Author Archives: Jason Wiemels

A Rattlesnake’s Rattle Has the Devil in It 

Text: The belief: the rattle of a rattlesnake is associated with the devil. You should never keep one. The legend that authorizes it: a man once found a rattle in the brush, thought it looked cool, and slipped it into his pocket. He carried it with him for some time. It made him slowly insane. He could not sleep well and would sometimes hear the rattle shaking in his pocket when no one else could hear it. One night he got up in the middle of the night, took a knife, and killed his entire family. He was found in the morning on his porch, rattle in hand, without memory of what he had done. 

Context: Told to me by my roommate JS, who attributes the story to his grandmother. JS’s grandmother is a devout Catholic and Tejano, who grew up in Texas. The legend, as his grandmother framed it, is a general cautionary tale, not something that happened to anyone she knew personally. JS does not believe the rattle is cursed but says he would not pick one up. 

Analysis: This is a classic example of a folkloric rule and a story that demonstrates the consequences of breaking it. The underlying idea is that the rattlesnake’s danger does not leave when the snake dies. The rattle keeps it, and whoever picks it up carries it home. The legend’s shape (find, want, keep, lose your mind, lose your family) is familiar among Latin American cursed-object stories, where the trouble begins whenever someone takes home an object that should have been left where it was. The story’s real work is what it did to JS, and through him to me: neither of us believes a rattle is literally dangerous, and yet neither of us would ever pick one up. The “devil” reading the grandmother gives the rattle is a Catholic name for an older unease, as the rattlesnake as a charged figure predates even the arrival of Catholics to the new world. The geography is also significant: the Texas-Mexico border is where the snakes have a real material presence, and Anglo and Tejano traditions have been swapping folkloric material about them for some time. The dangers of a live rattlesnake are clear, but the story extends the good form of avoiding them even to dead rattlesnakes. 

年年有余: A Fish for the New Year, and Not to Flip It

Text: On Chinese New Year eve my family eats a whole fish for dinner. The rule, as enforced by my mother IW, is that we must eat the fish from the top down. We never flip the fish over. To flip the fish, 翻 (fān), invokes 翻船 (fānchuán), to capsize a boat. If you flip the fish, you’re putting yourself at increased risk of capsizing your boat in the following year (valid for car analog also). Halfway through the meal, once the top side has been eaten down to the bone, we carefully lift out the spine in one piece and lay it aside, exposing the meat of the underside. The fish doubles as a pun in Chinese: 年年有余 (nián nián yǒu yú), translating to “may every year have surplus,” works because 余 (yú, surplus) sounds like 鱼(yú, fish). Hence “may every year have fish”. The fish must remain partially uneaten at the end of the meal, leaving leftovers for the next day (the first day of the new year) to literalize the surplus. 

Context: My mother, IW, grew up in a suburb of Beijing and has not deviated from the tradition since. She has done it every Lunar New Year I can remember. We typically have two fish over the holiday: one served on New Year’s Eve and another on New Year’s Day, we call the second fish leftovers even though I’m not sure that’s how it works traditionally. The fish at our table is most often halibut, this is tangential to the tradition and just a habit my family has fallen into (I think Costco has a good deal on halibut around that time), the strict tradition would call for carp or sea bass. 

Analysis: Two folkloric mechanisms run in parallel inside one piece of food. The first is homophonic word-magic: 鱼sounds like 余, so the fish itself becomes a small, uttered wish for surplus, and the requirement that some of it remain for the next day extends the wish across the new-year boundary. Homophonic mechanisms like this are common in Chinese culture, an artifact of the language’s limited distinct syllables that lend to a high density of homophones. The second: flipping the fish, enacts, in miniature, the boat-capsizing it warns against, and the taboo presumes the small gesture is continuous with the larger outcome. The careful spine-lift halfway through dinner is the practical accommodation of the rule, with the skeleton removed in one piece so every side of the fish can be reached without ever turning it over. The capsizing prohibition is, in origin, a coastal-fisherman’s taboo that has been carried into Lunar New Year practice throughout China, and in our household, a boat-less one, it has been extended to cars. Strict tradition can involve carp (鲤 puns with 利, profit), the species drift to halibut in my family is folkloric variation. 

“打一枪换个地方”: Fire One Shot, Change Locations

Context: My mother, IW, was born in a suburb of Beijing and grew up under the late years of Mao Zedong. Her schooling, from childhood through high school, was dominated by Mao-era “education,” which, following the Cultural Revolutions expulsion of intellectuals from population centers (they were seen as bourgeois), was largely just party propaganda. After Mao’s death in 1976, IW vividly remembers doing significant catching up just to match the academic level of the generation immediately before her, who had received actual schooling. IW’s “schooling” revolved around Mao’s Little Red Book, and the many slogans therein stook with her. She emigrated to the United States in 1995 for graduate school and has lived in California ever since. 

Text: “打一枪换个地方” (dǎ yī qiāng, huàn gè dì fāng) translates literally as “fire one shot, change locations.” Its origins trace back to Mao’s time as a general in the armed communist rebellion, where guerilla tactics led the rebellion to victory. In our household it has long since lost the military reading. IW uses it to mean, in her own words, give it your all and keep moving, do not get hung up on a task, do not chase impossible perfection, do what you can and then move on. IW almost always imbues some humor into the performance of the phrase, often accompanying it with a finger-gun gesture. 

