Mother Tongue9 min read

Illustration by Anderson X. Lee

“Four!” I exclaim.

I’m sitting with my mom at the dining room table, August sun shining through the windows. She just asked how many languages I speak now.

“英文、法文、廣東話同國語,” (English, French, Cantonese, and Mandarin), she counts on her fingers in Cantonese before praising me in Mandarin. “很厲害!” (That’s amazing!)

I recently returned to Canada after four weeks in Taipei, Taiwan. I’m recounting my adventures to my mom, and as usual by now, we speak mostly in English and Mandarin with occasional Cantonese—our native Chinese dialect. The conversation eventually turns towards how my mom is doing. Suddenly, she sighs. “你記唔記得 Annie 姨姨?” (Do you remember Auntie Annie?)

She isn’t actually my aunt, but when I was little, I thought she was. My family and I often went to Toronto, and every time, we stayed with Annie. After lunch, she and my mom raced to cover the bill at dim sum restaurants and Congee Queen. After home-cooked dinners, their rowdy laughter would ring from the dining room amid the clack of 麻將 tiles. To me, Annie was just mom’s friend from China who has a comfortable air mattress in the basement. But to my mom, Annie was basically a sister. 

“我哋唔係朋友喇” (We aren’t friends anymore) my mom says quietly, staring at the table. Chrysanthemum-scented steam wafts from our mugs. I wonder how to respond.

Ideally, I would respond in Cantonese, but my ability to do so is—in a word—差 (bad). I blame mongooses. When I was in grade six, I loved reading National Geographic’s Weird But True! series. I had just devoured another edition and couldn’t wait to regurgitate what I had learned. At dinner, I was rattling off facts—in English—about mongooses when my father cut me off. 

“講中文!” (Speak Chinese!) He scolded. 

I gaped for a moment, then retorted, “How do I say mongoose in Cantonese?”

In retrospect, I’m surprised my parents didn’t unsheathe a slipper. Instead, they looked at each other helplessly and resumed dinner; they didn’t know the translation. Triumphant, I continued chattering in English. To me, the conversation captured the futility of learning Cantonese. I saw no point when I could express myself better in English. A few weeks later, I begged them to let me quit attending Chinese school on Saturdays, and they acquiesced. 

“點解?” (Why?) I ask my mom, my eyes wide with surprise after hearing that she and Annie are no longer friends. “咩嘢發生?” (What happened?)

Apparently, Annie had repaid a gift inadequately. My mom interpreted this as Annie not valuing their friendship, so she cut her off. This seems rather petty to me, but I keep listening. I want to ask how she feels, what she will do, and how I can support her. Has she ever had other conflicts with Annie? Is she interested in repairing the friendship? A tide of questions rises within me, but it crashes against the barrier of my limited Cantonese. 

“我們可以說國語嗎” (Can we speak Mandarin?) I ask.

My mom smiles. “可以.” (Yes.)

Ten months ago, I received an email that almost made me drop my phone. Subject line: Canadian Federation of Medical Students Exchange Program – Match Result. The sentences blurred to key words. “Significant number of applicants…congratulations…you have been matched to Taiwan.” I called my parents immediately, nearly screaming with joy. My summer plans were set: a four-week clinical placement in Taiwan—my top choice. 

A few days later, my careening joy stumbled into a problem. Although knowing Mandarin wasn’t required for the program, I predicted that if I didn’t at least learn some basics, I would be little more than exotic decoration during my placement. I also thought that learning Mandarin might somehow compensate for my Cantonese. 

During high school and university, I usually spoke to my mom only at dinner or other irregular moments. When I moved away for medical school, communication dwindled even more. An occasional video call, my mom’s smiling face too close to the camera: “你食咗飯未?” (Did you eat yet?) Or a sporadic flurry of photos that I sent on WeChat, to which my mom responded with her holy trinity of emojis: grin, rose, and thumbs up. Part of this was a natural drifting apart of children and parents as they age, but another driving current was my rudimentary Cantonese. How could I reconstruct everything I had experienced and learned when I could barely cobble together a sentence? “Yes, 我食咗​,” (Yes, I ate) was much easier to say.

When I started learning Mandarin, I found a company’s website that urged me to buy their lesson plans and learn “before it’s too late.” Accompanying this ominous phrase was a picture of a Chinese woman in her twenties—the age when some people begin to feel guilty and ashamed that they can’t speak their mother tongue—staring earnestly but silently at an elderly Chinese man in a wheelchair. Part of me dismissed this blatant attempt to dredge up guilt, but another part thought about some of my friends who gush about their parents. “They’re my best friends! We talk about everything,” they affirm, filling me with surprise and a tinge of envy. I wondered if Mandarin was the key to unlocking a relationship like that. 

