I heard one of the family address someone else in the family by their full name, I thought, "Oh dear, s/he is in for it.  S/he is in trouble."  It turned out not to be the case.

    It also doesn't have to be from top to bottom, i.e., the parent or older sibling addressing the younger member(s).  It can be upwards as well.

    I now find the same practice in the mainland Chinese drama series, set 1979–92, that I've been watching on YouTube.

(Taiwan, 1975–6; mainland China, 1979–92)

Some Chinese practices: 00

 

The focus of this mini series is on my discoveries about how differently the Chinese in Taiwan (and later mainland Chinese) did (still do??) things, compared to S.E.Asian Chinese like me, in spite of our shared genes.

    My basic education years (six primary and four secondary school years, and two Pre-U years) had been spent in English stream schools -- a Catholic convent school (St. Joseph's Convent), then RI (/ Raffles Institution). 

 

    Apart from Second Language, all subjects were taught in English:  Science, Maths, Geography, History, Literature, etc.  

    This was Singapore in the British colonial days, so English stream also meant that everything was geared to the English system.  Not just the syllabus.  The school week was five days, versus 5.5 (Saturday morning) for Chinese stream schools (following the Chinese system).  We played netball, not basketball (like at Chinese stream schools).  The boys at RI (originally a boys' school before girls were admitted in 1970 (I was the second lot, entering in 1971) played rugger.  (Googling tells me that girls were admitted to RI "in limited capacity for the prestigious Queen's Scholarship class in 1924".)

    (Chinese stream schools also taught Maths the Chinese way, which is well known to be far superior.  One of my regrets in life is not to have picked the brains of my three older siblings who'd gone to a Chinese stream school.)

    The contents for Geography, History and Literature followed the British curriculum.

    History was British history, so I knew all about King Henry VIII, Mary Queen of Scots, etc., but nothing about Chinese history.

    Geography focused on the British Commonwealth swathe, so I learned about Australian sheep shearing and artesian wells and the Canadian prairies, but nothing about the Gobi Desert or the Yangzi River.

    Ditto Literature: Shakespeare, Tennyson, Keats, but not Li Bai, Du Fu or Su Dongpo.

    I heard in the 70s that the Hong Kong Chinese people have a label for people like me:  "banana" -- yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

    So it was that I turned up in Taiwan as a banana, making all sorts of minor cultural mistakes, more puzzling to them because I look just like them outwardly.

    (Struggled a bit in the language too, for the first three months, in spite of my having done Mandarin as a Second Language for ten years and got distinctions throughout.  The speed and usage of language, not to mention the accents, were aspects of the language I'd not come across before then in Singapore.)

One Chinese way of restricting children's movements: 02 (Only as far as the toilet)

 

The first story in this mini-series reminds me of my childhood days.

    The two siblings immediately above me lived on my grandma's coconut plantation, attending the primary school there.

    My uncle, being the older of two sons, lived there with my grandma, as his filial piety.  (It's the duty of the oldest son to live with the parents.)  He was also the one dishing out the discipline, being a teacher at the kampung ("village" in Malay) primary school there.

    One Saturday, my uncle was going into town, which is a long way away (by Singapore standards), involving two or three changes of buses on the way there, and the same again on the way back.  This also meant that he'd be gone for a good five hours or so, if not the whole day.

    I happened to be visiting as it was the school holidays.

    Not wanting to leave my two siblings at home for the day without doing some schoolwork, my uncle decided to tie their ankles to the dining table which was where they were to remain for the day, working on homework and revision.  The rope was long enough for them to walk to the loo, but not to go out of the house.

    As soon as my uncle had left, my siblings untied the ropes, and we scooted off to the mangrove swamps to catch razor clams as it was low tide.  (See https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2024/12/lost-singapore-childhood-03-catching.html for an account of this.)

    We spent a few hours in this (for us) fairly rare activity, getting all muddy (which most children love, I think), keeping an eye on the time.

    Then, we got back to the house, washed off all the mud, changed into clean clothes, went back to the dining table, and re-tied their ankles to the table.

    My uncle came back and found them both engrossed at their schoolwork.  He was happy.  (So were we...)

(Singapore, 1961)

One Chinese way of restricting children's movements: 01 (You are grounded!)

 

The YouTube mainland Chinese series I've been watching (set 1977–1992) has a snippet featuring two of the teenage boys (the nephew of one of the two families sharing the same courtyard, and the son of the other family) playing truant and running off to Shanghai to visit the oldest boy who is at university there.

    This triggers a huge scare, with the two families worried sick that they might've been taken away by child abductors.  (This, in itself, is most interesting:  that the problem of child abduction was still present in 1983.)

    The boys are grounded:  made to stay in one room to do their homework and revision, not allowed to go outside without the permission of a grown-up.

    The oldest boy comes back from university for the winter break, and is surprised to find them locked (from the inside) into the room, supposedly behaving themselves.

    When he goes in there, he finds the television set (a fairly new concept then) a bit warm.

    That is a bit careless of the grown-ups, isn't it, leaving them in the same room as the TV set?

(China, 1983)

The temple in the mountains (Nepal)

 

A Brit told me this story of one of his trips to Nepal (in the 70s, I think, if not in the late 60s -- he was born in 1948, so with the hippy movement, he might've gone out to the sub-continent in the 60s).

