Mother tongue, by Amy Tan
I am not a scholar of English or literature. I cannot give you much more than personal opinions on the English language and its variations in this country or others. licenplate
I am a writer. And by that definition, I am someone who has always loved language. I am fascinated by language in daily life. I spend a great deal of my time thinking about the power of language — the way it can evoke an emotion, a visual image, a complex idea, or a simple truth. Language is the tool of my trade. And I u them all — all the Englishes I grew up with.
Recently, I was made keenly aware of the different Englishes I do u. I was giving a talk to a large group of people, the same talk I had already given to half a dozen other groups. The nature of the talk was about my writing, my life, and my book, 即时聊天软件The Joy Luck Club英语四级评分. The talk was going along well enough, until I remembered one major difference that made the whole talk sound wrong. My mother was in the room. And it was perhaps the first time she had heard me give a lengthy speech, using the kind of English I have never ud with her. I was
bustlesaying things like, “The interction of memory upon imagination” and “There is an aspect of my fiction that relates to thus-and-thus’–a speech filled with carefully wrought grammatical phras, burdened, it suddenly emed to me, with nominalized forms, past perfect tens, conditional phras, all the forms of standard English that I had learned in school and through books, the forms of English I did not u at home with my mother.
Just last week, I was walking down the street with my mother, and I again found mylf conscious of the English I was using, the English I do u with her. We were talking about the price of new and ud furniture and I heard mylf saying this: “Not waste money that way.” My husband was with us as well, and he didn’t notice any switch in my English. And then I realized why. It’s becau over the twenty years we’ve been together I’ve often ud that same kind of English with him, and sometimes he even us it with me. It has become our language of intimacy, a different sort of English that relates to family talk, the language I grew up with.
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wheneverwhereverSo you’ll have some idea of what this family talk I heard sounds like, I’11 quote what my
品质因数mother said during a recent conversation which I videotaped and then transcribed. During this conversation, my mother was talking about a political gangster in Shanghai who had the same last name as her family’s, Du, and how the gangster in his early years wanted to be adopted by her family, which was rich by comparison. Later, the gangster became more powerful, far richer than my mother’s family, and one day showed up at my mother’s wedding to pay his respects. Here’s what she said in part: “Du Yusong having business like fruit stand. Like off the street kind. He is Du like Du Zong — but not Tsung-ming Island people. The local people call putong, the river east side, he belong to that side local people. That man want to ask Du Zong father take him in like become own family. Du Zong father wasn’t look down on him, but didn’t take riously, until that man big like become a mafia. Now important person, very hard to inviting him. Chine way, came only to show respect, don’t stay for dinner. Respect for making big celebration, he shows up. Mean gives lots of respect. Chine custom. Chine social life that way. If too important won’t have to stay too long. He come to my wedding. I didn’t e, I heard it. I gone to boy’s side, they have YMCA dinner. Chine age I was nineteen.”
You should know that my mother’s expressive command of English belies how much she actually understands. She reads the Forbes report, listens to Wall Street Week, convers daily with her stockbroker, reads all of Shirley MacLaine’s books with ea–all kinds of things I can’t begin to understand. Yet some of my friends tell me they understand 50 percent of what my mother says. Some say they understand 80 to 90 percent. Some say they understand none of it, as if she were speaking pure Chine. But to me, my mother’s English is perfectly clear, perfectly natural. It’s my mother tongue. Her language, as I hear it, is vivid, direct, full of obrvation and imagery. That was the language that helped shape the way I saw things, expresd things, made n of the world.
Lately, I’ve been giving more thought to the kind of English my mother speaks. Like others, I have described it to people as ‘broken” or “fractured” English. But I wince when I say that. It has always bothered me that I can think of no way to describe it other than “broken,” as if it were damaged and needed to be fixed, as if it lacked a certain wholeness and soundness. I’ve heard other terms ud, “limited English,” for example. B
ut they em just as bad, as if everything is limited, including people’s perceptions of the limited English speaker.
I know this for a fact, becau when I was growing up, my mother’s “limited” English limited my perception of her. I was ashamed of her English. I believed that her English reflected the quality of what she had to say That is, becau she expresd them imperfectly her thoughts were imperfect. And I had plenty of empirical evidence to support me: the fact that people in department stores, at banks, and at restaurants did not take her riously, did not give her good rvice, pretended not to understand her, or even acted as if they did not hear her.
My mother has long realized the limitations of her English as well. When I was fifteen, she ud to have me call people on the phone to pretend I was she. In this gui, I was forced to ask for information or even to complain and yell at people who had been rude to her. One time it was a call to her stockbroker in New York. She had cashed out her small portfolio and it just so happened we were going to go to New York the next week, our ver
y first trip outside California. I had to get on the phone and say in an adolescent voice that was not very convincing, “This is Mrs. Tan.”
And my mother was standing in the back whispering loudly, “Why he don’t nd me check, already two weeks late. So mad he lie to me, losing me money. birthplace
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And then I said in perfect English, “Yes, I’m getting rather concerned. You had agreed to nd the check two weeks ago, but it hasn’t arrived.”
Then she began to talk more loudly. “What he want, I come to New York tell him front of his boss, you cheating me?” And I was trying to calm her down, make her be quiet, while telling the stockbroker, “I can’t tolerate any more excus. If I don’t receive the check immediately, I am going to have to speak to your manager when I’m in New York next week.” And sure enough, the following week there we were in front of this astonished stockbroker, and I was sitting there red-faced and quiet, and my mother, the real Mrs. Tan, was shouting at his boss in her impeccable broken English.
