When one plus one is more than two

Recently a friend of mine learned that our nanny spoke to the dude and little miss in Portuguese.  She seemed skeptical: “It will be interesting if they remember any of it when they are older.”  I replied, “you know, that’s not the point.”  She looked at me quizzically.

            In a nation where the vast majority of people are monolingual English speakers—and where English is currently the world’s lingua franca--it can be hard for many Americans to understand the benefits of learning other languages than English.  Why bother, if wherever you travel in the world, you expect to find someone who speaks English?  But that would assume a utilitarian need to justify learning anything.  And sure, now suddenly bilingualism is currently all the rage, especially with growing scientific evidence that it is good for the brain—promoting flexibility in learning and verbal skills and even stalling cognitive decline.  But to justify learning a second (or even third, in my children’s case) language as a way to exercise the brain is also pretty utilitarian, in my opinion.

            For me, becoming bilingual gives children a sense of the world as bigger than their homeland.  What’s interesting is that the majority of the world’s population is bilingual or multilingual. In a survey conducted by the European Commission in 2006, 56 percent of respondents reported being able to speak in a language other than their mother tongue.  Compare this to our monolingual States, where only a fifth of Americans report speaking more than one language (BTW, this is an improvement from the past), and where until recently, bilingual education in schools was seen as radical and even un-American. America is a great country, but what I’d like my children to have is an appreciation of other cultures that isn’t America-centric (or worse yet, rooted in American exceptionalism)—countries not just as tourist destinations, but as places that others call their home, just as we call the US ours.

             I remember going to visit France for the first time as a young teen; after a month there with my family friends watching French TV, eating French food, listening to French music…I was shaken out of my adolescent egocentrism. I remember walking in Paris one day:  the prototypical overweight, badly dressed American tourist  (T-shirt, shorts, tennis shoes, and white socks pulled up to the knees) came up to me and asked, “Where’s the McDonalds?” I cringed—this is how Parisians see us Americans, as ignorant, uncultured, and uninterested in learning anything new, down to the core.  How sad for us as a country, I thought.

            To know in abstract that other cultures exist out there, different from our own …that’s one superficial level of understanding.  To appreciate that other cultures hold their customs, traditions and holidays as important as we hold ours…that’s an entirely a different, deeper understanding, one that requires stepping out of a self-centered, insular point of view.  And learning (maybe even struggling?) with a different language forces us out of our comfort zone, putting ourselves figuratively in others' shoes.

            Multiculturalism sadly has become an over-used, politically-correct catchphrase.  And in truth, a little knowledge can also be dangerous, leading us equally in paths of ignorance.  But I honestly believe that when the dude and little miss have conversations with our nanny in Portuguese or with me in Vietnamese, they are learning more than just words.  They are learning about the plurality of human expression.  And with that, the door to diversity, respect, and understanding (not just tolerance, mind you) opens a just a little bit wider.

What are you?

Recently I attended a work function with my husband.  Always gracious, he introduced me as his wife to a work colleague and her husband.  The rapid-fire interchange went something like this:

Colleague’s Husband: “Did you say you were Chinese or Japanese?”

Me: (taken aback--I didn't, since I usually introduce myself with my name, not my ethnicity--but after a pause and a smile) “My family is originally from Vietnam.”

CH: “When did you come here?”

Me: “I came here when I was a young child.”

CH: “Oh! That explains the good English accent then. Let me ask you something: I saw a young woman who looked Chinese in the park.  She was really angry and offended when I told her that her English was so good.  Should she have been so offended?”

I will stop there, because it is simply nails on chalkboard from the first sentence.  What are the common threads in these situations: 1) they are usually in “polite company,” 2) the person grilling me inappropriately is usually an older (say my parents’ age) Caucasian person, 3) who may only know how to say “hello” in Chinese (like CH above) or eat sushi from time to time…and thus consider themselves knowledgeable about everything Asian, and therefore 4) are at serious risk for making a major faux pas.

I wish I had the fortitude and strength of our president and first family, who seem to stand proud despite the racism hurled their way from all directions: protesters during the election with signs like “Bring White back in the White House” or criticsm from prominent African Americans that our president isn’t “black” enough.  But I am only human, and in spite of my understanding about sticks and stones, those words do hurt. 

The thing is, just like that young woman walking her dog, I am not looking for a fight.  I really just want to live my life like any other average human being—go to work, enjoy time with my family, go out to dinner or a party—without being grilled like the inquisition about my personal history.  But because of the black hair on my head, my olive complexion and almond-shaped eyes, I look a little chinky.  So I become the Rorschach for well-meaning but ill-guided people out there who want to talk about what they know about Asia to an Asian person (one saving grace: at least CH didn’t call me “Oriental”).  It also stinks that my parents had the audacity to give me a name that wasn’t sufficiently American, so I get lots of flack about that too.  Some choice examples of recent zingers:

In any “Asian-y” restaurant, this time Japanese:

Zinger #1: (turning to me, the lone Asian): “What would you order here? What does ‘XX’ mean?”

Me: “I don’t know, I haven’t been here before. And I am Vietnamese, not Japanese.”

Zinger #1: (confused and disappointed) “Oh, I thought you would know because you are Asian.”

BTW: I never get asked what Zinger #1 should order at Legal Seafood.

Zinger #2: “Doesn’t your name mean ‘XX’” in Chinese?”

Me: “I’m not Chinese.”

Zinger #2: (embarrassed, but laughing): “Oh, I couldn’t help myself.”

On this second point: even after having so many difficulties with my own first name, I gave both my kids Vietnamese names.  So in some ways, I’ve doomed them to a similar fate: of chronic mispronunciation, misspelling, or even worse: of kids (and adults) making fun of how their names sound like or rhyme with...But really, there’s the rub.  I want the dude and little miss to have names that reflect both their cultural backgrounds... just as they look a little like both my husband and myself.  And with that comes the inevitable, since we are all judged by our looks, our names, our voices.

And so, because of my kids (I guess I am a major role model in their life), I am trying understand how best to respond these days to the inevitable zingers.  I haven’t figured out the answer yet.  I often come up with the perfect comeback in hindsight, too late to confront the offender of their ignorance.  In the meantime, I’ll commiserate with other friends and family who go through the same thing.  Case in point, another zinger a friend of mine shared with me.

Me: “I hate it when people ask me where I’m from. They are always unsatisfied with my answer too, that I am from New Orleans.”

Friend: “Well, at least they don’t ask, ‘What are you?’  Now that’s the worst.”

And we just laughed.  What are you, indeed.  Maybe that’s the appropriate response, just to laugh.