Communicating in Chinese

June 28, 2005

We were on at least the fifteenth word I had “learned” during the 30 minute car ride to my host family’s apartment.
“Chi-ow,” my host mother, Fan Chenling, implored me to repeat after her. I silently implored her to pay more attention to the road. Beijing traffic is notoriously chaotic and, to me, appeared to require the full attention and reflexes of a stunt driver.
“Chi-ow,” she repronounced.
Qiao meant bridge and I tried feverishly to commit it to memory, realizing I had already forgotten most of the previous words in the last few minutes. More would follow.
Entering my three-day home-stay in Beijing, I was made fully aware my family spoke very little English--I would have a daunting task of communication ahead of me. I wasn’t a novice in the situation by any means. A home-stay in Spain during high school and four years experience in a photo studio with a high frequency of immigration and passport photography had prepared me to live with a foreign family in a foreign culture. I was ready for any conceivable language-related dilemma. So I thought.
There I was in her car, eight weeks of university Chinese study and a little over two weeks of “field” study in China, and the only legitimate conversation between Fan and me was translating words back and forth. Our comfort level eventually improved and we discussed her job as editor for a health magazine and her son Stuart, but it would still be days before I discovered she was a former sports journalist and Olympic caliber gymnast.
Communication quickly became the focus of my stay.
When we arrived at her apartment, Stuart met us outside and greeted me with a meek head nod before he rushed several steps ahead of Fan and me toward our lunch destination. Fan tried to encourage him to talk to me, insisting his English was excellent and that we both had an affinity for sports. But Stuart, 13, and about a head shorter than me would only give me a sly half-smile that I would see plenty more of then guided us toward the restaurant.
Lunch came and went, marked mostly by Fan and Stuart debating whether or not I would like certain dishes. Without my professor there I didn’t know names for any of the foods, or know much about what had been in anything I liked. All I could say was anything would be fine and hope for the best.
That night I was introduced to Fan’s husband Wu Kaiping and to a stack of scrap paper that would soon be filled with our messages back and forth to one another. It turned out Wu and Fan were much more comfortable writing messages in English on paper and having me do the same for them. It alleviated many of the pronunciation issues (like confusing “hungry” and “angry”) and opened the door to a wider range of topics.
Wu tried explaining his job to me, writing “International” and “Police” in slanted cursive. Each time I said I didn’t understand he would write another few words and look at me with his eyebrows raised in anticipation of my comprehension. Eventually I fibbed and said I got it. He set the pen down triumphantly while I thought to myself it might be a trying few days ahead.
Bed was a welcome respite.

