What It’s Like To Be The Other
Ben Ross quoted an excellent passage from East of Eden by John Steinbeck, published in 1952. It shows through story what it feels like to be a foreigner in a relatively closed off place or country (and place is a better way of putting things: There are still plenty of places in America where most people will not see you as an individual but as a foreigner).
Reading the passage struck something core inside – it’s hard not to identify with Lee despite his being unable to find any place to call ‘home’ (I can still go home) and not being in a place of ‘privilege’ (being treated more ‘politely’ instead of encountering flat out racism like Lee, having access to higher paying jobs than the average local just because you are a foreigner, etc). His experience of finding few people who will see him for who he truly is rings very familiar.
The Other
In Steinbeck’s story quoted from below, Lee is an American, but few can see him for that. Ironically, the real foreigner is able to blend in after a number of years, just because of his skin color.
The following speaks for itself:
“What’s your name?” Samuel asked pleasantly.
“Lee. Got more name. Lee papa family name. Call Lee.”
“I’ve read quite a lot about China. You born in China?”
“No. Born here.”
Samuel was silent for quite a long time while the buggy lurched down the wheel track toward the dusty valley. “Lee,” he said at last, “I mean no disrespect, but I’ve never been able to figure why you people still talk pidgin when an illiterate baboon from the black bogs of Ireland, with a head full of Gaelic and a tongue like a potato, learns to talk a poor grade of English in ten years.”
Lee grinned. “Me talkee Chinese talk,” he said.
“Well, I guess you have your reasons. And it’s not my affair. I hoe you’ll forgive me if I don’t believe it, Lee.”
Lee looked at him and the brown eyes under their rounded upper lids seemed to open and deepen until they weren’t foreign any more, but man’s eyes, warm with understanding. Lee chuckled. “It’s more than a convenience,” he said. “It’s even more than self-protection. Mostly we have to use it to be understood at all.”
Samuel showed no sign of having observed any change. “I can understand the first two,” he said thoughtfully, “but the third escapes me.”
Lee said, “I know it’s hard to believe, but it has happened so often to me and to my friends that we take it for granted. If I should go up to a lady or a gentleman, for instance, and speak as I am doing now, I wouldn’t be understood.”
“Why not?”
“Pidgin they expect, and pidgin they’ll listen to. But English from me they don’t listen to, and so they don’t understand it.”
“Can that be possible? How do I understand you?”
“That’s why I’m talking to you. You are one of the rare people who can separate your observation from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect.”
“I hadn’t thought of it. And I’ve not been so tested as you, but what you say has a candle of truth. You know, I’m very glad to talk to you. I’ve wanted to ask so many questions.”
“Happy to oblige.”
“So many questions. For instance, you wear the queue. I’ve read that it is a badge of slavery imposed by conquest by the Manchus on the Southern Chinese.”
“That is true.”
“Then why in the name of God do you wear it here, where the Manchus can’t get at you?”
“Talkee Chinese talk. Queue Chinese fashion—you savvy?”
Samuel laughed loudly. “That does have the green touch of convenience,” he said. “I wish I had a hidey-hole like that.”
“I’m wondering whether I can explain,” said Lee. “Where there is no likeness of experience it’s very difficult. I understand you were not born in America.”
“No, in Ireland.”
“And in a few years you can almost disappear; while I, who was born in Grass Valley, went to school and several years to the University of California, have no chance of mixing.”
“If you cut your queue, dressed and talked like other people?”
“No. I tried it. To the so-called whites I was still a Chinese, but an untrustworthy one; and at the same time my Chinese friends steered clear of me. I had to give it up.”
Le pulled up under a tree, got out and unfastened the check rein. “Time for lunch,” he said. “I made a package. Would you like some?”
“Sure I would. Let me get down in the shade there. I forget to eat sometimes and that’s strange because I’m always hungry. I’m interested in what you say. It has a sweet sound of authority. Now it peeks into my mind that you should go back to China.”
