By Li Meng de Bakker
Why do so many expats never learn Cantonese? It’s an uncomfortable question, but especially so for me, because I wear it on my sleeve: one side of my family is Singaporean Cantonese, and my first name is Li Meng.
Every now and then I meet a local for the first time and it doesn’t register to them that Li Meng is a Chinese name. How do I know this? Because after some time they invariably say something along the lines of, “You know, that sounds kind of Chinese.” In those moments I am awed by the realization that only being able to communicate with them in English can generate a sense of “otherness” so strong that a recognizably Chinese name and face (I am half-Chinese) could be interpreted as something else.
We have a dichotomy in Hong Kong where local Chinese often use two names (Chinese and English) but expats generally do not, at least not beyond one side of a business card. Of course it would be ridiculous to expect expats arriving to Hong Kong to assume new names in adulthood, for example, but that doesn’t mean there are no implications. By using a “Western” name, Chinese speakers can claim some ownership of that language and, by definition, that culture. Conversely, without any linguistic stake in local Hong Kong, a foreigner is unlikely to engage with its culture on a deeper level, and the lazy expat is born.
Let’s take a look at one of the most popular excuses used in defence of not learning Cantonese: everybody here speaks English so well. Yes, this is true: Hongkongers are impressive linguists, so while getting around solely in English is easy, this justification falls apart quickly. Consider the following: after living in Rome for 10 years, Jane has near to no grasp of the Italian language. It sounds almost impossible—ridiculous—and yet it happens here all the time. What jumps to mind immediately is a sense of loss, and it’s one I know too well, as neither of my parents’ native languages were passed down to my brother and I.
When I was an undergraduate at the University of Hong Kong, I had gone in promising myself to learn Chinese (Mandarin, at the time), but stopped after a few semesters to focus on other credits. Rooming in a student hall on campus, I got to live the local university experience, but when it came to the frequent and mandatory hall obligations, like High Table Dinners, the lingua franca was Cantonese. In those moments I inwardly tried to reconcile feelings of frustration at being excluded, as well as guilt for never having learned. I became apathetic and lazy, allowing a busy schedule to justify putting off something I inwardly knew I should do.