We are laowai in China. This is made clear to us daily as we walk through the neighborhood and local people whisper, or sometimes shout the word at us. It means "foreigner." Caucasian foreigner, to be precise. There are different words if you are Japanese or of African decent. What is not exactly agreed upon is the is the connotation of the word. Many people presume it to be fairly derogatory, while others (in the minority) understand it to be friendly, or even respectful.
From my personal experience, I would be inclined to shy away from respectful. Certainly we have been in situations where it has been used as a full on derogatory comment, and others where it is seems to be meant descriptively. As in, one man nudges another as we walk past and whispers, "Laowai!" to his neighbor. He's not making fun of us directly, but he's alerting his compatriot that there are aliens in the 'hood. Respectful, though? Not likely.
The other, apparently, often heard word to describe the likes of us white folk around here is "waiguoren." It also means foreigner, although it is apparently considered a more polite description. I don't hear waiguoren so much, but it might be my ear; "laowai" is pretty easy to pick out. It also might be a regional difference. It is possible we are more likely to be called waiguoren in Beijing or Tianjin, but maybe laowai in the relative foreigner-free Nanjing.
Behold the Laowai child! He walks, he talks, he seldom smiles for the camera!
Maybe not so surprisingly in the blog-o-sphere and expat communities, these words are a topic of conversation. And there is discussion around the idea that the meanings may be in transition. The Chinese community in general has moved away from words like yangguizi (foreign devil), which was commonly used in the early 20th century, to the less pejorative terms used today. And as laowia and waiguoren become more common in China, the language connotations may be changing to reflect greater acceptance. We hope, anyway.
My most recent laowai experience was in a taxi. It was one of those days when Jeff needed Jackie to get him to the office, so I dropped the children off and I grabbed a cab home. The taxi driver headed off in a direction that would have gotten me there eventually, but it was far from the fastest way. As he was veering right, I headed him off by shouting, zuo!! or "left!" in Mandarin. He got what I was saying, swerved to the left, clipping only two bicyclists and one electric motor scooter rider, and we were heading in the correct direction. I pasted a mental Post-It on my front left lobe to remind myself that I was going to have to provide the next direction to him, and busied myself with some knitting, car knitting being a totally new skill set that I have picked up here in China (1).
My mental Post-It popped up a few seconds late, just as we were about to pass the road that is our next turn. The good news is that missing that particular turn is not a big deal - you can just take the next turn. The bad news is that as I peeked up from my knitting and saw the familiar corner, that big yellow Post-it apparently blocked my "sensible" receptors and I once again shouted zuo!!, "left!" again.
The really unfortunate bit about this is that as the beleaguered driver heaved a huge sigh and randomly slewed the car around to the left (taking out only three pedestrians and one ubiquitous black Volkswagen Santana) I suddenly realized that I actually meant the other left. You know, not left left, but the other left. Also known as right.
Yes, I'm one of those grownups who must have been out with the chicken poxs when they taught that right /left stuff at school. My riding instructor, the trainer/therapist, tried all kinds of tricks (different colored gloves, a string around one wrist, beating me about the head with a dressage whip), but I have always had a mental block about it. Jeff long ago gave up - between not being able to read a map in a car and not having total clarity around "left" and "right," my usefulness as a navigator is negligible.
But back to the crisis at hand. With Mr. Taxi Driver working his way through the skid clinging to the wheel with one hand (he had a cigarette in the other and was talking on his cell phone, so I was actually pretty grateful that he had the one hand on the wheel), my brain kicked into high gear, and I started shouting, "No, no! I meant you zhuan!" The above was exactly what I shouted, and the mix of English and Mandarin, with the Mandarin tones interpreted randomly, in the adrenaline driven heat of the moment, did nothing to help the situation. He turned to stare at me. This was bad, as we were still skidding around the corner and he was still smoking and holding his cell phone, although no longer talking into it.