Analysis: Propaganda directed at children produces an interesting folkloric residue. The audience is too young to engage with the ideology behind a slogan, so what survives the years is rarely the political claim and almost always the language itself, the rhythm of the phrase and the situations it was attached to. In fact, it was not until after my mother emigrated to the United States did the political situation that shaped her childhood become clear to her. In using the phrase after so many years, after so much in her life has changed, I sense a deal of irony and humor in the performance. I’ve asked before if IW has any ill will toward the party that caused her considerable strain growing up, she does not. It is her opinion that it was simply the reality of her upbringing, and she’s chosen to make the most of it. The meaning of this phrase is twofold for me personally, of course the wisdom about effort and pace, but also as the manifestation of making the most of a lousy situation it is deeply inspiring to me. 

The Watchman and the Haunted Vaudeville Theater

Text:

AB: My hometown, I come from, like, Northwest, a little outside Seattle, in Washington. And there’s a lot of ghost stories. We used to be a mining town, I think. We’re definitely a cow town. So there’s a lot of ghost stories. My theater was haunted. There’s a lot of generations that’ll tell stories of being alone in the theater, walking across the stage, and then hearing footsteps behind them, and then those footsteps pass them. 

There’s a story that someone was down on the stage while everyone else was in the booth, and they saw a man up there. They were like, why did they let a random old man up there? So they went up to the booth and were like, hey guys, you cannot let people into the theater, and you definitely can’t let them into the booth. And the people in the booth were like, there’s been no one. What do you mean?

Interviewer: Was there a story behind why it was haunted?

AB: It used to be a vaudeville theater, I believe, like a talent show, just a lot of different acts. So I think a lot of the ghosts came from that. The old man up in the booth was called The Watchman. I think probably a couple of people died around there. But also when I was researching this for my paper, I searched it up, and apparently a lot of theaters are haunted. A lot of theater people come up with the story that it’s haunted. So, very superstitious.

Interviewer: Did you ever go alone with the express purpose of trying to see one?

AB: No. The story goes that they were gone by the time I was old enough to actually do anything. The theater that was haunted was rebuilt, when I was around six, my parents remodeled it. My dad designed it. So there weren’t any ghosts anymore. Though we did have a Furby that might have been haunting. The legend was that there weren’t any batteries in it. If you touched it during the show, or if you tried to move it between the girls’ and boys’ dressing room beds, the show was cursed.

Context: AB is a USC student originally from a small town in northwest Washington State, several hours outside Seattle, a former mining and ranching town with a long-standing vaudeville-era theater. Her family is closely tied to the theater (her father, an architect, designed the rebuild when she was six). AB also recounted several supernatural stories from her family: a non-biological aunt who was pushed down the stairs by a ghost, a report of her toddler-self seeing “people eating” in a room with just herself and her mother, and her father reporting figures standing outside the house before AB was born. All framed matter-of-factly as part of growing up in the Pacific Northwest.

Analysis: The haunted theater is one of the most stable folk-narrative formats in American performance culture: many theaters have a ghost, many theater people can tell you about it, and the story is reliably transmitted from older performers to younger ones as part of the threshold of becoming a theater person. The Watchman is a precise manifestation of a haunting and notably sets the story apart from more diffuse haunted atmospheres typical of larger urban theaters. The vaudeville-era origin point, the architectural rebuild that “fixed” the haunting, and the displacement of the supernatural onto a battery-less Furby in the new building together shows the resilience of a haunted place legend to a changing physical environment: I thought it very interesting that the haunting relocates into the next available vessel rather than dissipating with the original site, thereby preserving a valuable performance and experience for theater posterity. 

“Waikao”

Text: ‘Waikao’: spoken in Fiji when you say something that is meant to be understood in an ironic sense. Not literal. Then the listener thinks about what you might mean and it is nearly always a funny meaning. So after ‘waikao’ is laughter. In English we used to say ‘psych!’ for a similar effect, but not quite the same since ‘psych’ is kind of teasing the person you are talking to, but waikao is more a collective fun. We don’t have that expression in English.”

Context: JW served in the U.S. Peace Corps in Fiji in the two years following his undergraduate studies and picked up ‘waikao’ (pronounced “why-cow”) during his time in the village where he taught. He reports that the structure is always the same: a literal-sounding statement, then the marker, then a beat for the listener’s reinterpretation, then, ideally, shared laughter. He noted that the phrase is unlikely to appear in any Fijian dictionary, noting that the dictionaries available during his service were written by missionaries in the 1800s and the living spoken language had drifted considerably from them. He is not sure whether ‘waikao’ remains current today or was simply trendy at the time. 

Analysis: ‘Waikao’ is a discourse marker that retroactively reframes a prior utterance as ironic and invites the listener to construct the joke for themselves. Both ‘waikao’ and English ‘psych!’ are post-hoc ironic markers, but the social geometry differs. ‘Psych!’ involves the speaker pulling the rug from under a particular listener. ‘Waikao’ is collective and constructive, with the speaker handing the listener a small interpretive task and the laughter arriving when the listener completes it. As folk speech the form is stable across speakers (‘waikao’ marker is fixed) while the content varies entirely with what was just said. That JW learned the word from oral use rather than any printed source is appropriate of linguistic folklore: missionary-compiled Fijian dictionaries recorded the formal vocabulary, but casual phrases and terms like ‘waikao’ are exactly what might slip through the cracks of such projects to document a living language.