Feudal to Translate

Of course, Mrs. Woolf couldn’t know about 21st-century Shanghai, where people communicate in a foreign language to side-splitting effect, day after day. The foreign language, in this case, is English–or more accurately, “Chinglish.” This term means different things to different people, but for the purposes of Oliver Lutz Radtke’s new book, it refers to the delightfully awkward, syntax-defying, and at times purple prose found on English-language signs, clothing, and packaging in China. Radtke, a German sinologist, first came up with the idea for a book on Chinglish while studying at Shanghai Foreign Languages University.

Like Radtke, I, too, find myself tickled by the abundant examples of not-quite-English to be found in China. As I write, I am sitting in an upscale wine bar in downtown Shanghai. Janis Joplin is playing softly in the background, and in the din of other patrons’ conversation I can make out French, Chinese, and, of course, English. A sign hangs in the doorway: “Take care of your belongings before you leave the restaurants.”

So far as I can tell, Chinglish falls into two categories: instrumental and ornamental. Instrumental Chinglish is actually intended to convey information to English speakers. Ornamental Chinglish is born of the fact that English is the lingua franca of coolness. Meaning aside, any combination of roman letters elevates a commodity–khaki pants, toilet paper, potato chips–to a higher plane of chic by suggesting that the product is geared toward an international audience.

In Hong Kong I once saw a teenage girl wearing a red baby-doll T-shirt emblazoned with rhinestone lettering that read: “mom, i’m a lesbian.” In wearing this T-shirt, the young lady probably did not intend to announce her homosexuality to her mother–or to the world, for that matter. The English on her shirt served a decorative function; the letters were intended to convey no more meaning than paisley or houndstooth.

Similarly, I have in my purse a packet of moist towelettes called “HARASS” wipes. It is possible that the manufacturers wish to associate their brand with harassment as a marketing strategy, but it is more likely that a mid-level executive in Wuhan saw the word “harass” in the blurb of a pirated DVD copy of the 2002 Jennifer Lopez thriller Enough and thought that it looked to be as good a word as any to slap on a pack of towelettes.

As for instrumental Chinglish, look no further than bustling People’s Square, the heart of Shanghai. The neighborhood swarms with foreign tourists, any one of whom might be curious about the history of beautiful People’s Park. Recognizing that a good chunk of those who pass through People’s Park may not speak Chinese, the Shanghai Municipality on Administration of Public Parks has thoughtfully provided the following English signage:

This illuminating intrudaction is followed by a list of “Rulers for visitors.” Some highlights:

Like all great specimens of literature, these “Rulers for visitors” excite the reader’s imagination, opening the mind to new possibilities and questions. Would it be possible to concurrently break all three of the rules listed above? Surely there is something feudalistic to be done with crickets, but urinating or defecating might be difficult to work into the mix.

Unfettered from the constraint of knowing English, many Chinese take the language to new heights. A local seafood joint, Fishiness Infinitude, is a prime example. I defy anyone to visit this establishment and come up with a more appropriate name.

Of course, Chinglish is not always so charming. Scandal broke out last year when it was discovered that a line of couches made in China came affixed with an English label that used a racial slur to describe the upholstery’s dark brown color. The manufacturer blamed Kingsoft, a Chinese software company that makes a popular Chinese-English translation program. Doris Moore, a Toronto woman whose seven-year-old daughter discovered the offending label on the family’s new sofa, wondered, “Don’t they read it first? Doesn’t the manufacturer? The supplier?”

Indeed, in Shanghai, a polyglot city with no shortage of agile translators and editors, why are so many mistakes published, engraved, and illumined in neon lights for the world to see? Radtke offers a few possible explanations. One has to do with pride: Outsourcing English translation to a native English-speaker would mean losing face. Another culprit is online translation software. These matrixes often translate too literally from the Chinese, resulting in rest room signs for the handicapped that read: “Deformed Man Toilet.” Or as in the case of the Kingsoft scandal, one errant definition proliferates due to the software’s popularity.

But the explanation I find most compelling is the ornamental Chinglish theory: Content just isn’t that important. The goal is not to convey information in English; it is to convey that you are conveying information in English. One analogy is that some Westerners have gotten themselves engraved with trendy Chinese character tattoos. The tattoos may be gibberish, or worse, but they all mean the same thing: “I have a Chinese character tattooed on my body.” (This phenomenon–perhaps we can call it “Engese”–deserves a guidebook of its own.)

Sadly, as Radtke points out, Chinglish may soon be a thing of the past. Beijing is undergoing a great revamping in preparation for this summer’s Olympic Games, and instructive examples of Chinglish are being whitewashed from the capital faster than you can say “mom, i’m a lesbian.”

If, as Radtke believes, Chinglish is an endangered species, then this little volume is a gem of a time capsule. For quick perusal, Chinglish will occupy you for a risible, fully satisfying five minutes; for an in-depth analysis of Chinglish, you should delve into Radtke’s helpful list of “Recommended Reading.” But if you’re looking for a punchline on every page, Chinglish fits the bill.

Abigail Lavin is a writer in Shanghai.