"You zhuan! You zhuan!" I shouted again, gesturing toward the road rapidly disappearing behind us. He glared at me, growled something into his phone, shut it down, and with the kind of driving skill that leaves me weak and breathless in not a good way, flipped the taxi around and got us going in the right direction (scattering a small kindergarten class that was crossing the street and nearly taking out the back end of a bus that dared to get in his way). I thanked him for his terrific driving skills, and sunk back in to my seat in an effort to return my heart rate to something under 4,000 beats a minute.
He glared at me again in the rear view mirror and whipped out his cell phone again. And in rapid fire Mandarin told the story of what had just happened to his buddy. While I didn't every word, or nearly ever word, I sure didn't need to. "Laowai! You zhuan! and Zuo! came through loud and clear." As did the hooting laughter coming tinnily through the phone. I sunk deeper in my seat. But, the taxi driver suddenly decided the whole thing really was pretty funny, too and started yucking it up with his buddy. "Laowai! Laowai!" the crowed at each other, snickering. He glanced back at me, decidedly happier.
He hung on up buddy #1, then rang somebody else. He told the story again, this time jovially. I poked my head up from the seat to whisper, occasionally, as necessary, and with great care, "You zhuan." "Zao." Every time I said a word, the now pretty happy taxi driver would guffaw at me, and repeat it into his cell phone, to whichever buddy he was talking to at the time. He called three or four, so my mangled Mandarin got a fair showing over the air waves that day.
It was a draining experience, I have to admit, being totally made fun of a foreign language, and understanding just enough of it to know that I was being made fun of. And yet, even feeling quietly humiliated, I had to admit it was kind of funny. By the time we got to our destination, the driver was in a splendid mood. He gave me a big thumbs up as I staggered out of the cab. I gave him the biggest smile I could muster and a shaky thumb (just one) up. I had listened carefully - at no point did I hear him calling me a foreign devil, so maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt and added the second thumb?
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(1) As one of those people who gets car sick even thinking about reading in a car, I figured I could never knit. Then one day I tried it, and lo and behold, all of my car time has become useful! I still can't read, but for some reason I can knit. I'll take it. Getting at least an hour of quality time knitting in the car a day makes me kind of like being driven around. But only "kind of."
From my personal experience, I would be inclined to shy away from respectful. Certainly we have been in situations where it has been used as a full on derogatory comment, and others where it is seems to be meant descriptively. As in, one man nudges another as we walk past and whispers, "Laowai!" to his neighbor. He's not making fun of us directly, but he's alerting his compatriot that there are aliens in the 'hood. Respectful, though? Not likely.
The other, apparently, often heard word to describe the likes of us white folk around here is "waiguoren." It also means foreigner, although it is apparently considered a more polite description. I don't hear waiguoren so much, but it might be my ear; "laowai" is pretty easy to pick out. It also might be a regional difference. It is possible we are more likely to be called waiguoren in Beijing or Tianjin, but maybe laowai in the relative foreigner-free Nanjing.
Behold the Laowai child! He walks, he talks, he seldom smiles for the camera!
Maybe not so surprisingly in the blog-o-sphere and expat communities, these words are a topic of conversation. And there is discussion around the idea that the meanings may be in transition. The Chinese community in general has moved away from words like yangguizi (foreign devil), which was commonly used in the early 20th century, to the less pejorative terms used today. And as laowia and waiguoren become more common in China, the language connotations may be changing to reflect greater acceptance. We hope, anyway.
My most recent laowai experience was in a taxi. It was one of those days when Jeff needed Jackie to get him to the office, so I dropped the children off and I grabbed a cab home. The taxi driver headed off in a direction that would have gotten me there eventually, but it was far from the fastest way. As he was veering right, I headed him off by shouting, zuo!! or "left!" in Mandarin. He got what I was saying, swerved to the left, clipping only two bicyclists and one electric motor scooter rider, and we were heading in the correct direction. I pasted a mental Post-It on my front left lobe to remind myself that I was going to have to provide the next direction to him, and busied myself with some knitting, car knitting being a totally new skill set that I have picked up here in China (1).
