The Language Barrier - Or, why a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl has to explain that I was born in South Korea

“They will probably think less of you for not speaking the language,” warned Steve Wasiura, regarding the fact that I look Asian, despite being about as culturally American as you can get. Quick primer, I was born in South Korea, adopted when I was six months old, and lived in Illinois and Michigan my entire life. Many a person has also related this story to the closest Beijing resident, attempting to explain why, despite the fact I look very Chinese, I can’t speak the language!

I knew I had a problem the first week on campus. Our building, the University run hotel, is essentially a location where foreigners only stay. The building is manned twenty-four hours a day (nominally, I’ve seen the doorman fast asleep at later hours), and the employees can theoretically ask for your ID. Because I look like, yes, a Chinese, I was stopped the first day trying to enter. I had my student ID with me, and simply showed them, and they let me pass. I thought that because this is the system at AU, I would just have to show my ID every day. My first clue this wasn’t the case was coming back one evening with several of the folks, and realizing that I was the only person being carded. Charming.

Anyway, this continued, to the point where two employees rushed out after me one morning to try and identify me. I was leaving the building. In the morning. And I was still “carded.” At this point, the building employees, as well as the campus police guarding the international studies building, all recognize me and my trenchcoat (my first idea was to strap an American flag patch on my shoulder), so there isn’t any trouble.

It also makes for some relatively entertaining situations for my comrades here on the program. The girl referred to, Katie (Gordon College), speaks Chinese much better than I, and at lunch with her and several other friends in Pingyao, we struck up a conversation with the waitress. She spoke passable english, a benefit of serving mostly foreigners at the western-style restaurant, but my friends took the opportunity to chat with her in Chinese. At this point, although I knew maybe 10% of the words, or less, I was able to pick up a great deal from context. At one point, as I knew would happen, the waitress looked squarely at me, and asked something like, “What about him?” “Ta bu shi Zhongguo ren,” she explained (he is not Chinese), “ta shi Meiguo ren.” (He is American). This led to a lively ten minute conversation, attempting to explain South Korea, adoption, and Michigan, all in Chinese. I’m close to memorizing “I was adopted and was born in South Korea.”

Fortunately, there is one benefit–I am not automatically swarmed by local vendors hoping to make a fast kuai (currency) off of the rich Westerners. At the Silk Market, that bastion of cheap, negotiable (and fake) goods, I recall walking down a hallway with two friends behind me. No less than eight shopkeepers jumped out of their stalls, came right at me . . . and then passed me by, to shout “you buy, cheap, good quality!” at my (caucasian) friends behind me.

Although the humor wore off a long time ago, the program folks still get a kick out of it. The reality is that it happens all the time. Last week, our classroom was locked, and instead of asking our (clearly Chinese) professor, the night guard looked at me and rattled out what I presume was “which room do you need unlocking?” This Sunday, as is apt to happen, in a cab, the cab driver looked at me after one of us butchered the destination, expecting me to magically know where to go and how to tell him. I laughed, and said “I don’t know.” (I don’t know).