TOISHANESE

Now here's the thing. I spent several hours in Chinatown yesterday.
I purchased my necessities and essentials, I ordered a Hong Kong stye milktea, and two pastries to snack upon, and I interacted with an elderly Hokkien-speaking gentleman while in a Cantonese bakery.
I even translated for two disoriented French-speakers.
Without using one word of English.

Yet according to John K., who is "old Chinatown", older than me, and part of the generation that fought against racism and anti-Chinese sentiment in the sixties, I am faking it.
Because I don't know what I'm talking about.
And cannot possibly speak Chinese.
White guy faking it. Yep.

If so, several shopkeepers and coffee-shop counter girls, two old geezers, and a twenty something year old are too. Because they understood everything I said. In my "fake" Cantonese.


Know something?


Screw you John, screw Frank Chin, screw Maxine Hong Kongston, screw Amy Tan, and screw all of those "we so special we speak-ee old style Chinese we long-time Californ' we real Chinatown" types. Y'all grew up with your parent's ridiculous Toishanese country bumpkin dialect in your ears, you go into Chinatown and utter your transplanted rice-paddy squawks, and you insist that everyone listen to you, but you don't realize that you sound like turds, your accents and horrible diction mark you as old hat, and your godforsaken primitive dialect paints you into a corner of bitter stuck-up pretentious 'me so special' second generation expert on everything Chinatown.

Okay, you grew up in the sixties.

When Chinese folks were not accepted as real Americans.

The world owes you, you're genuine, you resent having been just "Chinamen". Proud American Chinese-ness is your commodity.
No one else is so utterly perfect at Chinese OR American sh*t.


I am sorry all of you have acid indigestion; maybe too many hamburgers? Milk shakes? Too much cheese? Bubble tea go down the wrong hole?




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