Falling Water, Falling Rain

"Om Mani Padme Hum" in six languages

In the middle of New York City, in a Japanese restaurant, with a bowl of ramen in front of me, I ask my friend if he can speak Cantonese. The question springs up naturally after hearing a few other diners conversing in the familiar sounds. He expresses his distaste of the language despite having grown up with Cantonese as well. He adds that he does not mean to offend me.

I do not take offence but my gut reaction was to defend the importance of the language. How could I react any differently? To agree with his distaste would be to go against everything Cantonese represents to me -- family, history, and my ancestral roots. But I did not press the conversation. It felt like a sensitive topic. I do not like arguing. So I kept it neutral, wanting to respect his opinions. I repressed my instinct to label his opinion ignorant. I knew I did not have the right.

That conversation took place over three weeks ago. But unbeknownst to me, my heart does not want to let me off the hook. Something feels incomplete. There is more to be said on the subject. I need to  go on record not only to defend the beauty of Cantonese but to express my due respect for how it has shaped my view of the world.

My mother tongue is Taishanese (台山話), a dialect of Yue Chinese. I always thought it was a dialect of Cantonese but according to Wikipedia, it is not but is closely related. In the fourth grade, my best friend at the time made a comment to some white kids that the Chinese I spoke was inferior and different from the Chinese she spoke. She was born in Hong Kong and immigrated to the States when she was less than one years old. I was born in Taishan, a county within Guangdong province. My family immigrated to Portland, Oregon when I was five. 

Looking back, I was probably embarrassed and confused at the same time. My mom was very loud and I always did associate Taishanese with being overbearing and unpleasant to listen to. This was in contrast with my affinity for Hong Kong pop music and TVB dramas of ancient Chinese heroes speaking in Cantonese. Outside of school and homework, my childhood was filled with hours of practicing Chinese characters and learning Cantonese by following Hong Kong pop songs. 

Deep down I began to agree with my friend that Taishanese was inferior to Cantonese. Even now the only Taishanese phrases I remember clearly are "lok shui" which literally means falling water and "hek fan" which means to eat. In Cantonese it would be "lok yu" which means rain and to eat is pronounced "sik fan". 

At the age of nine, I took my friend's comment as truth. She was so proud to be from Hong Kong, a financially booming city in the late 80s and 90s. My parents always made it clear that we left China and Taishan because it was an impoverished place. It didn't seem like a place to be proud of. 

Place and language play a big part in shaping a person's identity. Looking back, I embraced English naturally because it was a language I needed to fit in growing up in Portland. I also embraced Hong Kong Cantonese easily because it was a bridge to an imaginary Chinese world I could connect with. Deep down I wanted to understand what it meant to have Chinese roots. But somehow, along the way, I have conveniently forgotten and swept my Taishan heritage aside. Through these few hours of writing, I see my own ignorance clearly. 

I now have nieces and a nephew ranging from the age of five to twelve. They were all born in the Pacific Northwest. They are all ABCs. And they all prefer speaking English over Cantonese. They all embraced English the moment they started school. Growing up as Americans, they will not learn about Chinese history until possibly high school or most likely not until college. And that would be if they choose to. 

I started writing this wanting to explore my views on Cantonese as a language. But I am now left with a strange appreciation for the complexities of growing up as a Chinese American instead. Will my nieces and nephew grow up to appreciate and respect all the differing histories that came together to shape their lives? Will they understand the trials and tribulations of their grandparents who immigrated to the US not speaking any English at all?

I see these questions playing out as I watch them grow up year after year. It doesn't matter to me what language they embrace and think highly of. I just hope that they will be respectful of all languages and all cultures. And if someday they have a friend who tells them they think a language sounds vulgar or ugly, they will try to understand the history behind those views. 

Falling water or falling rain, we all feel the wetness of heavy clouds.