Tag Archives: homophone

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.

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. 

Impart means promiscuous party in China

Nationality: China
Age: 20
Occupation: Student/Rapper
Performance Date: 2/21
Primary Language: Chinese
Language: English

Text:


“‘Impart’ is a more universal folk language that has just been created not for long. But it’s a folklore that’s widespread in China. It is because impart is a homophone for the word ‘yin pa’ which directly translates as promiscuous party.”
“I think it’s because people in China think we don’t study and do sex every day.”


Context:


FG is a USC student who studies History and Economics. He is currently in Ireland. FG and I are both considered international students in China. International students can also mean students who study internationally, rather than foreign students. F thinks that the Chinese use word “impart” as “promiscuous party” signifies the stereotypes mainland China has toward international students. They think international students are all rich second generations that paid their way to education who don’t study and who have sex every day.


Analysis:


“Impart,” yin pa,” or “淫趴.”


I don’t really agree with F’s perspective. I don’t think it’s a stereotype toward the Chinese international student, but more toward the American people. People who use “impart,” as promiscuous party is often making jokes. The goto phrase is “ni men kai impart bu han wo,” or “你们开impart不喊我,” which means “why do you have a promiscuous party without me?” This is obviously more trifle than serious.


There is a rising trend of English homophones with Chinese words as a new genre of folk speech in China. I think this is due to the rising level of education and globalization through social media that had connected the two cultures closer. Another example of an English homophone in Chinese is “lash,” which is similar to the Chinese word “la shi”, or “拉屎” which means shit in China. I wonder why it’s always the sordid words that get popular with their English homophone.

Avoid the Deadly Four

Nationality: Chinese American
Age: 23
Occupation: Student
Residence: Los Angeles
Performance Date: 4/13/2013
Primary Language: English

Click here for video.

“One of my friends told me that in Chinese culture, the word “four” has a similar pronunciation to the word for “death”. So if you go into buildings in like Hong Kong or whatever, they skip the number four, so you know how we as Americans, some high rises don’t have thirteen, they don’t have four. Not only that, but they also skip the entire forty level too. So you go from thirty nine not to forty, but to fifty.”

The avoidance of “four” because it sounds like “death” in Chinese culture is a classic example of homeopathic magic. The thinking centers around the belief that the word invites death because of the way it sounds and the more that it is invoked, the more death and bad luck it invites. The idea that uttering a word can bring bad luck is common, such as the taboo on the word “Macbeth” when inside the theater.

Hotels and apartments have an incentive to omit the number four from much of their buildings because living on a fourth floor room would be seen as living in the shadow of death. For these businesses, it is a smarter move financially to exclude these floors because clients or customers would refuse to associate with them. It’s better to be safe than sorry and avoid the number four.

Interestingly, both South Koreans and Japanese also have an aversion to their “four” word as it is pronounced very similarly to the Chinese “four” and their word for “death” is very similar to the Chinese word for “death.” Of course, Korean and Japanese are strongly believed to have originated from Chinese, and because traditions and superstitions are carried through language, it is reasonable that these two cultures would also avoid the number four.