What the Taxi Driver Said

At one point in my life, I could fluently speak Chinese. Really—I have many fond memories of this elusive ability. As a kid visiting Taiwan, for example, taxi drivers would often compliment the fluency I demonstrated with Mandarin phrases such as, “I’m eight,” “I’m from the United States,” and “Are we there yet?”

The taxi drivers I’ve met this summer, however, no longer ask me where I’ve learned such good Chinese. Instead, when I attempt to relay my destination, they invariably turn to me, raising their eyebrows through the standard plastic panel that encases the driver’s seat. For the first few days, I thought (or hoped) that their looks of confusion had more to do with the plastic—maybe they couldn’t hear me through its one-eighth inch thickness?

One driver, however, quickly dispelled my doubts. “Where are you from?” He added as an explanation: “You looked more Chinese before you started talking.”

At first, I was confused (and even a little upset) by what seemed like such a drastic decline my prowess in the Chinese language. I lamented to a friend over the phone: “What happened? I could speak Chinese so well when I was little!”

“Well, you’re not eight anymore,” suggested my friend thoughtfully. “Maybe, they expect more words to come out of your mouth in, you know, a somewhat sophisticated manner.”

Oh, right.

So it wasn’t that my language skills had taken a sudden plummet—I had never been particularly fluent Chinese speaker! But no longer confused, I was still inexplicably troubled.

“We speak good enough Chinese for Americans,” commented another friend comfortingly, who, having emigrated from Shanghai to the U.S. when she was four and returned at 19, found herself in similar situations. She’s right, of course. Most of the Chinese I’ve met that were born or raised in the U.S. seem to—despite our sometimes atrocious accents—speak enough of the language to get around.

Even for those who don’t speak any Chinese, Shanghai is a fairly easy city to navigate. Compulsory education in China now requires that students study English from a fairly young age. For those who hope to enter more professional careers, speaking decent English is almost always required. Moreover, establishments that cater to Westerners in the city hire staff members who can communicate with foreign customers. As an American expatriate pointed out, he hasn’t learned much Chinese since his arrival six months ago; it’s not absolutely necessary.

It seems then, that my feeling of uneasiness about my questionable knack for putong hua (Chinese for “common language,” Mandarin) is not that I’m seriously handicapped by it. Rather, I’m embarrassed by my ineptitude with a language I’ve spoken since I was born—bothered that there are some parts of my family’s culture that are not naturally inherited but require a conscious effort to understand.

More troubling is that my awkwardness with the language echoes my general ignorance about certain Chinese issues. When asked about my opinion of Chinese-Taiwanese relations—a popular question since my parents emigrated from Taiwan—I have neither the knowledge nor cultural finesse to give a satisfactory answer. I’m continually reminded that identity is not just who you think you are but must also encompass the perceptions of others. Telling the people I meet here I’m American won’t change my ignorance of my family’s culture and language; in fact, it exacerbates the problem.

Of course, being born and raised in the U.S. will always give me some leeway for my clumsiness here in China. However, it’s an excuse that, like once being eight years old, I’ll hopefully stop using soon.



Gracye Y. Cheng ’10 is a Crimson Fifteen Minutes editor in Currier House.