Colonization in Reverse

Or English girl eats her first mango...

(a kind of love poem by John Agard)

If I did tell she
hold this gold
of sundizzy
tonguelicking juicy
mouthwater flow
ripe with love
from the tropics

she woulda tell me
trust you to be
melodramatic

so I just say
taste this mango

and I watch she hold
the smooth cheeks
of the mango
blushing yellow
and a glow
rush to she own cheeks

and she ask me
what do I know
just bite into it?

and I was tempted
to tell she
why not be a devil
and eat the skin
of the original sin

but she woulda tell me
trust you to be
mysterious

so I would just say
it's up to you
if you want to peel it

and I watch she feels it
as something precious

then she smile and say
looks delicious

and I tell she
don't waste sweet words
when sweetness
in your hand
just bite it man
peel it with the teeth
that God gave you

or better yet
do like me mother
used to do
and squeeze
till the flesh
turns syrup
nibble a hole
then suck the gold
like bubby
in child mouth
squeeze and tease out
every drop of spice

sounds nice
me friend tell me

and I remind she that ain't
apple core
so don't forget
the seed
suck that too
the sweetest part
the juice does run
down to you heart

man if you see
the English rose
she face was bliss
down to the pink
of she toes

and when she finish
she smile
and turn to me

lend me your hanky
my fingers are all sticky
with mango juice

and I had to tell she
what hanky
you talking about
you don't know
when you eat mango
you hanky
is you tongue

man just lick
your finger
you call that
culture
lick your finger
you call that
culture

unless you prefer
to call it
colonization
in reverse

Exceedingly Nice

I am so enamored with the delightfully delicious lyrics from Charles Edward Carryl's almost forgotten 19th century poem, the Sleepy Giant brought back to life by Natalie Merchant's smokey sweet voice. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. Who would've known? Little boys do not like being chewed.

Small Realizations

I recently had the following snippet of a conversation with a delightful international student that I have had the privileged of knowing and working with this year. I love how the wheels in the minds of children turn as a new realization sets upon them and expands their understanding of language.

DG - Carla... (slow and ponderous) is your hair blonde?
Me - Ya, I guess you could call it blonde.
DG - Oh...
Me - Well what colour did you think it was?
DG - I thought it was yellow.
Me - Hmm... I see...

Adventure in Learning English

Conversation with an 11 year old Korean boy...

Me: How are you today?
KB: Good
Me: Well, what did you get up to?
KB: I was raking the bitch.
Me: Pardon me? You were raking the WHAT?!
KB: I was raking the bitch.
Me: Oh....okay, put you teeth together and make your lips really wide like you're going to give me a nice big smile. Now try.
KB: Eee...eee...eee.

First Attempt

The humidity hangs heavy in the air even at seven this morning. I step out of the shower, dry myself off and then wonder if I have actually done so. Undoubtedly it will be another day of Beijing belly, and I’m not talking about the Beijing belly one gets from eating the mystery meat. No, this is the local style amongst the men here…a T-shirt rolled up to halter status and glaring Buddha belly sort of look. Nice. At least it's not a Speedo.

I glance out the window and for a moment watch the locals hustling about their business. The men’s Mahjong boards are already set up on a makeshift table under the shade of an unstable umbrella and a few sparse trees. They study the board with brows furrowed as seriously as if they are generals of armies deciding on great strategic defense. A woman stands in the doorway of her shop, arms crossed, surveying the street for customers. Another man quickly sets up his portable shoeshine business…a rickety old stool and a few rags.

I decide that if today is the day, I best be off. I make my way out into the narrow alleyway and am surprised at the intensity of the heat so early in the morning. Propaganda blares from the speakers through the open doors of the shops wafting out into the streets along with a variety of distinctly pentatonic sounding songs and a symphony of continuously blaring horns in the background. Putrid smells ooze up from the sewers smacking me suddenly as they intermingle with the smell of the fried ducks hanging in the windows, various bodily odors of those passing by me, stale urine alongside a building. Everything is so much bolder in this heat…in this country. It screams at me. It thrusts me into sensory overload.

I stand and take it all in before I make my way over to the confusion of taxis just off the road. I address the first fellow. No English. I was prepared for this. I rummage in my knapsack until I pull out my map. I show him where we are and then point to a place way up the map…the Great Wall, Mutiyanu. He jabbers at me in Mandarin, flailing his arms about. I have no idea what he’s getting at. Another fellow walks over and asks if he can be of assistance. I explain that I would like to go to the Great Wall and was told that I could hire a taxi for the day. I ask the fellow if he would ask the taxi driver if he would take me and for how much. They engage in conversation pointing at the map. One hundred Yuan, it’s a deal.

I hop comfortably into the back seat and securely fasten my seat belt. The driver doesn’t like that. It’s an affront on his driving skills, but I’ve now been in enough Chinese taxis to not care how he feels about it. The traffic is horrendous. We zigzag in and out. At times there are no discernable lanes, just the flow of endless vehicles pulsating towards their destinations. We continue on for what seems like forever, yet we have not yet reached the city limits. Suddenly the taxi driver turns onto a side street and pulls up in front of the Sheraton. I’m confused. He stops the vehicle, turns around and in stilted English says, "get out." It must be the only English he knows. I try to glean even a small level of comprehension. I am totally lost. He points in one general direction and continues to excitedly speak. I still have no idea what he's getting at. What am I to do? It’s his taxi. I get out.

The Challenge

“The Challenge” appears every week in the Globe and Mail, one of our national newspapers. It is a time to play with language and get creative. Some weeks prove to be far more interesting than others. Last week’s challenge proved to be one of those weeks. The challenge was to amend a foreign-language phrase that is well known in English and provide a new translation. Here are some examples of what transpired:

Bomb de plume: a book so bad it was published under a pseudonym.

Femme fetal: dangerous since birth.

DJ vu: this club is so passé

Ménage, à toi: Honey, it’s your turn to do the house cleaning.

In vitro veritas: paternity test.

Déjà vous: I didn’t expect you to be here so soon.

Snoop du jour: Employee Recognition Day at CSIS (Canada’s secret service).

Person known gratis: a free-loader

Que sera, Saran: What will be left over will be wrapped up.

No bless oblige: We aren’t required to let you take communion.

I would love to hear any that you would like to add. Let the challenge begin.