My mental Post-It popped up a few seconds late, just as we were about to pass the road that is our next turn. The good news is that missing that particular turn is not a big deal - you can just take the next turn. The bad news is that as I peeked up from my knitting and saw the familiar corner, that big yellow Post-it apparently blocked my "sensible" receptors and I once again shouted zuo!!, "left!" again.
The really unfortunate bit about this is that as the beleaguered driver heaved a huge sigh and randomly slewed the car around to the left (taking out only three pedestrians and one ubiquitous black Volkswagen Santana) I suddenly realized that I actually meant the other left. You know, not left left, but the other left. Also known as right.
Yes, I'm one of those grownups who must have been out with the chicken poxs when they taught that right /left stuff at school. My riding instructor, the trainer/therapist, tried all kinds of tricks (different colored gloves, a string around one wrist, beating me about the head with a dressage whip), but I have always had a mental block about it. Jeff long ago gave up - between not being able to read a map in a car and not having total clarity around "left" and "right," my usefulness as a navigator is negligible.
But back to the crisis at hand. With Mr. Taxi Driver working his way through the skid clinging to the wheel with one hand (he had a cigarette in the other and was talking on his cell phone, so I was actually pretty grateful that he had the one hand on the wheel), my brain kicked into high gear, and I started shouting, "No, no! I meant you zhuan!" The above was exactly what I shouted, and the mix of English and Mandarin, with the Mandarin tones interpreted randomly, in the adrenaline driven heat of the moment, did nothing to help the situation. He turned to stare at me. This was bad, as we were still skidding around the corner and he was still smoking and holding his cell phone, although no longer talking into it.
"You zhuan! You zhuan!" I shouted again, gesturing toward the road rapidly disappearing behind us. He glared at me, growled something into his phone, shut it down, and with the kind of driving skill that leaves me weak and breathless in not a good way, flipped the taxi around and got us going in the right direction (scattering a small kindergarten class that was crossing the street and nearly taking out the back end of a bus that dared to get in his way). I thanked him for his terrific driving skills, and sunk back in to my seat in an effort to return my heart rate to something under 4,000 beats a minute.
He glared at me again in the rear view mirror and whipped out his cell phone again. And in rapid fire Mandarin told the story of what had just happened to his buddy. While I didn't every word, or nearly ever word, I sure didn't need to. "Laowai! You zhuan! and Zuo! came through loud and clear." As did the hooting laughter coming tinnily through the phone. I sunk deeper in my seat. But, the taxi driver suddenly decided the whole thing really was pretty funny, too and started yucking it up with his buddy. "Laowai! Laowai!" the crowed at each other, snickering. He glanced back at me, decidedly happier.
He hung on up buddy #1, then rang somebody else. He told the story again, this time jovially. I poked my head up from the seat to whisper, occasionally, as necessary, and with great care, "You zhuan." "Zao." Every time I said a word, the now pretty happy taxi driver would guffaw at me, and repeat it into his cell phone, to whichever buddy he was talking to at the time. He called three or four, so my mangled Mandarin got a fair showing over the air waves that day.
It was a draining experience, I have to admit, being totally made fun of a foreign language, and understanding just enough of it to know that I was being made fun of. And yet, even feeling quietly humiliated, I had to admit it was kind of funny. By the time we got to our destination, the driver was in a splendid mood. He gave me a big thumbs up as I staggered out of the cab. I gave him the biggest smile I could muster and a shaky thumb (just one) up. I had listened carefully - at no point did I hear him calling me a foreign devil, so maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt and added the second thumb?
______________________________________________________________________________________
(1) As one of those people who gets car sick even thinking about reading in a car, I figured I could never knit. Then one day I tried it, and lo and behold, all of my car time has become useful! I still can't read, but for some reason I can knit. I'll take it. Getting at least an hour of quality time knitting in the car a day makes me kind of like being driven around. But only "kind of."
Ha I had a friend in high school who couldnt take direction either. But we did find a trick that worked. Instead of left or right it was up or down. This would be for the turn signal and then she would know which way we were going.
Posted by: Carosello | May 30, 2008 at 07:18 PM