"If you say a Chinese word in the wrong pitch, it changes the meaning of the word." I've been hearing this little tidbit of wisdom since childhood, but it was nowhere near an adequate warning for what I was eventually to experience firsthand. (See "Day 34" for a particularly embarrassing example.)
Our natural ethnocentric assumption is that the pitch is just some kind of added information, pasted on top of a phonic-based language similar to our own. Nope. I've come to realize that the Cantonese actually listen more carefully to the tone than to the consonants and vowels. When I page "Ki," for instance (her name is pronounced "kay," but remember it has to have two syllables, so it's ah-kay), it doesn't matter how clearly I pronounce the "k" sound, if I say it with a questioning tone (the only polite way to page someone, in my book), nobody interprets it as her name; they'll hear it as Hei, which is spoken with the dipping -- questioning -- tone. If I call Hei with a raised tone, everyone interprets it as "Kei" (whose name is pronounced "Gay"), regardless of how distinctly I make a wheezy "hhhh" sound at the start of it. It's truly weird; they don't seem to care about the words; they just listen to the tune. It's no wonder opera is such a big thing over here.
This caused a recurring "Who's On First?" type of misunderstanding... I'd ask Stanley how you pronounce Ki, and I'd be coached: "ah-kay." "Ah-kay?" I'd ask. "Ah-kay." he'd confirm. So I'd grab the mike, and say "Ah-kay?" and here comes Hei, and Stanley would roll his eyes like I was a moron. It has taken me four months to realize that he wasn't confirming; he was correcting. Her name has to be said with a period, i.e., a falling low tone. But I read the cadence and pitch of the conversations as if I were having an English conversation; it's almost impossible for me not to.
A few days ago, during my daily polite chit-chat with Faye, a Cantonese woman who works at my local Starbucks, I realized that every single time she said the word "work" it was at a higher pitch than the other words in the sentence. Some of her words were high-pitched, some were low, and some dipped or rose, so it sounded somewhat normal overall... but I began to realize that any time a word was repeated, it was always at the exact same pitch, regardless of context. Each English word had apparently solidified in her mind at whatever pitch she had originally heard it! She's just like one of those computerized telephone voices who string together digitized recordings of individual words to make sentences. But she can make coffee, too.
The tonal quality of Cantonese speech sounds harsh at first, but it has what I've come to think of as "an abrasive lilt" that really grows on you after a while... especially the little melodies they incorporate into the end of each sentence when they're talking to someone they're extremely comfortable with. Each sentence will slow down until the last syllable stretches out interminably, musically rising, then falling, then twisting, fading, and doing a little dance as it fades to nothing. It's actually quite beautiful... but it seems you'll only hear it between very close friends. I've never been spoken to that way, and only rarely will I overhear it.
This dedication to the tonal nature of their language has a side-effect: they seem to have a lazy disregard for consonants and vowels. K's are usually pronounced as G's, T's as D's, and (more oddly) any word that begins with an N is pronounced with an L instead. "Nay-ho," in the books, means hello; but nobody says that. They all say "Lay-ho." And everybody calls our animator Nam "Lam" (or rather, "Ah-lam"). This L-for-N thing is such a pervasive rule that they'll even use it when speaking English; they'll tell me they're working on "shot line," meaning shot nine. I've seen this over and over. Apparently, it's human nature to assume that other languages have the same rules your own does. I'm way guilty of this, so I can't complain.
Another tidbit: "Eleven" seems to have been taught over here as "eyeven." But why? Obviously, they have no problem saying L's; they put one at the beginning of every N-word. Also, "twelve" has for some reason been taught as "trev," possibly because putting a T and W together is difficult without a lot of practice.
Another: There is no way on Earth to tell the difference between their "can" and "can't." They simply never pronounce the T, whether it should be there or not. This has led to some terribly confusing conversations, and (who knows?) might even land me in jail someday.
Another: We have a couple of guys named "Ho" animating for us (it's a fairly common name over here). To differentiate, one of them prefers we put an S in front of his name, even though to their ears, "S-Ho" sounds 100% identical to our slang term for sphincter... which makes them all giggle. But thankfully, in this case it's not because I'm saying it wrong.
