Excerpt from December 2014

As I’ve mentioned in the past, my Mandarin skills leave something to be desired – just little things like vocabulary, grammar, and pronunciation. Besides those, it’s fantastic.

This doesn’t mean that I can’t communicate at all. It just means that I communicate very poorly. I was in the habit of telling people in Mandarin – taxi drivers mostly – that “my Chinese is very bad.” Of course, it’s not like I actually need to say this, as if they couldn’t tell already. But it’s something to fill the empty air while also being a kind of apology. It acknowledges what we both know: that I am two in linguistic years – and it lets us sit quietly together with a mutual understanding.

Recently though, I decided to employ sarcasm instead and tell the nice taxi driver that “my Chinese is very good.” Then I laughed and said, “bu dui de!” (“Incorrect!”). He laughed too, hopefully for the same reason. That was a fun drive. He asked me questions and I answered whatever I thought he had asked. I got to use all sorts of hand motions to point him in the right direction like that scene from the 2013 The Secret Life of Walter Mitty where Mitty’s in the Himalayas with local guides and they spend a 30 second scene with all three people frantically gesturing and pointing in place of words. That happens a lot.

Joking can be a great defensive mechanism. Being illiterate and having the vocabulary of a two year old does make you look and feel 10x younger…embarrassingly younger…like wetting your pants younger. So letting them know that you can joke raises your perceived mental age and often depressurizes the situation. It lets them know that there is least a flicker of wit and intelligence behind the caveman speech. One of my friends, who’s in a similar linguistic plight, takes to holding her side of the conversation in English. For example, we were looking to buy some warm knitted caps from a lady the other day. The lady kept them high on the wall and had to retrieve them with a long stick. After a few minutes of our gesturing to the hats that were the hardest to reach – only to have us then indecisively return them – she started grabbing hats at random and stuffing them onto my friend’s head. Of course we didn’t know exactly what the lady was saying but my friend held up her side of the conversation expertly as if the language barrier didn’t even exist:

“Uh, ma’am, what are you doing?”

“Ma’am, I just don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Ohp…no, I don’t think that one…” as the lady set something that looked like a mini yurt on her head.

There are those odd times, however, when someone doesn’t seem to notice that I’m linguistically deficient. I’m thankful for their compliment, of course, but I’m just not certain that their repeating the same phrase over and over again with increasing vigor after I’ve said, “Ting bu dong” (I don’t understand) is going to help me. There is one particular lady, one of our apartment door guards, who definitely has that view – that volume aids understanding. But once, she did finally settle down to the truth that my Chinese was just bad enough that even yelling couldn’t help. So she wrote the message down for me – in Chinese. Naturally, I said, “Kan bu dong” (I can’t read) and quickly walked away before the yelling resumed.

If nothing more, I’ve learned to laugh a lot.

For example, last night after my English Corner (informal small group tutoring) I went to a little noodle shop run by folks from western China (the Muslim region that would rather be its own country) – folks who make some delicious noodles. These particular restaurant owners had seen me plenty of times before as the same three were always there: the guy with magic noodle making skills, the lady with the head wrap who does the vegetables and beef, and the guy who sits around and laughs in a high pitched squeal. I was the only customer there. So I walk over to the wall that has the picture-menu and select two dishes by pointing to each and saying “yi ge” (one). Then I specify that, as usual, I want them “dao bao” (to go). By this time, the man is already squealing. I turn to him, shrug and say, “Ni shuo ying yu ma?” (do you speak English?). I’ve gotten into the habit of saying this to put us on more even ground; it also usually gets them to laugh.

The noodle man and the lady retreat into the tiny kitchen. The other guy is still laughing at me. I shrug again, smile back, and sit down to wait. He says something about “where” and I assume he’s asking where I’m from, though I know I’ve told them all before. I hazard a confirmation of the question and reply, “mei guo de” (American) and then ask if he is “zhong guo ren” (Chinese). This is another fun question that most people are amused by although there are those few people whose blank expression exudes a stiff, “We are not amused.”  I want to ask him where he’s from but I can’t recall the phrase. So I say what I think is the name of the western-most province but he seems confused. So I draw the shape of China in the air saying, “zhong guo,” and then point to the northeast corner saying, “dong bei” (the region where we are) and then point to the western side with an interrogative expression. The noodle man behind the kitchen window gets it first and nods. Then illumination bursts on his jolly friend and he affirms with the correct name of the province – which I promptly forget. Satisfied, the awkward silence resumes.

So I pull out my phone to check if it’s working – not only because it’s something to do but also because I’ve just finally gotten a new SIM card (after about six weeks without one). The man walks over and peers at my phone. I look up, “shenme?” (what?). He walks away, I return to my phone. He walks back over and peers at it again, “ying yu” (English) and something about it not being in Chinese. I nod, not sure why that is either interesting or surprising and say, “kan bu dong” (I can’t read). He chuckles again. I smile and shrug reflexively. A little while later he walks over to a counter that has a sack of steamed buns on it. It seems like he wants to give one to me and after I ask what it is (not so much because I don’t know as because he’s waiting for me to say something).   “Mianbao!” he declares. Of course, “bread,” how silly of me to ask. He walks over, opens the bag, and invites me to tear off a piece. I do and say it’s “hao chi” (delicious).

He sits back down in his chair across the small aisle, eyeing me. I wonder if bread can be poisoned and decide to offer him a cookie. Don’t think that I always stroll around with cookies; I made them for my English Corner and had leftovers. I pulled the little tupperware out of my backpack, pointed to a cookie, and said “wo gei ni” (I give you [I know I sound like a caveman here but this is actually a valid way to phrase it]). But instead of taking a cookie, he plopped another bun into my tupperware. Confused, I offered him the cookie again, saying “huasheng” (peanut) and a Chienglish version of “cha co late.” He went back over to his seat without taking one.

Hoping he didn’t think I had opened the tupperware just so that he could fill it, I searched my dictionary app for the word for “cookie.” Not finding something that I was sure meant the correct thing, I opted for “tian de” (sweet). He shook his head and put up a hand. Now I felt bad. But presently the noodle master emerged from the kitchen so I offered one to him. He also shook his head. “Weisheme?” (why?) I asked either in Chinese or by my expression; I can’t recall. He pointed to a little symbol on the top of their wall menu: Islam. “Dong le!” (I understand) I announced. Unfortunately I couldn’t explain that it had neither pork nor caffeine nor shellfish…but maybe they just didn’t accept food from infidels. I didn’t know the word for “infidel” in order to ask.

Since he had explained his position, I thought I might as well too. “Wo yi ge ji du tu” (I’m a Christian). The noodle man repeated it (I think) and the squealing man squealed again. Having come to an understanding, my two bags of noodles arrived and I paid the requisite 27 RMB ($4.35).  I was about to leave when the laughing man decided that I needed to be wearing gloves so he pointed at my hands. I nodded, “you” (have [pronounced “yo”]). But he wouldn’t let me leave until I put them on in front of him. I obeyed while mumbling in English something about his being like my parents. We all smiled a lot, probably for different reasons, and I left to go find a taxi to take my quarry home to James.

And that was one of my more lengthy conversations.