    Let's call him Alan.

    On a solitary trek in the mountains one day, he'd got lost at some point.  While trying to find a way back to Kathmandu, he came across a temple.

    The monk there greeted him warmly, then showed him around the grounds, where he'd planted some prized chrysanthemums, of which he was very proud.

    Alan was wearing a cagoule (raincoat / wind cheater) that was in almost the same shade as the monk's saffron colour robe.

    The monk admired it, and touched it for the texture.

    Alan told him it was waterproof, which the monk found quite hard to believe (this was the late 60s or the 70s, and up in the remote Nepalese mountains), so Alan poured a drop of water onto the surface to show him.

    The monk then called for a whole bucket of water to be thrown over the cagoule and found that the water had indeed not seeped through.

    He wanted to buy it off Alan, who said that he couldn't spare it, as it was the only weather-proof top he had on that trip.

    Alan then asked to take a photo of him with the Himalayas in their snow-covered glory in the background.

    The monk felt that the Himalayas were too mundane as a backdrop, and wanted instead a photo of himself standing in front of his precious chrysanthemums, wearing Alan's saffron-colour waterproof cagoule.  It went down to his knees as he was a small chappie (even smaller than Alan) but he smiled proudly at the camera for his new discovery (a waterproof monk's robe) with his beloved chrysanthemums behind him.

    The monk then pointed Alan in the right direction for the way back to Kathmandu.

    Alan was unable to find the temple again the next time.

    Sounds a bit Shangrila, doesn't it...

(Nepal, 1970s)

The monk in this story is a good example of the condition described in 習焉不察 / 习焉不察: https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2025/12/chinese-sayings-43.html 

Chinese small talk: 03 (The letter)

I'd gone on a 37-day film shoot in China, following an American multi-millionaire riding his motorbike from Shanghai to Xinjiang.

    We'd taken on board a film producer from the Shanghai Film Studios, for his credentials to help open doors for us as a foreign crew filming in places that the Chinese might not quite agree to happily.  

    (This was 1988, which was fairly early days for foreigners to be running around China capturing scenes of their daily lives unrehearsed.)  

    The film producer (let's call him Mr Li) and I had got on well.

    Apart from getting on well with him, I'd also let him earn FEC through us, which amounted to a tidy sum over the 37 days.

    FEC is Foreign Exchange Certificate (外汇兑换券 wàihuì duìhuànquàn / "outside currency exchange exchange voucher"), Chinese money issued only to foreigners (1980 – 1994).  Its nickname was Funny Money.  The notes looked pretty much like what the locals used, but with the extra line in Chinese and in English identifying it.

    Imported goods could be bought (at the state-run Friendship Store / 友谊商店) only with FEC.  Taxi drivers, the few that were operating at the time even in Shanghai, would ask if we were paying in FEC or renminbi, with a lower fare quoted if we were paying in FEC.  That was how much in demand FEC was in those days.  One yuan FEC was, therefore, worth a lot more than one yuan renminbi.

    Whenever we arrived at a new filming location, which was about every day as we had a lot of mileage to cover, the crew would want a crate of beer to start with.  After sorting out the hotel registration, I'd go with Mr Li to the shop and let him pay with his renminbi, but settle with him in FEC, so I was doing Mr Li a huge favour, letting him earn FEC throughout the 37 days of the film shoot.

    Yet, for the six months after our return, I never got even a simple card from Mr Li.  Fair enough, the Chinese are generally not very good at keeping in touch anyway, in my experience.  Wang Meiling's brother had actually said something most revealing:  that when he was having a farewell meal with his friends before leaving for London, they had "promised each other NOT to write unless it was something urgent or important", which sounds strange at first, until you think of the consequences should their letters be intercepted.

    Back to Mr Li:  as the programme was about to be aired on Channel Four, I received a letter from Mr Li.  I immediately thought, "OK, let's see what kind of favour he wants."

    Page 1 started with (something like): "The programme must be going out soon on television.  I had really enjoyed working with you lot.  It was an interesting and fresh experience for me, blah blah blah," for a whole A4 page.

    Turn over to Page 2, aha!  "My daughter wants to go to the UK to study English.  Can you help her find a course and accommodation?"

Chinese small talk: 02 (The telephone call)

Wang Meiling's brother (as it turned out) had arrived not long prior to that point, and with his sister having gone off to China (got a job with a British company that sent her over there), he had only me for a contact.

    I'd invite him every now and then to the SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) bar for a drink and a chat, even once to my flat for a Chinese beef stew meal (a mistake -- you don't cook Chinese food for a Chinese person:  it's not going to pass the test).

    Wang Meiling's brother rang up one day and went through the ritual:  telling me what he'd been up to of late, which took up about 15 minutes of the call; then asking me what I'd been up to recently, which took up another 15 minutes or so.

    Once the news about both sides was delivered, it was time to end the call.

    He then said, "Oh oh, wait wait, I nearly forgot."

    I thought, "No, you didn't nearly forget.  You'd rung me precisely to ask me for a favour.  You'd spent the last half hour of my time, and yours, engaging in all this small talk, just as a cover up."