Shame on You

I’m jealous of polyglots. They’re god damn amazing.

Watching people switch between languages and mindsets at a moment’s notice is mesmerizing, especially those who pick up languages later in life.

There’s a more subtle arrogance when people speak your language. Their ability to wield cultural meaning makes me feel a bit vulnerable. Scholars and business folk who only see language as a tool are the worst offenders. Non-speakers don’t own what we don’t understand just because its part of our ancestry (wait, we don’t?), but show some respect.

Call me sensitive, but I hate the implicit judgement embedded in their incomprehensible words, “Oh you can’t speak your own language? I guess I’m more Chinese than you.”

I met an incredibly talented polyglot at a meeting a few months ago. Gregariousness was in no short supply around the table. The meeting room was a sea of languages — Italian, French, Bengali, Mandarin, Argentinian Spanish. The fish out of water, I only talked to the Japanese speaker.

The polyglot at the other end of the table, a Korean who spoke four languages, heard I was “Chinese.” He excitedly asked if I spoke Mandarin. Nope. How abut Cantonese? Nope.

Well, he did. His face turned smug. “Shame on you.”

After an awkward couple of seconds, I gave a considered response, “You know, my grandparents came here from China. My father grew up in a black neighborhood speaking in dialect. They spoke Toisanese, a dialect that urban Cantonese shit on, out of need. Most immigrants did before the 70s.”

I didn’t get to know my grandparents. I was raised without the opportunity to learn their language or the resources to attend language school if I could even find one. As an adult I was interested in different things.

“Oh ya, and I’m half white.”

I’m sure “shame” wasn’t actually what he meant. Even if it was, I can forgive him for being a putz.