Tag Archives: Chinese

Don’t Give an Umbrella as a Gift

Text: I had mentioned to KH that I had gotten someone an umbrella as a gift, and she stopped me. “You’re like not supposed to do that, right?” she said. The word for umbrella, 伞 (sǎn), sounds nearly identical to 散 (sàn), which means to scatter. To give someone an umbrella is to wish the two of you scattered, dispersed. There is a workaround: if the recipient gives the giver a coin, even a penny, in return, the umbrella becomes a transaction rather than a gift, and the negative implications no longer apply.

Context: Told to me by my friend KH, a Chinese American student, after I mentioned that I had bought an umbrella as a gift. She had heard the rule from her parents, who emigrated from China. The homophone pair is 伞 / 散: 伞 (sǎn, umbrella) and 散 (sàn, to scatter) differ only by tone. 

Analysis: This same homophonic logic shows up commonly in Chinese culture, where a linguistic sign is read as a small contagion that invokes the outcome it names. The umbrella case is a good example because the prohibition attaches to one ordinary household object and to one specific verb. An exchanged coin transforms the gift into a purchase, and the relabeling alone is held to neutralize the linguistic risk. It’s not always the case that these homophonic folklores have such convenient workarounds. The changing “gift” to “purchase” suffices to break the spell.

牛郎织女: The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd

Text: There was once a poor cowherd, Niulang (牛郎), who lived alone with an old ox. One day the ox spoke, telling him that seven heavenly maidens were coming down to bathe in the river, and that if he hid the youngest one’s robes, the Weaver Girl Zhinü (织女) would not be able to return to the sky and would become his wife. He did, and she did. They had two children and lived happily.

The Queen Mother of the West discovered that her granddaughter had married a mortal. She came down and pulled Zhinü back into the heavens. Niulang followed, with his two children carried in baskets on a shoulder pole. The old ox had told him before dying to wear its hide so he could fly. He came close. But the Queen Mother pulled out her hairpin and drew a line across the sky, and the line became a river of stars: the Milky Way. 

Niulang and Zhinü are now two stars on opposite banks of the river, unable to cross. Once a year, on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, all the magpies in the world fly up to form a bridge across the heavenly river, and the two of them meet for one night. This has become China’s equivalent to Valentine’s Day. 

Context: Told to me by my mother, IW. She has told it to me in some form since I was small, sometimes as a bedtime story. The story even became a tool to teach me Chinese as I vividly remember reading it from a book of fairytales. For most of her life and for most of mine, the Milky Way that the story turns on has been invisible: we have always lived in areas too light-polluted for it. On a family vacation to Fiji several years ago, on a beach far from any artificial light, we saw the Milky Way clearly for the first time. It did look like a river. 

Analysis: ‘The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd’ is one of the four great Chinese folk tales, with attestations reaching back to the Han dynasty. It explains a visible celestial phenomenon (the Milky Way as a river, with Niulang as Altair and Zhinü as Vega on either side), supplies the etiology for the Qixi festival on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, and exists in clear regional variation across Han Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Vietnamese traditions. IW’s telling is a standard northern Chinese version. What stays with me about hearing it for years and only later seeing the Milky Way clearly, on a Fijian beach, is that the myth was composed by people who could see the river every clear night. To stand under a sky where the river is visible was to recover the perceptual ground that produced the story. It was a powerful moment for us both. 

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. 

To Keep a Child Healthy: Chinese Proverb on Restoring Balance in Yin and Yang

Age: 57

Interviewee:
My father, who used to be a vet when he was younger, always said this Chinese proverb to us:
“If you want a kid to be healthy, you need to let them be a little hungry and a little cold.”

“想要小儿安，三分饥和寒”

This proverb basically tells us about the importance of restoring balance in order to have a healthy body from the perspective of Chinese Traditional Medicine [zhong yi]. The main idea is that for a child to stay healthy and safe, they should not eat until hungry (a slight sense of hunger is ideal), and they should not be dressed too warmly (a slight sense of cold is actually best for their body).

From the perspective of Chinese Traditional Medicine, the reasoning goes like this: children are believed to have an abundance of “Yang” energy, the one in “Yin” and “Yang”, which runs their body hot and active. Because of this, giving a child too much food can cause internal heat buildup. In Chinese, this is called getting too much fire, which metaphorically says about how it’s like your internal organs are on fire, which can lead to irritation or illness. Similarly, giving a child too many layers of clothes to wear traps heat and makes them prone to fever. This saying, to me, reflects a core philosophy in Chinese Traditional Medicine about health. It’s about how balance is restored by restraining oneself from taking in anything that is “too much” for your body. And this balance is what Chinese traditional medicine really revolves around.


Context:

The interviewee learned this belief in folk medicine from his father, who used to be a vet. My informant’s interpretation of this folk belief is that it is reflective of the Yin and Yang elements crucial to Chinese Traditional Medicine.

Analysis:

This belief about the restoration of balance in Yin and Yang is a folk medical belief transmitted through familial oral tradition.

Cosmological Framework: This belief echoes the Chinese cosmological framework of Yin and Yang—Yin and Yang are evenly divided in half, and imbalance, or having too much of Yang, can make one unhealthy.

Genre Analysis: This proverb in Chinese has an even number of characters in its clauses, which makes it easy to remember and pass down orally. In addition, the last character of each of the clauses is rhyming with each other, adding to this trait from a phonetic perspective. This proverb is also notable for how it encodes complex Chinese Traditional Medicine theory into a compact, easily transmissible form, where people who do not know Chinese Traditional Medicine well can capture the essence of it by hearing this proverb, which is in plain language and is easy to understand.