A Chinese In Chinatown
by Yawen — March, 2019
Being Chinese is something that my mother has always made sure I understood.
“You are Chinese, you should enjoy Chinese New Year.”
“Speak more Mandarin please.”
“Aiyo, why is your Mandarin so broken?”
These were peppered in our conversations whenever I bring up how I don’t really enjoy the festivities of Chinese New Year or attempt to speak Mandarin. Admittedly, my skills in speaking my mother tongue isn’t fantastic and laughable, especially when I try to say some Chinese proverb.
I tend to avoid any situation where I ever have to whip out my rusty Mandarin skills, though I find that I somehow perform better when there are others around me speaking the same first language (often at a much higher level of proficiency).
You may be wondering why the sudden revelation and interest in my Chinese culture and Mandarin-speaking skills. It all started with a trip to Chinatown for a catchup with friends that ended up becoming more of a deep dive into my Chinese roots, and how distant I’ve become from it.
Even ordering the food at People’s Park Food Centre was daunting for me. I mean, what if I accidentally ordered 大辣 (big spicy) instead of 中辣 (middle spicy) for the 麻辣香锅 (spicy stir-fry hot pot)? Or just said ‘yes ‘to everything just cause I had no idea what the lady who took my order was telling me and unknowingly agreed to something I didn’t want. In the end, my friend came to save the day, but mainly because I insisted that I would’ve messed up the order.
After surviving the fiery fury of the food and equally blazing hot weather that day, my friends took their leave whilst I stayed behind to take some pictures and put my Mandarin to the test. I mean, how bad would I be?
I stood in the middle of the jam-packed traffic of people, trying to focus on whatever caught my attention, and finally, I zoomed in to a man sitting under a brightly coloured umbrella, busy brushing a pair of shoes. I beeline towards him, knowing that the time has come for me to shine.
“Uncle, 我可不可以拍你的照片吗?” (Uncle, may I take a picture of you?)
What I found surprising was that though he replied mostly in Mandarin, he tried to incorporate English into his question when asking what I was taking the pictures for.
“可以啊! Why you want to 拍我的照片 leh?” (Sure! Why do you want to take my picture?)
I sheepishly smiled and counted down, in Mandarin, ‘1, 2, 3’.
Perhaps it was because I was a young person approaching him, or maybe he himself wanted to practice his English. But that small interaction gave me the courage to further explore Chinatown.
I went up into People’s Park Complex, panting as I ascended up what seemed like a never-ending flight of stairs (my mortal enemy).
Seriously, this place is thronging with old folks, couldn’t they have made it less strenuous? Imagine a 70-year-old person climbing up these steps (I’m 17 by the way).
The moment I reached the summit, my eyes locked on to the silhouette of an elderly man, looking out over the hustle and bustle of Chinatown. He was silent, still and calm, unlike the bright crimson red of the lantern that hung on the railings in-front of him.
“哎哟 小姐，大部分都老了，怎样做呢？又没有那么多人来这里,” (Miss, most of us are old, how can we continue? Anyway, not a lot of people come here anymore) was the reply I got when I asked, in fluent Mandarin might I add, why many stalls around were closed so early in the day (it was 1PM).
Ghost town or not, I ventured on into the complex and its thousand and one textile shops. After about 20 minutes of walking in circles (literally) round each section of shops, I decided to leave.
On the MRT ride home (West side best side), I pulled out my pocket-sized notebook for me to scribble and doodle whatever I felt.
“Bustling. Noisy. Variation of smells.” I noted these down, then drew a rather ugly interpretation of 糖葫芦 (candied haws). Oh, those bloody beautiful glossy neon red balls…
Sincerely, I felt like I expanded; my horizons felt wider and my confidence in speaking Mandarin was at its peak.
Guess those 5 arduous years of Higher Chinese in primary school came in handy after all…(I dropped out in my final year by the way).
I did not expect a trip to Chinatown to reveal so much about myself to me. Honestly, I thought I would have just crumbled from fear and leave, but I suppose there were other forces at hand that day, prompting me to stay, to poke and prod my almost shrivelled Mandarin capabilities.
A deeper connection to my Chinese culture was formed, no doubt. Yes, I do, at times, hesitate to speak Mandarin, but I almost feel like I owe it to the shoe repairman and sock stall uncle to be confident in myself, in my 能力 (capabilities). I mean, it could be a matter of life or death someday y’know…
Will I be going back? Maybe.
Alone? Possibly.
But I know that Chinatown will always welcome me with open arms and embrace me like the absolutely delicious 煎饼 (fried pancakes) that can be found near the entrance of People’s Park Complex, warm and toasty.
Now where to next…?
