My Big Sister, Amiq
Guest essay by indigenous writer Apyang Imiq, as Apyang reflects on his childhood friend Amiq and his own revival of the native language, Truku.
It is my honor to share this essay, the first guest essay and guest translation of our e-newsletter since its inception!
Shortly after the launch of the e-newsletter, I received e-mail from brenda, who is a writer and a translator. She translated into English this essay by Apyang Imiq 程廷, and shared the translation with me. I am happy to have the opportunity to learn more from other translators and also to get to know Apyang’s works. brenda’s translation conveys Apyang’s style while striking the balance between faithfulness and readabilty.
Apyang talked about how he envied his best friend Amiq, who could speak both Truku and Madarin fluently, when he was a child, and how, after years of hard work, he was eventually able to speak Truku fluently. Apyang recollected one time when he accompanied his Grandma to see a doctor: “The doctor would ask where it hurts, Grandma would quietly point to some spot on her abdomen. ‘Oh, must be your liver.’ Aside from this simple exchange, they were unable to delve more deeply into what it was that was ailing Grandma’s body.” The loss of language poses both a psychological distance and a physical barrier.
“My Big Sister, Amiq” talks about the loss and pursuit of the mother tongue, which reminds me of another essay I translated, “Reading, or Something Like It,” in which Catherine Chou, who grew up in California, shared how she strived to learn Taiwanese. Her experience resonated with many, and I also wrote down my own thoughts.
We always have a special affection for our mother tongue, and I myself am trying to revive my Taiwanese skills, driven by my cultural and national identity, and also in loving memory of my Grandma. I admire that Apyang has completed this step.
Thanks the author Apyang Imiq 程廷 and Chkuko Publishing Co., Ltd. 九歌出版社 who generously authorized us to publish the original text here, and thanks brenda for sharing her English translation with us.
“My Big Sister, Amiq” is from Apyang Imiq’s collection of essays, Growing up in a Tree Hollow 我長在打開的樹洞.
(In addition, we will meet at 10:00 am (Taipei Time) on May 21 to discuss about Wu Zhuoliu’s Orphan of Asia together. Welcome to join our online reading club! Feel free to leave a comment, reply to this e-mail message or write to me at transcreation@substack.com to register!)
《翻譯寫作的文字風景》是中英文雙語電子報。如果只想收到中文版，請到網站右上角的「My Account」內進行操作，也可以直接回覆這封E-mail或寫信到transcreation@substack.com，由我幫忙更改設定。再次感謝你的訂閱支持！
這篇文章的中文版在這裡。
My Big Sister, Amiq
by Apyang Imiq, translated by brenda Lin
Amiq was my best friend when I was a kid. Her skin was a sheen of light brown, two round eyes set slightly apart, and when she was staring off into space, she looked like a frog. Her favorite thing to do after a rainy day was to yell for everyone to go look for snails to sell to aunties in exchange for pocket money.
Amiq was so like the Doraemon character Gian, a through and through king of the kids in our 5th district of the Ciyakang tribe1. In that time when girls were stronger than boys, she used her slaps and flying kicks to subdue all the kids in the 5th district, and rose to the throne of ruler of all kids born between 1983 and 1988. I have always liked to play with Amiq, because she exuded the perfect combination of freedom, rebellion, and integration.
I was in direct contrast to her, coming from a civil servant family, where Mom would diligently check my homework every day, standing in front of my desk, holding a ruler to check if my Mandarin characters were written neatly or askew, and after church, I had to recite the scriptures without missing a word. When Dad came home, he would use his proper Mandarin to chastise us, and if he was drunk, he would mimic the waisheng2 accent of his old army troop leader, commanding “Stand up, attention, bow…” We six children were six soldiers: we had regular routines, and we were not allowed to be the wild kids of the tribe.
Amiq’s parents left the tribe very early on; she lived with Payi3 and Baki4 and spoke Truku fluently. I was envious of the way her pockets were always filled with spending money her parents sent her, unlike my mother, who prepared three square meals for us, never giving us the opportunity to have coins to spend big at the corner store. I was envious of the way Amiq could go play all over the place, and didn’t have to worry when her clothes got dirty grilling yams in the empty fields while playing house. If it were me coming home with mud all over my clothes, I’d either stand and face the wall as punishment or suffer the wrath of the water hose.
Besides all this, I was most envious of Amiq’s ability to integrate.
When we were little, very few tribal elders could speak Mandarin, and we couldn’t speak Truku. The elders were like strange spirits, living alongside us little ghosts in a parallel universe. Unfortunately, they loved to tease us kids and whenever they saw us, we would have to quietly accept this cross examination: “Manu hangang su,” “Ima Tama Bubu su?” “Mnsa inu ka Tama Bubu su?”5…
There were so many times I couldn’t understand and lamely forced out, “Iq, Iq, Kiya, Kiya,”6 and as soon as they saw through my sub-par Truku, they would say, “Aji Truku ka isu (You are not of the Truku tribe).” The old spirits let these words fall hard, like I should go straight to hell, and wasn’t worthy of living in the tribe, and a feeling inside would rise like the frustration of getting less than 60% on a test, but how can you be angry with me: I’ve never taken a class!
Amiq was one of those rare kids who could speak Truku well, with the ability to toggle between two languages. She crossed between two countries with ease, integrated ruptured eras and found something to gain from within. One time she led us on an adventure through the corn fields, stepped on and broke many stalks of corn. When Payi chased after us wildly with a sickle, Amiq yelled fearlessly, “Pipi, Usa da! (Damn! Scram!)” I fantasized being able to follow with a few of my own choice words: it must be cool.
