Cara Lopez Lee and I met through an
online author network and bonded over our love of China, Mexico, and writing.
This month she’s celebrating the 2014 edition of They Only Eat Their
Husbands: Love, Travel, and the Power of Running Away, (Conundrum Press, Oct 7 2014).
It’s about Cara’s nine years in Alaska, where she landed in a love triangle
with two alcoholics, and the year she ran away to trek around the world alone.
During that journey, she made her first visit to China and discovered that a
Chinese phrasebook is pretty much useless unless you speak Chinese. In honor of
her book’s re-release, I’ve invited her to The Paper Tiger to share her dogged attempts
to become multilingual. Enjoy!
Long
Time, No See!
After a year of Mandarin lessons and a year-and-a-half of
Cantonese lessons, I can say “Where’s the bathroom?” in both languages, but don’t
know what to do if the person answering does anything besides point. In
Cantonese, right is “yao” and left is
“dzaw”—don’t ask me the tones because
Cantonese officially has either six or nine tones, but I hear 16. Problem is, if
someone answers, “Down the hall to the left,” I’d hear, “Blah-blah-blah left.”
Actually I’d hear “Mut-mut-mut left,”
because “mut” means “blah” in Cantonese. After a few left turns, I’d end up where
I started, where there’s only one thing I could say to the person who gave me directions:
“Ho noi mo gin!” (Long time, no see!)
The above is called “losing face”: either mo min or diu gaa. I prefer mo min,
because diu pronounced with the wrong
tone means, “fuck,” though I doubt diu
gaa translates “fuck-face.” I don’t mind losing face, but I’d rather not
get punched in it.
I first visited China in 1999, during my solo trek around
the world. On that trip, I learned such Mandarin phrases as “Ni hou!” (Hello!)“Duo shao qian?” (How much is it?), and “Xie xie” (Thank you). As a beginner traveler, I fell into the trap
of believing that, when in doubt, I could mime whatever I needed. Untrue, as I
discovered when looking for my bus from Lijiang to Dali. Unable to read signs,
I ran from bus to bus holding up my ticket and pleading “Dali?…Dali?...Dali?” The
drivers stared blankly. Panicked, I felt a weird temptation to try Spanish, the
only other language I knew. Good thing an old man read my ticket and led me by
the hand to my bus, or I might never have made it home to write my memoir.
Seven years later, I started
researching a novel inspired by my Chinese-Mexican ancestry. I wanted to find
the village of my great-grandfather, Ma Bing Sum, who was born in China. Until
the 1970s, Toisan county was where most Chinese-Americans traced their roots. To
prepare, I wanted to learn Cantonese. Toisanese is the local dialect, but I
live in Denver, where I thought finding a Cantonese instructor would be easier.
No such luck. Everyone insisted Mandarin would be more useful, so I surrendered
and found a Mandarin tutor.
Mandarin is hard.
A year later, I only knew a handful of
phrases, like, “I’m an American.” Shit, they could tell that by looking at me. So
I hired a translator to help me find my ancestral village. Fiona Zhu, or Zhu Zhu,
proved invaluable. My favorite great-uncle had told me my great-grandfather’s village
was Gong Hao, but Zhu Zhu discovered that Gong Hao was a district containing
eleven villages. So we embarked on a hunt.
On my previous trip to China, I often thought
people were angry, because Mandarin tones sometimes sound harsh. Cantonese and
Toisanese sound more musical. A comedian once said Cantonese speakers sound
like they’re falling off a cliff: “mut-mut-mut-aaaaaaah!” Still, Cantonese can
sound angry too if you don’t understand. At one point in Gong Hao, shouting
people surrounded us.
“Are they angry?” I asked.
Zhu Zhu chuckled. “No. So nice, everybody wants to help find your family!”
Ultimately, someone directed us to a 99-year-old man in the village of Git Non, who we nicknamed Old Mr. Ma. He spoke Toisanese. My translator did not. The interview went something like this:
“My great-grandfather was born in Gong Hao 120 years ago,” I said, “so I’d like to learn what life was like here long ago.” My translator relayed this to his granddaughter in Cantonese, who relayed this to her grandfather in Toisanese, whose answer made the same trip in reverse.
