“Chinglish”
Ever since its creation, language has been an integral thread in the varied tapestry of mankind. From the cave etchings in the earliest days of man to the complex tongues spoken all over the world today, language has evolved to be much more than a practical system of communication — it is an ever-evolving amalgamation of the history and values of different cultures and beliefs. That is why Gloria Anzaldua, celebrated writer of the Chicana and feminist movements, asserts that “ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity — I am my language.” From the gradual transformation of a language, one can trace the past, present, and even the future of a distinct group of people itself. Language and identity are intricately linked, for language is one of the primary ways in which one is able to communicate their identity to others.
In many ways, I can relate to Anzaldua’s points. Growing up in the expatriate family lifestyle, I moved around frequently and as such never felt like I set down firm roots anywhere. Rather than Chinese, my mother tongue, English became my primary language due to my Western education abroad. Moving back to an international bilingual school in Taiwan, many of my fellow peers shared similar backgrounds. Despite being able to speak both Chinese and English, my Chinese ability was far from local standards, and while I was fluent in English I still felt as if I did not entirely belong to the English culture even though I had grown up in the shadow of its influence. We were lingual outsiders in our own home country.
Because of this, many of us conversed in a strange fusion of Chinese and English, combining local phrases and English slang together in an eclectic mix of words. Oftentimes when outside, locals would glance over at us quizzically, either puzzled at our strange use of Chinese or amazed at our excellent English. Like Anzaldua, we had to “accommodate” others by switching back to plain Chinese or English. I suppose the way we spoke was “illegitimate” because it was only able to be embraced and fully understood by a select minority of us who shared comparable backgrounds. Of course, we were able to communicate effectively in either language, but many of us frequently fell back into our particular brand of “Chinglish.” I suspect it is because of its familiarity — a fragmented and disjointed reminder of our identities and shared cultures but a reminder nonetheless.
Like Anzaldua insinuates, it’s easy to see how one can be left feeling as though one doesn’t truly belong when they speak a combination of languages that they share no deep connection to. Indeed, I sometimes felt a pang of embarrassment when speaking Chinglish outside, as if it were a confused hodgepodge that had no place anywhere. However, she asserts that “until I can take pride in my language, I cannot take pride in myself.” Patois, or even just informal linguistic combinations like “Chinglish,” aren’t ugly butchering's of “legitimate” languages, rather, they are unique fusions of linguistic histories and a celebration of identities. They aren’t mutually exclusive; one can proudly speak in their “forked languages” while respecting the base languages that made up its framework. Building upon Anzaldua’s words, I would argue that linguistic identity is not just a ‘twin skin’ to ethnic identity but to personal identity as well.
Noam Chomsky once said “a language is not just words. It’s a culture, a tradition, a unification of a community, a whole history that creates what a community is. It’s all embodied in a language.” That’s the beauty of language: its ability to express and get at the core of what a community is, and whatever linguistic choices that allow one to express their own sense of identity and community are inherently legitimate.