*-------*

My new family let Stuart and me sleep in a little late the next morning and had breakfast waiting for us. I was hoping for cereal or even a croissant, but was greeted by the leftovers of chicken and fried green beans from the night before.
After I finished my glass of room temperature yoghurt, Fan suggested Stuart and I head out shopping and that I could borrow her bike for the trip. I said it sounded great, but I was secretly terrified. I assumed it meant imminent death for me on the streets where there seemed to be no tangible law governing man, bike and machine. Yet we made it through safely.
Stuart took me to Hong Qiao, which he said was the touristy shopping area nearby. Indeed it was, as the different indoor levels were packed with a variety of electronics, fabrics and souvenirs for sale and foreigners everywhere. Slightly overwhelmed, I managed my way through bartering for gifts by exchanging broken Chinese and English, or battling back and forth with prices on a calculator. Eventually I asked if there was somewhere to go without so many tourists and Stuart said he had a place in mind.
So we rode to the pet store. At least that’s how Stuart described it on the way. Naively I expected puppies and kittens, free to pet and ease some of my anxiety.
Of course, I was wrong.
It was more outdoor animal wholesale than pet shop. Imagine the local farmer’s market, but instead of boxes of corn and green beans and fresh lettuce there were tiny cramped boxes of puppies and baby ducks as far as I could see. Two week old kittens wandered the streets lost, unnoticed by shopkeepers and passerby alike, while others lay stacked on top of one another inside rows of cages. I hurried Stuart through before I could consider too seriously how many animals I should smuggle to freedom in my bike’s basket.
Our route continued through less-populated parts of southern Beijing, passing in and out of neighborhoods on dusty, unpaved roads. We made our way home and passed the ride with Stuart reciting the hundreds of NBA players he knew while I tried to decode names from his heavy accent. Each player was a puzzle of tones, consonants and my own knowledge of basketball. It was impressive how much he had learned about the sport from TV and video games, and how amusing some of his pronunciations were. His attempt at Latrell Spreewell was definitely my favorite. It wasn’t a question of knowing points, rebounds or any statistics. It was a simple game of, “Here is a name. Do you know this name?”
Though we were getting along well, the stress of communicating began to wear on me. As much as I appreciated everyone’s effort to speak to me, the process of deciphering their English while simplifying my own was taxing.
For the first time during any trip I had been on, I felt seriously homesick. I was slightly traumatized from the animal market and cycling through Beijing, but mostly I was tired and felt isolated from my language.
It would get better.
That night I convinced Stuart to come outside and throw a Frisbee I brought with me. Doing something repetitive like throwing was soothing and Stuart seemed to enjoy learning something new. He was a quick learner and we began to draw passerby to a stop so they could watch the strange game. Fan came down to the courtyard to play too, so did Wu when he passed by on his way home from work. We stayed outside until it was too dark to see each other then headed inside. I think all of us went back in feeling a little satisfied.
As I started to develop more of a rapport with the family, it became obvious Stuart had the best English skills in the house. Though he was reluctant to talk to me at first, he was quick to correct his parents’ grammatical errors when they spoke with me. It occurred to me his apprehension might have been equal parts shyness and anxiety over his language skills. He had only studied English for two years, yet was learning how light travels and reflects in English textbooks, I was already plenty impressed.
We managed to bond over his homework. It was the week before his examinations, so he had spent most of his time during my stay studying--notably math and English. Fan asked me if I could help him with the English homework, and I was more than happy to do so. I hoped it would give me a chance to talk with Stuart more, which it did while I fumbled over explanations of the strange laws and nature of the English language.
Stuart’s math homework went much more smoothly. At 13-years-old his exams covered algebra I did when I was 15 or 16. Some of it proved pretty difficult, but I felt like I had some sort of US national pride (read: ego) riding on my shoulders to get it right. Thankfully, I was able to solve all of his questions (score one for US education) and in turn explain the process to him.
Once Stuart was content he had studied enough for the day, Fan told us to head out and enjoy the rest of the day, so Stuart grabbed a basketball and led us down to a park we had passed during our shopping excursion.
I played basketball with a bunch of 14-year-old Chinese boys that afternoon. It started as a small game of three-on-three against a few kids Stuart seemed to know. Most of the time I tried to take it easy on them--I’m not an all-star by any means, but I am pretty athletic and I had a solid half-foot height advantage over every other player. We joked around with one another as each kid who tried to jump over me would shake his head and repeat one of the other few phrases I knew, “ta hen gao” (he’s very tall)
Soon another group of five or six kids came over. There was a bunch of commotion, some discussion (in Chinese) and then pointing in my direction. Surreally, the kids parted in half and the shortest boy came out and asked me hesitantly, “Do you understand English?” I replied “yes,” though I was slightly confused since I distinctly heard myself referred to as the “meiguoren” (American) multiple times. Quickly, he flew into a string of fluent English explaining how we were splitting up teams and starting a different game. I was completely drawn aback by his speed and his perfect accent. Then I chuckled to myself at how ceremoniously the other kids had ushered out their translator.
Our Beijing duck dinner that night was the last thing all four of us did together. Wu had to leave town on some international police business later that night, Fan had a meeting she couldn’t miss in the morning and Stuart would be at school. It was a typical moment of the entire stay, with more discussion about what foods to order and Stuart sighing in annoyance of his parents’ English. I was comfortable, though. We settled on dishes, talked about the basketball game and the travel shows I watched that morning.
There was a little confusion as always, but mostly there was understanding that came from the short time we had spent together. We knew what topics were understood across the languages, what sparked interest and what always seemed to be funny--usually me looking out of place somewhere.
The following afternoon Fan drove me back to the hotel to reunite with my equally displaced students. The car ride was similar to the first one, though now I proudly recalled several of the words I was taught in the last few days. Fan was delighted and so was I, since she had to pay attention to the road in order to point out a bus, or a car, or a bike for me to translate into Chinese.
It was strange how the time had gone by so quickly. Two days earlier I was convinced I wouldn’t make it, but after Fan and I said our goodbyes I was ready to do it all over again. Now it’s a story for me to carry whenever I feel lost without English. All I need is a little time . . . and maybe a little homework.