For the next eight months, I repurposed Anki—a flashcard program that I had seen my classmates use to study medical content—to learn Mandarin vocabulary. I listened to a Mandarin podcast, read articles, and studied grammar daily. I practiced speaking with classmates and sometimes my mom. When I touched down in Taipei, my Mandarin was better than my Cantonese had ever been.

And yet, …

“現在, 你對 ,  Annie 感覺什麼?” (How do you feel about Annie now?) I ask my mom. I imagine she might be sad, frustrated, or angry. Falling out with such a close friend must be difficult. 

She makes a non-committal noise, glancing out the window. 

I try to prompt her. “我覺得有點難過是錢的問題“ (I feel it’s kind of sad that money is the problem.) 

My mom shakes her head. “對錢沒有關係…” (It’s not about the money…) she trails off. In medical school, I learned to draw patients out of their shells. Like shucking an oyster, a deft question or empathetic statement can open someone up, revealing emotional pearls. No matter how hard I try, however, I can’t coax my mom to talk. Our spell of privacy ends when my sister enters the room, and we table the discussion.

A few weeks later, I FaceTime my mom. We start with the usual pleasantries, but eventually I shift gears. “最近你有沒有跟 Annie 聊天?” (Have you spoken to Annie recently?) I ask in a gentle tone. 

My mom’s smile flickers. “沒有.” (No.) That’s all she will say.

When she asks me how I’m doing, I hesitate. Sentences bubble up that encapsulate everything I have experienced and learned recently. But in the end, little more than air comes out. “我很好。每一天我學習” (I’m good. I study every day.) 

After hanging up, despair washes over me. Language alone doesn’t appear strong enough to form the bond I desire. Something else is missing. Something related to understanding the importance of reciprocity to my mom. Something related to both of us being willing to discuss our inner lives. Years ago, my refusal to translate “mongoose” not only cut my connection to Cantonese, it also nicked a bond of communication, forming a tear that widened over time that now requires multiple fibers to mend. 

I wonder sometimes if reparation is worth the effort. For years, I haven’t relied on my mom for introspective conversations. Instead, I turn to my friends. We park ourselves in bubble tea stores, cafes, or each other’s living rooms, and we spend hours unfurling the folds of our brains. Over the years, I’ve learned that impromptu therapy sessions are just a text message away.

Even as a child, I sensed my mom didn’t have many friends. She didn’t go out for dinner with former classmates, most of whom were in China. She didn’t chat on the phone with colleagues, most of whom she struggled to banter with in English. She didn’t go to church, exercise classes, or other places where my friends’ parents formed their social support networks. Instead, she spent her evenings and weekends at home, raising me and my siblings. We were hardly confidantes, and I imagine neither was my dad, who–like many Chinese men of his generation–is as emotionally available as a terracotta brick.

That left Annie. Even if she hadn’t talked with my mom in the same way my friends talk with me, my mom had lost someone close, and she had few other people in her life who could comfort her. I thought that learning Mandarin would help me fulfill that role, but it still wasn’t enough. In my most despairing moods, I wonder if I’ll ever be close with my mom, or if our relationship will fray like her friendship with Annie.

Sometimes, I think about an audio message my mom sent me on WeChat a few months after I learned that I would be going to Taiwan. I had been preoccupied with learning Mandarin while also studying neurology—a notoriously difficult unit—so I hadn’t messaged or called her in a while. 

“你好兒子，你怎麽樣?” (Hi son, how are you?) My mom greeted me in Mandarin before switching to Cantonese. “好耐冇傾計” (Long time no speak.) Then, a pause. Slight static in the silence. “I miss you.” 

I picture my mom composing this message. Maybe she considers calling me, but her finger pauses over the button—she wouldn’t have much time to choose her words during a call. Instead, she opens WeChat and starts recording. She tries a few iterations; she can’t decide which language will convey her love the best. She ends up picking words from multiple languages, like a florist assembling a bouquet. She presses send and then hesitates. There’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t know how to say it.  She heard once on TV that pictures speak a thousand words. She sends another text: grin, rose, and thumbs up.

The evening after receiving those messages, I FaceTimed my mom, apologizing for the lapse in communication. We talked about mundane things: what we ate for dinner, what I was studying, and some questions about Mandarin. Perhaps one day, our conversations will be different. My mom and I might create our own language that blends English, Cantonese, Mandarin, and something unspoken. We can learn that.