Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet: On a Slow Boat from Shanghai to Texas

Chapter Five: Ma, Not Ma

UWP: Kendall: Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet page 89 89 Ma, Not Ma M y first duty as teacher was to establish a baseline record of the students’ skills. Olaf had explained that I could earn a bonus, depending on how much improvement the students showed in their speech. I figured that in order for him to see improvement, he had to know where they were starting from. So, my second day on the ship, I took my cassette recorder down to the main deck. As usual when I came into the dayroom, several men looked up expectantly. I nodded hello, beckoning. Three or four men stood uncertainly, then followed me into the bar. Wang, the interpreter, was there, and he explained that I wanted to tape each of the men for a minute or two. The men nodded, looking surprised and nervous. To demonstrate how the machine worked, I pressed “record” and started talking. But the little recording light stayed black; I had to hold the machine to my face and speak into the microphone before it would pick up. Too late, I realized that I should have brought a remote mike. This arrangement was awkward even for me; it might make the men even more uncomfortable. I hit “rewind” and “play,” and we then heard the tape I’d just made: “It’s Friday, June 28, 1991, and we’re in the East China Sea. It’s a cloudy day outside, but the ocean is pretty calm. I’m sitting in the bar with Wang and a few other people. We’re about to start recording their English.” The men laughed at hearing my voice coming out of the box. To give the others confidence, the interpreter demonstrated how to make a recording. He held the little box squarely in both hands, and addressed the small opening in a serious voice. “Ah, well, this is Wang. Wang. We are very happy to have Ji Lian for teacher. Thank you.” Then he spoke in Chinese for a minute, telling the onlookers what he had just done. We played back his speech, and the others applauded. Hearing the noise, a few more people came into the bar. That was all very well, but none of the future students wanted to go next. They nudged each other toward me, but every person shook his head and backed away, afraid to talk to the box. I set it in the middle of the table so that whoever talked wouldn’t have to sit so near to me. A few of the men sat down and hunched toward the machine , staring at it as they might a bomb. “They say they cannot speak English,” Wang explained. “So do not want to make voice recording.” I told Wang that that was the whole point, that I needed proof that they couldn’t yet speak. He told the group, and everyone nodded understandingly but no one volunteered. I picked up the recorder and passed it to one young man who was sitting closest to me, the one I’d noticed before with soulful eyes and buckteeth. He waved it away, but he smiled slightly. “Please tell them,” I said to Wang, “that this would really help me, if they will just speak a little, even Chinese.” Wang interpreted what I’d said. Everyone looked dubious. Then the man I remembered from the first day, Zhao, came to the door and was quickly called in by the others. Hearing what I UWP: Kendall: Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet page 90 one line long 90 Ma, Not Ma UWP: Kendall: Mr. Ding’s Chicken Feet page 91 one line long 91 wanted, he sat down in the chair closest to me, his knee jogging up and down. I showed him the recorder and how it worked. Very slowly, I asked him, “Can you speak English?” He looked at me, fingers drumming on the table. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that the red light didn’t come on. “I can—I cannot speak English,” he whispered. “Good!” I said, loudly. “Try again!” I gestured to the opening he should talk into. He closed his eyes. “I can—I can speak a little English.” “Thank you!” I took the machine from him and spoke into it, sounding like a game show host. “Thank you very much! Now, what is your name?” “My name...