Language School, the Great Equalizer
Hong Kong July 1978
The Bible says that in Christ there is no Jew, no Gentile, no Roman nor Greek…or something like that. The idea is equality in diversity, and is a very modern controversy with historic overtones. And for those who go abroad as “ambassadors for Christ” there is a shared experience despite denominational diversity. It is called Language School. No matter whether Protestant, Catholic, cult or sect, language training is the great equalizer. Some come to the “mission field” with the notion that if one preaches the word of the Lord loud enough or with enough zeal in his native tongue, God will “unstop” the ears of the hearers, and the message will miraculously get through. After all, the Bible even features a talking donkey … Balaam’s ass, that is. If a donkey can speak a foreign language, how hard can it really be?
Our first day of Chinese study began with forty students, all eager and prayed up for the challenge ahead. My wife, Beth, and I had already had the pleasure of learning Tagalog in the Philippines some years earlier, so at least we had in inkling of what was to come. Most of the Europeans had already learned English so that they could then learn Chinese. There just weren’t textbooks from Norwegian or Italian to Chinese, let alone teachers. English was the starting point, and we all were on square one.
The native English speakers were an odd collection of Americans and Canadians. Mostly Protestants, there were the Baptists, the Pentecostals, and the weird “others” like the Moonies, the Mormons, and the independent folks of indeterminate persuasion. The British were an equal hodge-podge.
The Catholics came from all over, but my favorites were two Italian priests, Paolo and Francesco. They were assigned to work together as a team, and I was impressed that the Catholic Church had been so adroit at matching them up so well. (I ran into them some years later in one of Hong Kong’s gay bars and we all had a beer and a great laugh together). I had read Dante, and got the joke. They were impressed that I had always known that they were lovers.
There was a Mexican priest whose name in Chinese sounded like “very troublesome”, and an assortment of French, German and Swiss missionaries who filled out the Catholic roster. The rest was a group of Norwegian Lutherans, two Swedes and a spare Finn. But not all who were enrolled were clergy. The business community makes a stumbling effort to “immerse” its executives in the “local language” wherever they are assigned. Big wigs from Coca-Cola and Chase Manhattan, General Motors and American Express and their wives made the scene with their crisp notebooks sparkling clean with pencils at the ready.
I wasn’t ready for the Japanese. Many travel agencies required their staff, and tour guides to learn the local lingo to help herd the hoards of Japanese tourists around town. They had a certain advantage, as they already knew the Chinese characters, which they call Kanji. The rest of us would have to pound into our heads as adults what these guys had already done years ago as kids. Some, like me, had already studied Chinese, so I had an ever so slight advantage as well. But, all that faded fast as we all set out together on a long journey that would see only about ten of us cross the finish line and graduate officially at the end of year two.
I read an account once of a ferry sinking somewhere in the South China Sea. The article went on and on about how the passengers had pulled together and saved each others’ lives, never even thinking about nationalities or creeds. It didn’t take long until we knew that we were “all in the same boat”. Looking forward to the daily coffee break at 10:30 or so when our brains were about ready to explode, we all hung out together like inmates, doing time together; our mutual suffering was our bond. We never talked about religious doctrine or politics that I recall… just let friendships grow as they did so naturally, encouraged by the advanced classes ahead of us who knew what we were going through. And when our turn came, we encouraged the new students to avoid jumping from the third floor landing where we took our breaks.
It was an international milieu. Holidays were great fun, as we all got to share new experiences at Christmas, Easter, and the real biggie - Chinese New Year.
By the end of the first year, many of the original cast had left the stage, most notably the executives and wives who where too busy with their whirlwind lives, entertaining high-powered guests and dignitaries. Some of the more “spiritual” folks got a word from the Lord that they had enough to preach a simple Gospel message, and that their funds for study had run out anyway. Others decided that Chinese was just too hard and got “called” to the Philippines where they could preach in English. Big myth.
Whereas most two-year Asian language programs spent the second year primarily on reading and writing, the Hong Kong Baptist College program was more oriented toward homiletics, hermeneutics and oral preaching techniques. We faced a decision and I chose to concentrate more on reading and writing as opposed to preaching. Most chose the verbal approach, as it was possible to do that without learning the myriad Chinese ideographs requited to read a newspaper, let alone the Chinese Bible. I regret the amount of time I invested in my daily grind, learning words like concupiscence, blasphemy, idolatry, and - slaves, obey your earthly masters.
But I always had a penchant for the written calligraphy, as it was a natural extension of my artistic temperament. I had already demonstrated my facility with the written forms, having already been exposed to Mandarin in college and the military. It was decided that since everyone left in my class had opted out of the written class, I would be tossed in with a class well advanced and far into its second year. There were only two other students in my class – Alice, an independent American missionary from an organization that I had never heard of, and Michelle, a French nun who always showed up in her sparkling white nun regalia. I had always liked nuns. I still think they get a bad rap.
When my wife and I had first arrived in Manila – being evacuated from Saigon in April 1975, I taught ESL (English as a second language) in the refugee camps for the Vietnamese escaping with us during that terrible time. The two nuns who I worked with, a Vietnamese and a Filipina, were nothing short of heroic in their efforts to help these tragic escapees. I immediately liked my classmate in white and never thought to call her by her first name until we all got together for a field trip to Ma Wan Island one weekend and she showed up in designer jeans and a very un-nun-like tube top. She may have been a nun, but she certainly did not lack for a French sense of style.
Of course no person who has ever learned a new language – whether in the ministry, the military, foreign service, or just for the heck of it – can make it through without the inevitable mistakes and gaffs. I was no exception, or course, and since I am writing this, I will refrain from self-incrimination. I have longed for years to write a book entitled something like: Blunders and Bloopers on the Road to Fluency in (fill in here). Maybe that would be a worthwhile project. Most language learners finally give up all pride at some point and just blurt out the most outrageous things.
I have always said that a sense of humor and self-deprecation is essential to getting past all the nouns, verbs, adjectives and gerunds. In year one, I was lucky to have a classmate who had a wild sense of humor that kept the entire class in stitches (including the teachers). Early on he caught on to making intentional mistakes - saying the right answer just off by one tone, which rendered it obtuse, absurd or obscene. A couple of times the teachers would have to excuse the class early because they couldn’t contain themselves. Hear tell they couldn’t wait until we were all cleared out to go tell the other teachers what he had said.
Of course the joke was that he really knew what he was saying all along… and that was his ultimate joke. But some time later I heard that he had said something from the pulpit that left an entire congregation out of control. Akin to the time I recall during a prayer meeting in Augsburg, Germany when the preacher called for a “moment of silence”. Well, it was a rather long moment of utter silence until someone accidentally farted loudly. Everybody tried like mad to maintain composure. Some managed. Others (especially the teenagers) lost it.
In most Asian languages where tone changes meaning, it is so easy to say something totally wrong with the slightest inflection. Language school had been over for several months, and we were all out preaching with our new language skills. My friend and co-worker was preaching at a fairly large church one Sunday morning. His message was about “family values” or some such appropriate fare.
He had a daughter and a son at the time and was expecting his third. He meant to say: “I only have one son.” Then adding “But I love him very much!” That would have made fine sense, but he really said accidentally: “I only have one testicle!” Apparently most of the congregation held it together. That is, until he finished the sentence: “But I love it very much!”
-- Tom Muzzio
