The Intimacy of a Second Language
I can’t recall whether English or Mandarin was the first language I spoke, but I do remember compartmentalizing English for school and Chinese for home. My parents immigrated to the US in the 80s with no former English education, and by that, I mean my father learned English on his plane ride over. Mandarin is their native tongue and the primary language they use to speak to me. All this to say, I grew up pretty articulate in Chinglish.
As a kid, I was so tortured with the need to assimilate that I would beg my mom to speak English when we’re in public, but then be utterly embarrassed when she put an inflection on the wrong syllable. I’d get all tensed up at a restaurant when it was my parents’ turns to order, so I’d end up ordering for them before they even fully made up their minds. I wondered what it’d be like to share a joke with my parents without having to explain it in Chinese after (cause I’m hilarious). But mostly, I just wanted to come home from school and have a conversation around the dinner table in perfect English, like every American sitcom.
30 plus years living in the States later, my dad still occasionally mixes up his pronouns. Over the years though, I’ve stopped correcting my parents because partly I grew up and realized that was a pretty bratty thing to do, but also my parents did not need to speak English with me. I understood them fully if they spoke Mandarin. Which led me to understand that my parents speaking English is one of the simplest, yet greatest acts of love. It’s a sacrifice every time they choose to speak English. Doing so means stepping out of their comfort and eloquence so that they can meet me where I’m at.
My parents tell me they love me all the time, but it’s almost always in English. In some way, doing so is them wanting me to understand their love. But experiencing the full weight of their love is when my mom says “我愛你(wo ai ni)” to me, reserved only for the most fragile of times. It’s more than them wanting me to know they love me; it’s finding the deepest part of who they are, everything that represents them, and putting their love for me over it all. There are no words in the English language, literally. Love is talking the talk and walking the walk, but this is walking the talk. Its sacredness can never be shared with anyone else other than my parents, the ones who gave me the gift of language and life.
A first or second language isn’t determined by time, but rather identity. English has become my first language, prioritized over Chinese. So when I choose to speak Chinese, it’s an act that requires both confidence and humility. You see, this second language holds the emotion of hearing my grandfather speak to me in my dreams. Vulnerability is teaching someone how to say my Chinese name, a name reserved only for family.
Maybe that’s why whenever my mom tries to subtly set me up with someone, she brings up how great his Chinese is. It’s also why when a stranger shouts “你好 (ni hao)” to me while driving down the street, not only is it racist, but violating. It’s colonizing an incredibly intimate part of who I am, claiming they know me and taking up space reserved for the people closest to me. So yes, it does matter who’s saying 你好 because that voice can either enhance my experiences and identity if it’s coming from someone who honors and has an unspoken baseline of understanding or diminishes it by unsolicitedly exerting their authority and privilege into my life, all through an assumptive, racist remark.
Then again, I’m not a linguist nor do I have any qualifications to speak on this, other than my elementary Mandarin skills. But through this lackluster Chinese, my second language isn’t just being able to speak another language, it’s the dichotomy of home and stranger. A true second language is having a complex history with the language, and ultimately loving the brokenness of it all because of where it takes you back…or towards.
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