Sometimes I wonder whether
learning Chinese is shortening my lifespan. They say being bilingual is good
for your brain, and being trilingual is even better. Apparently, all that thinking in
strange words is the perfect way to scare off Alzheimers. Though I’m
in the latter category—having learned Spanish, and now being in the process of
learning Chinese, I’m not so convinced.
I’ve had many
opportunities here in my hometown and half a world away in China in which I’ve spent an
entire evening chatting and having fun with Chinese friends. We’ve gone out to
eat, played mahjong, sang karaoke, played basketball, the whole shebang. Each time I have been
able to use the Chinese I have already learned as well as pick up a few new
phrases. While it can be fun to speak in
funny syllables and all a lot
of the time understanding and being understood just doesn’t happen. You’ll be at a table with six
guys from Wuhan as they jump from discussions about role-playing video games (a
conversation I wouldn’t likely understand even in English) to talking about ancient
Chinese customs for addressing elders. All the while I sit, American as ever, trying to hang on every syllable, picking up about 60 percent and tripping on the
other 40.
I have half a mind to
chime in: “Um… could we please talk about libraries or sports or Chinese New
Year or why Gao Wenzhong in lesson 15 was visiting the doctor and what his symptoms
were?”
As the conversation ebbs
and flows I’ll poke in here and there with comments or questions. Sometimes I'll hit a zinger and the crowd will laugh approvingly. Sometimes I'll totally biff it, and the crowd will laugh mockingly. I'll often ask for clarification on the meaning of a word or phrase, but since this practice has the tendency to totally derail the rhythm of conversation, I try to limit the "what does that mean?" inquiries.
Even when I win, I lose.
Earlier this week when I sat eating Hot Pot at a restaurant at Mekong with Shuai, Yuan, and
some other friends, I thought I was hot stuff speaking Chinese—getting a
compliment from the waiter and glances from the Chinese girls at the next
table. As they giggled, my ego inflated, my vocal volume increased, and,
naturally, I managed to accidentally swear several times in a confident, zealous tone. So that explains the glances…
The bill settled, we got
up and ran into some friends of my roommates seated at an adjacent restaurant. There were more giggles, a few compliments, and me having to ask one of the friends five times
how to pronounce his name in Chinese and still not being able to voice it nor being able
to remember it. “Nice to meet you… uh... man.”
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| The setup: touch screen pad for selecting your song, a TV to supply the lyrics, and a shame-free roommate |
囧
The latter half of our
evening was as Asian as it gets—a few hours at the newly opened August Karaoke
Box in tempe. For three hours we sang our guts out in front of a TV screen
displaying lyrics from our favorite songs. It was rather inspiring to see four
college guys without a drop of alcohol in them shamelessly use every ounce of
diaphragm they had to literally belt along to their favorite tunes. I sang some
of the Chinese songs I knew and “delighted” my overseas pengyous with a few of
my favorite English language tunes. But apart from those glorious moments
confidently crooning Sonny and Cher, it was hours of half-singing along as I
half-followed the crazy moon characters swathed across the screen. As we departed August
Box, I felt consumed by an inexplicable mix of euphoria and utter confusion.
Fellow second language learners, I’m sure you can relate. Maybe.
It was an interesting
evening in many ways. For one, sober Chinese youngins with no apparent care for singing very off key in front of their bros. Second, spending hours where I understood maybe a
maybe half of the utterances from my friends and from the karaoke TV speakers.
And third, somehow enjoying it all. I enjoyed it! Immensely!
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| me trying to fit in |
And how couldn’t I? I
tried so hard to sing one particular tune that my voice turned puberty-plastic
and cracked when I even thought about singing a high note—and my friends applauded and cheered at the song’s end. They were
patient (well, entertained really) with my bad pronunciations and my accidental
Chinese f-words. They were willing to sing along with the English they weren’t
so familiar with. It was kind of beautiful.
As for the ability of Chinese to stave off brain failure, I suppose the jury is still out. But even if these euphorically confusing nights out with the zhongguo ren cut a few years off my stay here on earth, I'll take it. Seeing The Boss's face when he screams out Jay Chou is compensation enough. 囧
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| The Boss does not mess around at the August Box |