She used her well-practiced tribal language to converse with the corner store owner, told an elaborate story about how a few days ago Granny harvested peanuts and asked if the store owner wanted to buy some. Meanwhile, we went on with our rehearsed script, and under Amiq’s cover, we successfully stuffed candy into our pockets.
I just really liked Amiq, who was a tenacious bridge, crossing over the rushing currents of the stream, connecting two vastly different hilltops. During my growing up years, she shielded bullets for me, helped guard against the contemptuous glares of those old spirits.
When I grew up and asked my parents why they didn’t teach me how to speak our language, Mom said, why are you blaming me? When we were little and spoke our language at school, we had to wear a dog tag; Dad said, why are you blaming me? When I spoke our language in the army, the officer would slap me and accuse me of bewitching them. But who could I blame? Who will teach me, so that I can get at least a 60% to pass this language test, who will return my missing piece?
Hanging around in Taipei for ten years, Truku veered farther and farther away from me. I worked in tall buildings and walked on carefully planned pedestrian walkways, hiding the part of my identity that was still Truku. Whenever my peers asked questions about my language or culture, I got dry mouth and my throat felt like I had smoked too many cigarettes. Later, when I called home for help, and the back and forth of questions and answers were both awkward and laughable, I couldn’t help but ask myself what was I so busy doing.
While I was writing my thesis, I interviewed many tribal elders, and the intense anxiety returned to my body. The interview process was both painful and confusing: the elders would want to tell me more, but their recognition of Chinese characters was limited; I, too, wanted to ask the elders more questions, but the Truku I could muster was so meager it was pathetic. When, after much struggle, I was able to catch some vocabulary words, I would privately anguish over whether I was correct in my understanding.
So many interviews made me feel as if I were taking Grandma to the doctor. The doctor would ask where it hurts, Grandma would quietly point to some spot on her abdomen. “Oh, must be your liver.” Aside from this simple exchange, they were unable to delve more deeply into what it was that was ailing Grandma’s body. “Just take your medication, and you’ll be fine,” the doctor would finally say, and Grandma never needed to know what the pills were made from; if recovery was possible, then give me a pill that will rescue my tribal language.
I’ve returned to the tribe for several years, been involved with community outreach and organizing, and along with a group of cohorts, traveled everywhere to interview tribal elders and host all kinds of events. Miraculously, my native language has returned in tiny drips, like being hooked to an IV after a high fever, each drip bringing me slowly back to health. When I don’t recognize a vocabulary word this time, I will consciously remember it in my heart; when I hear it next time, I will be excited that I am able to remember this word. As Dad and Mom know that I want to learn our native language, they have changed from the way they once educated us, and try to speak to me now as much as possible in our language.
Once, Older Brother and I got into a fistfight, the two of us fought ferociously from the living room to the front yard. When the Payi from next door heard the commotion, she came over to tell us that brothers shouldn’t fight, but I lost my mind and told her this wasn’t any of her business. After we stopped fighting, we retreated to opposite sides of the yard and continued to yell, accusing the other of wrongdoing, until the sun set.
Later, I holed up in my room, calming my throbbing heart, recalling the poisonous and acrid words, on the one hand, regretting my impulsive personality, hands, and feet, but on the other hand, sinking into a deep satisfaction that I could, without thought or consideration, speak mouthfuls of Truku, and argue continuously with clarity and logic.
Suddenly, I thought of Amiq, who was like a spirit, bringing me in and out, stitching and gluing together two worlds. I am – fundamentally Amiq!
Author
A Taiwanese Indigenous writer, Apyang Imiq, a best new author award at the 2021 Taiwan Literature Award and the winner of Taiwan Indigenous literature awards for seven years, belongs to the Truku people from the Ciyakang tribe in Hualien, Taiwan. After finishing his master degree at Graduate Institute of Building and Planing, National Taiwan University, he returned to his tribe, serving as the associate of Community Development Committee, and tribal council officer. He has been awarded with Taiwanese Indigenous People Literature Award multiple times. He was also granted patronage of National Culture and Arts Foundation in 2020.
“My Big Sister, Amiq” is from Apyang Imiq’s collection of essays, Growing up in a Tree Hollow 我長在打開的樹洞.
Translator
brenda Lin
brenda Lin’s first book, Wealth Ribbon: Taiwan Bound, America Bound, is a collection of interconnected personal essays about family and cultural identity. Her writing has appeared in Fourth Genre and WSQ. Her recent work, on the intersection between text and textile, appeared in Sotheby’s and TextileXchange. In 2021, she published a bilingual, touch-and-feel picture book, Hope, that you can wear, inspired by her mother’s collection of children’s textiles. brenda lives in Taipei, Taiwan.
This Instagram account shows her mother’s textile collection.
Administrative division devised under Japanese colonial period, like today’s neighborhood divisions.
[Translator’s note] Waisheng (外省) refers to people who immigrated to Taiwan from mainland China in 1949 and after, who are not native to Taiwan.
Truku, female elder.
Truku, male elder and, if followed by a name, meaning so-and-so Grandpa.
That string of commonplace greetings: What’s your name? Who are your parents? Where did your parents go?
Most commonly used Taroko: yes, yes, yes, okay, okay, okay.