I try to explain: “How to say a word which represents a kind of noise from the arse?”
“What?”
“You know that. You know it is a wind comes from between two legs.”
“It’s called a fart.”
Fart?
The old man who reads the newspaper stares at us for several seconds, then buries himself into the paper again.
I never hear English person says anything about fart. They must be too shameful to pronounce that sound. There are lots of words we used in China so often, but here people never use it. Even English dictionary say it is a “taboo.”
“ ”
is fart in Chinese. It is the word made up from two parts.
is a symbol of a body with tail, and underneath that
represent two legs. That means fart, a kind of Chi. If a person have that kind of Chi regularly in his daily life that means he is very healthy. Chi (
), everything to do with Chi is very important to us Chinese. We had so many words related to Chi, like Tai-Chi, or Chi-Gong, or Chi-Chang.
Yes, fart, I want remember this word. Is the response means you enjoys a good homely cooking, after big meal. Mans in China loves to use this word everyday.
You are still concentrating on your Guardian, something serious about the terrorism. I am talking to nobody. The old man next table sees I am fed up, so says to me:
“I’m off, darling. Do you want my paper?”
He leaves the café but turns his head looking at me again.
I pick the newspaper from his table. There is a headline:
LOST FOR WORDS-THE LANGUAGE OF AN ENDANGERED SPECIES
It is a story about ninety-eight-year-old Chinese woman just died. She is the last speaker of womans-only language: “Nushu.” This four-hundred-year-old secret language being used by Chinese womans to express theys innermost feeling. The paper say because no womans practise that secret codes anymore, it marks that language died after her death.
I want create my own “Nushu.” Maybe this notebook which I use for putting new English vocabularies is a “Nushu.” Then I have my own privacy. You know my body, my everyday’s life, but you not know my “Nushu.”
home
home n. 1. a place where one lives; 2. an institution for the care of the elderly, orphans, etc.-adj. 1. of one’s home, birthplace, or native country; 2. sport played on one’s own ground.
“I am going to go to see a family nearby, do you want to come?” you ask me.
“Family? What kind of family? Not your family?”
“No. They are Bengalis.”
Is not very normal you want see other family. Because you not really like family concept. You say family against community. You say family is a selfish product.
It seems that you like other’s family more than you like your own. In this Bengali family, you know those kids for many years, since you worked as youth worker. In a house, between Brick Lane and Bethnal Green Road, old Bengali mother raises ten children. Is big three-floor house with ten little rooms. Five childrens are from same mother, and another five childrens are from another woman but with the same man. The father, a Bengali married man, came to London twenty-five years ago and remarried to this mother in London. He ran some business between England and Bangladesh. Then he died, left one family in London, one family in Bangladesh. But the five Bangladesh-living children want come to London, so they were brought here living with this London mother. These kids are from three to twenty-four. The youngest one was born in 2000. How strange a child born of that year! He only can say “bye-bye” in English. The oldest one just graduated from the Goldsmith College. He studied Politics and he wants become lawyer.
“I not understand how mother can raise ten children without a husband,” I say in little voice. “And she doesn’t have any job either!”
“That’s why I like this family. They just get on with their life without making any fuss. They have a small business making earrings and necklaces from home.”
“And two groups of children from different mother, they don’t fight at all?”
“No. They enjoy sharing life together, not like other families. I wish my family was like this.”
“Do you hate your family?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t like them. They are sad people. I broke away from them many years ago.”
You go into silent.
I can’t imagine what like to break up with my family. Even though my mother very bad temper and make me pain, my life relies on them, and I can’t survive without them.
“Do you want have family with me?” I ask.
“Aren’t we a family now?” you say.
“No, a real family.”
“What is a real family?”
‘“House, husband and wife, then have some children, then cooking dinner together, then travel together…”
“I thought the Chinese were supposed to be Communists.”
You seem like making fun. What you mean?
We look at each other, no more discussion on this.
You say salaam malai coom to the old mother. The mother, she is covered in old green Sari. Her skin is deep brown and lots of wrinkles on her face. She never any education and never speak one word English. She always smiles and very little talking. When her children talks in English loudly in TV room and watching BBC she just sit there, peacefully watching, like she understand they say. Bathroom flush doesn’t work and shower doesn’t work. There is not money to fix house. But it seem fine for them. It seem their life is not messy at all. They use cold-water-shower once a week, and they don’t use toilet paper because they always use water to clean then tip bucket down loo.
There are drug dealers doing business outside of their windows, and many drunkens pass by with bottles clunkling every night, but the family not get any harm.
In Chinese, it is the same word “
” (jia) for “home” and “family” and sometimes including “house.” To us, family is same thing as house, and this house is their only home too. “
,” a roof on top, then some legs and arms inside. When you write this character down, you can feel those legs and arms move around underneath the roof. Home, is a dwelling house for the family to live.
But English, it’s different. In Roget’s Thesaurus, “Family” related to: subdivision, greed, genealogy, parental, posterity, community, nobility.
It seems like that “family” doesn’t mean a place. Maybe in West people just move round from one house to another house? Always looking for a house, maybe that’s the lifelong job for Westerners.
I keep telling you I need a home. Your face look gloomy, and seem disappointed that you cannot make me happy.
“But I am your home,” you say.
“Yes, but you always move around, and you don’t want live in this house.”
“You’re right. I’m tired of living in the city.” Then you add, “I can’t see myself getting married either.”
“But I like city and like to have marriage. So that mean we can’t have a home together,” I confirm.
“No, I didn’t say that,” you say.
You look distant to me.
Love mean home. Or, home mean love?
The fear of without home. Maybe that why I love you? The simple fear?
I am building the Great Wall around you and me because I am too scared to lose the home. I been living in that big fear since my childhood.