Lee smiled satirically at him. “In a few minutes I don’t think you’ll find a loose bar I’ve missed in a lifetime of search. I did go back to China. My father was a fairly successful man. It didn’t work. They said I looked like a foreign devil; they said I spoke like a foreign devil. I made mistakes in manners, and I didn’t know delicacies that had grown up since my father left. They wouldn’t have me. You can believe it or not—I’m less foreign here than I was in China.”
“I’ll have to believe you because it’s reasonable. You’ve given me things to think about until at least February twenty-seventh. Do you mind my questions?”
“As a matter of fact, no. The trouble with pidgin is that you get to thinking in pidgin. I write a great deal to keep my English up. Hearing and reading aren’t the same as speaking and writing.”
“Don’t you ever make a mistake? I mean, break into English?”
“No, I don’t. I think it’s a matter of what is expected. You look at a man’s eyes, you see that he expects pidgin and a shuffle, so you speak pidgin and a shuffle.”
“I guess that’s right,” said Samuel. “In my own way I tell jokes because people come all the way to my place to laugh. I try to be funny for them even when the sadness is on me.”
“But the Irish are said to be a happy people, full of jokes.”
“There’s your pidgin and your queue. They’re not. They’re a dark people with a gift for suffering way past their deserving. It’s said that without whisky to soak and soften the world, they’d kill themselves. But they tell jokes because it’s expected of them.”
Lee unwrapped a little bottle. “Would you like some of this? Chinee drink ng-ka-py.”
“What is it?”
“Chinee blandy. Stlong dlink—as a matter of fact it’s a brandy with a dosage of wormwood. Very powerful. It softens the world.”
Samuel sipped from the bottle. “Tastes a little like rotten apples,” he said.
“Yes, but nice rotten apples. Taste it back along your tongue toward the roots.”
Samuel took a big swallow and tilted his head back. “I see what you mean. That is good.”
“Here are some sandwiches, pickles, cheese, a can of buttermilk.”
“You do well.”
“Yes, I see to it.”
Samuel bit into a sandwich. “I was shuffling over half a hundred questions. What you said brings the brightest one up. You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. The only thing I do want to ask of you is not to talk this way when other people are listening. It would only confuse them and they wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“I’ll try,” said Samuel. “If I slip, just remember that I’m a comical genius. It’s hard to split a man down the middle and always to reach for the same half.”
What do you think?
Yes, I believe it’s true and not just for race/ethnicity, but also for religion.
JD – Definitely true. Religion is a big one (and there are many ways/reasons that people are seen as ‘The Other’).
I feel like I often have the same language problem here. When I speak Chinese to people, they are so strongly expecting me to speak English rather than Chinese, and they cannot understand what I am saying, even if my Chinese is perfect.
Or, if my Chinese is not perfect–like if I am using words that are new to me–they do not even make the tiniest attempt at trying to derive my meaning.
However, I have found that taxi drivers are some of the greatest people to practice my Chinese on. They are surprisingly patient if you try to strike up a conversation.
I once had a driver that actually defended me. We hadn’t spoken much and were about halfway through the ride when a car pulled up beside us. They had loud crappy techno playing, and without looking, I could seriously feel several pairs of eyes buring a hole in me. Without looking up I muttered something like ‘boring assholes’ in Chinese.
Well, the driver heard me and was apparently amused. He started repeating what I was saying to the guys in the car. He quite liked that I knew enough to lay out a string of insults to the gawkers. He even went so far as to lose the car.
We had quite a nice little conversation after that, and he was very forgiving of my broken Chinese.
Hi Belle -
Yeah, taxi drivers are great to talk to.
There are always those that will not understand what you’re saying at first. All it seems that can be done is speak up, look people straight in the eye, and not hesitate. That way at least most people switch their thought processes quick enough to listen.
ps – nice to see you again