Alas, The Language Genius

“Jae reh peep… saa haa jip… oo saa haa gaam… gaa vee peet… joh jaa…”

One by one, I read out these Khmer words which caught my attention at a recent tripartite meeting involving government officials, trade union representatives and factory managers.

“Sustainability… trade union… industry… schedule… negotiate…”

One by one, also, Savon, my Khmer friend, patiently explained to me the words’ meaning.

I continued to read from my list, including words which did not make any “Khmer sense,” and in the end, Savon commented, “Phoebe, you are so smart! You have caught such big words!”

“Oo-goon,” I said. Looking at her eager face, I repeated more earnestly, “Oo-goon jeraan.”

Thank you. Thank you very much. Ironically, of all the big words I have learned, “thank you” is the only phrase which came across my mind at that moment. Secretly, I asked myself, “Where is my daily life vocabulary?” Yes, I can listen and understand, but I cannot make any verbal comments. In fact, the more Khmer I get to understand, the more I realize my inability to speak.

Having lived in several countries, I know how it feels to enter a strange land and think that “foreign peoples” (from my point of view), speaking in foreign languages, are always talking about me. When my eyes meet those of a street vendor, and then when she turns around and speak with someone else, I would instinctively feel that I am their topic of discussion. To save myself from such anxiety, I would like to be able to understand and also be able to speak enough so that people know that I understand. But learning to speak is really easier said than done.

These thoughts remind me of a recent conversation with a missionary couple from Hong Kong who spent ten years in the Philippines with their three kids. They sent their eight-year-old son to a Christian international school which used English, Mandarin and Filipino as the languages of instruction. Hakka, a southern Chinese dialect, is sometimes used by the ethnic Chinese teachers as well. From day to day, the boy would return home, do his homework neatly and get good grades at tests and exams in all three languages. In fact, in their prayer letter back to their home church in Hong Kong, the missionaries cited with grace their son’s “smooth transition.” In response, the congregation wrote back in excitement, “Your son must be a language genius!”

Alas, their son was the “language genius” only until the parent-teacher day.

Sitting the classroom, the teacher looked at the boy’s excellent results but sternly commented, “This is all good… but is your son dumb?” Before the missionaries could talk back in protest, the teacher added, “He has not spoken one word in class or in recess time with us or his classmates.”

Puzzled, the parents insisted that the teacher visit their home for dinner one night. To the teacher’s surprise, at home, the son behaved just like any other kid. He played with his siblings, argued over toys, fought over the TV remote control and yelled for daddy and mammy when his older brother bullied him. Yes, he could listen and understand Mandarin, English and Filipino; but he just could not speak them. He could only speak Cantonese, the language the family spoke at home.

The son, from then on, got back on track with his speaking abilities. The point of this story, though, is that I sometimes feel like that poor little boy – understanding what people are saying but cannot make any verbal response.

Yesterday night, I returned home from a choir practice with my Singaporean neighbour. We spoke with the landlord’s mother, which I respectfully call yaay (grandmother in Khmer). Or, more accurately, she spoke with yaay; I listened. I knew they were talking about yaay’s health, an old shoulder injury which has started to che (hurt) again. I understood that she has been to the pheet (doctor) and that she has nyam tnam (take medicine). But medicines have not worked. My friend told her to haat braan (exercise) by swinging her arms, from bon dtik bon dtuuik (small actions) to klang klang (large movements). To start with, she advised yaay to repeat the motion bpram dong (five times) and then gradually do deeut deeut hi (more and more). I stood there and nodded to show that I understood. But really, I hope I could echo my friend’s advice and be part of this conversation.