One country, two telethons

Two telethons for the Sichuan earthquake were on last night, one in Beijing and the other, across the Taiwan Strait and a socio-political gulf, in Taipei. On one show on China’s CCTV Faye Wong was going to come out of de facto retirement to sing just one song, on the other on Taiwan’s CTV Jay Chou was going to come on anytime now and at my end I was having an anxious, tedious time channel-hopping. Yes, tedious. Because CCTV’s telethon was about state power (the motherland will help you, dear victims) and CTV’s, star power (dear viewers, you can help Jay, Jolin Tsai and Ma Ying-jeou help the victims) and both were, in the end, boring.

On CCTV’s show there were kingly leading men bellowing away, reciting from big red books (they were big and they were red, really) verses of how China would rise to the challenge of the earthquake…there were three children of Sichuan, tearfully swearing to soldier on and take their exams come hell or high water…there was a elderly man bawling away, saying he felt for the victims, the People’s Liberation Army and most of all the central leadership comrades. It was painful for him and for me too. I would hop to CCTV in the hope of seeing Faye, then flee to CTV in under five minutes.

Away from the high-flown pain on CCTV, CTV’s low-key show was a relief. Somewhat. Where CCTV had well-dressed comrades CTV had dressed-down celebs, from pop kings to drama queens to the top idol du jour, presidential pin-up Ma. Where CCTV had stirring songs CTV had next to none. The drama was all in the stars actually appearing, actually answering donors’ phone calls, or rather, it was all in the assumption that the more the stars and the more the calls, the more the drama. A star would appear, say something sappy or stupid about the earthquake and attempt to answer a donor’s call as a host tried to contribute comments like, “Do you know you are talking on the phone with Jolin Tsai? Jolin Tsai, did you tell her she was talking on the phone with you?”

Amid such starry and starstruck senselessness Jay’s was a rare voice of reason. He didn’t (and doesn’t) do sappy or stupid. When he appeared he said simply that there should be concern not only for the short-term work of relief but also for the long-term work of reconstruction. When he was answering the phone in place of Mr Ma and a host tried to dramatise the situation – “Do you know who sat in your seat?” – he signed that he was busy. Admirably and adorably he wouldn’t play the game.

Likewise Faye wouldn’t play the game on CCTV. When she did come on, almost as an afterthought to the propaganda, she didn’t say a word. All the things she could have said were in the way she sang, too briefly, the song May We Live Long; she had never sounded warmer to me.

THE FUNCTIONS OF FICTION | Chapter Twelve

A couple of my mummy friends are concerned that their tots may not be bilingual enough and I can completely understand. When I was with Oscar, who speaks English and Dari, I was preposterously, prematurely determined that if and when there were kids they would speak – and think in – two to three languages. Through the windows of multiple languages they would have multiple views of the world; single-celled monoglots they wouldn’t be, not my kids; and my plan was to reverse-engineer them as their grandfather had reverse-engineered me once upon a time.

My father hadn’t planned us (we were all accidents) but once we were born he planned long and hard to bring us up bilingual, I think. Seeing as we were in a Chinese-speaking house, he decided he wouldn’t have to teach us Chinese. We would learn it by osmosis and when we were old enough we would learn it better by reading a couple of Chinese books. Not that we would be force-fed any novel. Delicious books by Louis Cha and others were left all about the house (some were my father’s, some were a stranger’s which had been thrown at the void deck and picked up by my mother); no one said we should read them and no one said we shouldn’t; we were left to find out for ourselves and we did.

My father didn’t leave English to chance though. (He hadn’t received much formal schooling and had learnt English by pure will – enough English to understand legalese better than I will in my lifetime – by reading newspapers cover to cover, word by word and looking up all the new words in his dictionary. It would take him a week to read a daily.) As he saw it, our Chinese-speaking circumstances put us at a disadvantage. He couldn’t disadvantage us more by doing what others did: which was, as he saw it, to speak to their children in either bad English or a middling mix of English and Mandarin and doom them grammatically. So he didn’t speak English to us and nor did he make my Chinese-speaking mother speak English to us. He decided to make us memorise whole books in English instead. Kids in ancient China were made to learn the four books and five classics by heart so that they would, in later life, never compose a bad Chinese sentence, weren’t they? My father was convinced that English syntax could be hardwired into us too.

I must have been three or four or five, at an age when I would rather draw manga princesses with starry eyes than memorise The Frog Prince, Sleeping Beauty or Snow White, when I was put on the Rote Learning 2.0 programme. I must have memorised a fairy tale every week, learning a page every day and reciting it to my father every night. I was a good girl too, barring the days I had my head buried in colouring books and forgot to be frightened of his disapproval.

The Frog Prince isn’t the Analects of Confucius, of course, and nor is it the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. (Would I sound smarter now had I been exposed to Gibbon then...? Maybe… Maybe not.) But I don’t think my brothers and I are relatively bilingual by accident; my father may have got something there.