9/19/08: Chinglish has delicious prospects as a language

I was heading to the A Dong Asian supermarket in West Hartford the other day and paused on my way in, in the airlocklike vestibule that separates the American outside from the pan-Asian inside of the store, and noticed how many fliers were posted on the community bulletin board advertising Chinese classes.

Most of the classes are for kids and tend to cater to parents who fall into one of two categories: those who want their children to learn the language of their ancestors, and those who want their children to learn the language of the future.

I’m betting that whichever category applies, those classes are filled. More Americans are interested in Mandarin than ever before.

When I was in China, I learned two dialects of Chinese — Sichuanhua, which is considered a “hillbilly” dialect, similar to an American having a West Virginian accent, and putonghua, or common Mandarin.

But I think it’s more likely that the next language of commerce and culture is not Mandarin. I think it will be Chinglish.

Chinglish isn’t a recognized dialect or even a real pidgin language, like Creole, but it has potential. Combining the grammatical structures of Mandarin and English leads to some unique phrasing, and the widespread use of outdated textbooks in at least the places I taught in China meant that my students often resurrected words I’d thought were relegated to vocabulary exercises and Victorian novels.

“Lovely” stands in for “cute,” for instance; “dear” for “expensive,” as in England; and “trousers” for “pants” or “shorts.”

“Delicious” and “spicy” are used much more often by Chinese people than native English speakers. Every dish in China is declared “delicious” — none are just “good.”

These are fairly innocuous differences. But there were times the language didn’t translate quite so well.

Like during the end-of-term party my ninth-grade class was having. I’d told my students they could listen to music during the party if it was English music.

Steven, one of the most “lively” — another popular Chinglish word — of my students had brought a CD of Chinese music containing a few unintelligible lines of English.

“Steven,” I said, “This is not English music.”

“Yes, English!” Steven protested. “‘Superlovers,’ Miss Watkins. I’ll show you — one night of love!”

I looked up, startled, to confirm that Steven was not propositioning me. He was desperately pointing to the three lines of English in the liner notes to the CD, which included “superlovers” and “one night of love.” I tried to keep a straight face, and I let him keep the music on.

It may sound at this point like I was being a bad teacher, letting my 14-year-old students listen to a song with questionable content in class. But in China, “lover” is akin to an endearment like “sweetheart,” based on a direct translation from “ai ren,” or “love person.”

Many of the vocabulary faux pas of my students were due to the ubiquitous electronic Chinese-English dictionaries they carried everywhere. My first class rule was always “no electronic dictionaries,” but students rarely paid attention.

Using the dictionaries distorted language the way an online translation program does. Despite this, my students didn’t believe I could tell when they were using them.

“I just wish you a lucky and perspective new year,” wrote one of my students last year.

“I think you are using your electronic dictionary,” I wrote back. “But thank you. And same-same to you.”