Five minutes later, Zhu Zhu said, “He
wants to know your grandpa’s name.”
“Ma Bing Sum, but he left before you
were born, so you wouldn’t have known him.”
Chinese people are big on family
history, so Mr. Ma refused to give up so easily. I told him Ma Bing Sum was
born in Gong Hao around 1888 and moved to America in the early 1900s. Then I
showed him a letter my uncle once wrote my great-grandfather. Mr. Ma grew
excited, “Ho Ho Ho!” My great-grandfather was from this very village! Mr. Ma had
met him during a couple of his visits home. He verified that Ma Bing Sum had lived
in El Paso with a Mexican wife. He opened the village’s red book of ancestors to
a page naming Ma Bing Sum and his eldest three sons. Across the path from Old
Mr. Ma’s house stood the humble home where my great-grandfather was born. Down
the street stood the huge house he built with money he made in America.
“Your grandpa was the richest man in
town,” Zhu Zhu said. This village was full of my distant cousins. “They say you
are family.”
I had tears in my eyes, but I did not lose
face.
Two days later we did a full interview. One thing Mr. Ma shared was that long ago in Git Non, teens approaching marriageable age moved out of their parents’ homes and into two communal homes: one for boys, one for girls. Those homes now appear in my novel.
Two years later I returned for Qing Ming, a Chinese version of “Day of the
Dead” when people clean and decorate family graves and feed their ancestors. The
Ma family served a roast pig, which now makes an undignified appearance in my
novel. The next day we celebrated Mr. Ma’s 101st birthday. Everyone chuckled
with delight when I said Cantonese phrases Zhu Zhu taught me, like M’Goi (thank you) and ho ho mei, (delicious).
That does it, I thought. I’m learning Cantonese and I’m coming back. Mr. Ma won’t understand me, but his family will. I can also return to Guangzhou and Hong Kong where my uncle grew up, and speak the language he spoke. What’s more, I want my novel to feel realistic, and language is culture. I renewed my search for a Cantonese tutor: “I don’t care if Mandarin is more sensible!” I found Jing Jing, a twenty-something tutor from Guangzhou.
Sometimes Jing Jing’s lessons reveal a
generation gap. She worked hard to teach me “Hang
gai, Tai hei, Sik fan,” meaning, “Go shopping, see a show, eat”—the Chinese
version of “Go to the mall.” She assures me this is “very popular,” though I
doubt my great-grandfather said it in the 1910s. Then again, she also taught me
the common greeting,“Sik dzaw fan mei ah?”
which never goes out of style. It means, “Have you eaten yet?” or literally, “Have
you eaten rice?” a reminder that rice is central to Chinese culture. Jing Jing
explained that, upon meeting someone, it’s polite to say, “Please give me your
advice.” I’m eager to make this request of my Chinese cousins.
There’s something about a foreigner
speaking our language that warms the soul. It says this relationship means so
much that I wish to build a bridge between us.
The last time I saw Old Mr. Ma he was
waving from his doorway on his 101st birthday, saying, “Bye-bye!” a
popular farewell in modern China. I had given him sweets, a card, and a red balloon.
He was most tickled by that balloon, not because he’s feeble-minded—we had discussed
profound concepts, including how he values the family closeness of village
life, which is why he never sought his fortune in America—no, he loved the
balloon simply because he’s a joyful person.
I hope I get to tell him, “Ho Noi Mo Gin!”—“Long Time No See.” If he’s no longer around, I’ll ask where his grave is so I can leave an offering. Hopefully by then I’ll know how to ask for directions.
About
the Author:
Cara Lopez Lee’s stories have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, Connotation Press, and Rivet Journal. She’s a
book editor, and she’s a faculty member at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. She has
traveled throughout Asia, Europe, Africa, Latin America, and the U.S. She
married her husband at an active volcano in Costa
Rica. They live in Denver. You can buy Cara’s memoir, They Only Eat Their Husbands, at Conundrum Press, IndieBound,
or Amazon. You can also follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.
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