Jolly J!

One summer day in Kremenchuk, I felt like having some ice cream so I hied off to the corner store.

I was getting two pre-wrapped cones of Ukrainian ice cream from the store’s freezer when my mobile phone beeped. It was my husband sending me a message. I tried to read the text message in a jiffy when all of a sudden the grocery owner grabbed the ice cream cones from my left hand and slammed them back into the freezer as she reprimanded me in Russian on machine-gun mode. She kept pointing at my mobile phone as she hurled angry words at me. Maybe she thought I was going to steal her ice cream and was calling my (non-existent) ‘partner in crime’ to prepare the get-away car parked somewhere nearby.

A young man, who was with his friends, spoke on my behalf. I think he told the grocer that I couldn’t speak Russian. And then I heard the magic words that brought relief to my heart, “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he asked from afar. I responded: “Ja! Ja! Ich spreche ein wenig Deutsch. Ich spreche Englisch auch. (Yes! Yes! I speak a little German. I also speak English.)

The young man then moved away from his friends, whose eyes were glued to what was happening, and swaggered towards my direction. It appeared that he wanted to make my acquiantance. I tried to remember all the German phrases I knew — you know, those you try to learn when planning to go to Germany as a tourist.

“Wie heissen Sie? (How are you called?)” he asked.

“Ich heisse Jay-Ann. Ich komme aus den Philippinen. (I come from the Philippines),” I answered.

Clearing his throat and trying to look cool, he said rather proudly, “Ich spreche Deutsch. Ich heisse English. (I speak German. I’m called English.)”

“Wie bitte? (Pardon me?)” I asked, a bit confused.

“Ich heisse Englisch (I’m called English),” he repeated, still looking as confident as ever.

I couldn’t believe my ears. There was clearly something linguistically awry, I thought.

“Also, Vielen Dank! Auf Wiedersehen. (Ok, thank you very much. Good-bye.),” I said clumsily.

Thinking that the young man might want to chat me up in (bad) German, I quickly summoned the still angry grocery owner to get the two cones of ice cream for me and paid for them. I then dashed towards the exit. And with one last look at the guy called ‘English,’ I waved good-bye and escaped on foot.

Confusing German conversations are not my thing. (Kremenchuk, Ukraine/July 2005)

“I’m a bit concerned that when people see me walking in the streets with my fiance, they might think I’m a hooker or a mail-order bride, being Asian and all…” I confess to my Swiss hosts Andre and Margrit over lunch.

Andre and Margrit, both retired, seem to understand my predicament, being mature Bible-believing Christians exposed to bicultural marriages. But at this point, they choose to be quiet. So I press on with my monologue.

“Well, come to think of it, if others judge me without knowing my background first, I can’t really blame them. I mean, I’ve heard lots of stories about Asian women, who do marry western men purely for money. They have these marriages of convenience with rich old men whom they divorce later on. But I’m not one of them!” I protest, in between bites of the well-cooked lake fish served with boiled potatoes.

“Yes, of course you’re not,” interrupts my now embarrassed Swiss fiance. I’ve been babbling for the past few minutes, and it’s clearly making him uncomfortable.

Andre and his wife have been very quiet ever since I started this delicate discussion on Asian women, who are in the ‘hanky panky business.’

“It’s kinda hard, you know. Soon, I would be meeting my future in-laws. You’ll just never know what they would think,” I say, confirming my paranoia.

The fiftyish Andre then places his fork and knife on his half-finished plate. Looking pensive, he leans back in his chair and clears his throat. It’s obvious he’s going to say something profound.

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he assures me. “You’re not sexy.” (Basel, Switzerland/February 2003)