Lannang Eyes, Huanna Mouth

By: wannagong

Edited by: Rauha Huigiok Lim

—

Thwack!

"God, finally, a good spot! Shit, we waited too long."

I watched with dim eyes as his own brightened, the glare of old, yellow streetlamps sharp against his black-rimmed glasses. As he moves to pull a plastic bag from within the pick-up truck, the late night January air filters through gently. Humid. Nothing like the forecast said.

"Mango shake?" 

"Yeah, thanks."

As I poke a straw into the cup, he leans back against the tailgate, the Ford logo digging against his elbow.

"...To-sia."

"Tō,” His hand moves with emphasis, gently clearing his throat with the stress. "Sià."

"Tō-sià."

"Right," he nods. 

"Hó...sè?"

"Hó-sè, hó-sè."

I quickly nod back, the sound of each syllable beginning to burn deep into the back of my tongue. Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè.

The wind picks up, and the rumble of plane engines begin to hum. A shadow looms overhead. The smell is familiar — gasoline and burnt rubber tires — and it coats against the stickyiness of mango. As expected, a plane rolls into the runway, easing to the end of the strip. The wind rattles the weak wire mesh separating us from the airport, and I sit quietly, taking a long sip.

"What do you think?"

"This tastes good," I hum. "This mango shake's pretty nice."

"Hmm…Lánnang-uè mo nga?"

"Um…Tsi-ge...mango shake...bue phai?"

He chuckles. "Tsî-gê mango shakê bue phaî."

Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè. Tsî. Gê. Mango. Shakê. Bue. Phaî.

"...Ah."

"...It's not that hard, you know," he says casually. The plane now moves past us, and his eyes brighten at the sight of its majestic wings. "When you can differentiate the tones, the way they're spelled in the reading materials start to make sense."

"You make it sound like learning this is easy."

"But it is."

"That's not fair."

He takes a sip from his own drink. "All languages have a learning curve," he pauses, then shrugs. "Lánnang-uè I think comes from the heart."

"What a statement to make."

His laugh is easy. "Guâ si Lánnáng."

Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè. Tsî. Gê. Mango. Shakê. Bue. Phaî. Guâ. Si. Lánnáng.

"You are," I nod, agreeing quickly. "Balat mo, mata, ugali — it's all Lannang. No one can deny it."

"You are too, aren't you?"

My lips part. I know the words. I've heard it a thousand times before — in rooms full of people with small, almond-shaped eyes like mine, in parties where business and drama takes center stage in conversation. I only started learning Lánnang-uè little by little a few months back. So, from all the words I've been practicing and burning into my skull, this should be easy. Familiar. It should be easy.

Guâ si Lánnáng.

Guâ si Lánnáng.

Guâ. 

Si. 

Lánnáng.

But his gaze flicks towards the corner of his eye, and suddenly my throat forms a lump. It builds so quickly, like a ball of water given a firm shape. It sticks and rolls against all the pronunciations I've forced into the shape of my tongue, and I force my eyes shut.

"Huy—”

"Filipino," I say simply. A default answer. A formation my mouth knows all too well.

"Filipino?" He repeats, tone a pitch higher.

"Filipino."

His stare doesn't let up. The plane engines hum into silence, and I force myself not to look in his direction. The airplane eases to a full stop, the lights blinking amidst the glare.

"...You don't think that."

" 'Oh, you look very Chinese though! No Hokkien?' " I quote, my throat itchy and full. " 'Putonghua? Or even Taiwanese Hokkien?' "

"You say it like you've heard this a thousand times."

"And what if I have?" 

"...Okay, then. What's one sentence you at least know how to say?"

"Gua...gua bue hiau kong Lannang-ue." 

"Guâ bue hiaú kóng Lánnang-uè."

"Ha," My laugh is dry. "The one thing I should at least know how to say, and I can't even say it right."

Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè. Tsî. Gê. Mango. Shakê. Bue. Phaî.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

He says nothing. Only stares through my skin with an unreadable expression. Familiar. Tangible. Predictable, because as soon as his brows furrow and the edge of his lip curls into pity, I turn away. 

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

The sound of his lungs mustering for air is sharp, like it would splinter and crack open with the littlest bit of air. My eyes pinch firmly.

"We came here to watch airplanes," the words tumble out of my mouth, my breath falling short. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

"What do you really think of yourself?"

"Huh?"

"What do you really think of yourself?" He repeats. His voice is gentle. Patient. "If you believe you're just Filipino, then why go through the effort of learning Lánnang-uè?"

"It's not that easy - that question...I don't—”

 "Dî tshî kông."

"What? I don't understand—”

"I'm telling you to try."

Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè. Tsî. Gê. Mango. Shakê. Bue. Phaî.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Dî. Tshî. Kông.

"I..." A breath rolls into my lungs, heavy, but also weightless and dry. "I say I'm Filipino, but my Huanna friends wouldn't take it for an answer. Chinese skin, Chinese money values, Chinese eyes."

In the distance, I could hear soft conversation — of people descending onto the tarmac, of workers hauling luggages in urgency. Their boots scrape against the black asphalt, and the smell of gasoline curls against my nose.

"But, in a room full of Lannangs, I can't be one. I can't commit to saying I'm Lannang because—because—" I force a breath through my teeth. Gasoline settles onto my tongue. "Bue hiaú kóng Lánnang-uè. Phai-se, phai-se, phaí-sè."

"It's not as as phaí-sè as you think. Bue hiaú kóng Lánnang-uè is common," His brows furrow, nose wrinkled in confusion. "You're still Lannang—”

"But not Lannang enough. Not quite. Not as much." With a breath, I finally meet his gaze. How does his almond-shaped eyes look just like mine? "My eyes are Lannang, yes, but my mouth is Huanna. And there's nothing more terrifying than walking into a room that makes you feel both found and lost all at once. So, I say I'm Filipino, because it doesn't hurt as much."

The breeze quiets. The airport intercom blares an announcement too muffled for my ears. I breathe through my nose, and I swallow thickly.

"…Do you know how much it makes me want to throw up? That Lánnang-uè has five tones, and one simple misplacement of my tongue and suddenly I'm saying the wrong thing all at once? That you can just see anyone's face contort and harden and-and twist when you say toshiah instead of tō-sià? That they look at you with secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, suddenly every Lannang adult in my life from my parents to my angkong and every conceivable ancestor are at fault because they were careless I turned out Huannagong?"

The words tumble out of my mouth far too easily for my comfort. And in his silence, my gaze drops, affixed instead to his fingernails thrumming against his dewy cup.

"So, when you ask who I am…it's not an easy question." 

Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè. Tsî. Gê. Mango. Shakê. Bue. Phaî.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Dî. Tshî. Kông.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Phaí-sè. 

Phaí-sè. 

Phaí-sè.

The quiet lingers heavily. I couldn't bear to look at his direction — what would he say now? What did he think? Did I say too much, or too little, or not enough? And it scares me — the idea of him, a Hokkien-speaking Lannang, knowing me like this. A key to a door peeked through far too many times, but not one worth the bother to venture into. 

Phaí-sè.

"Who knew?" I whisper. "Who knew it could be so isolating to be Lannang?"

But in the distant song of the crickets, of night birds and a new line of people boarding the airplane, I hear it — the stretch of his lip, and the long, thoughtful hum reverberating clearly from his throat.

"You said it yourself, though." He chuckles. "You're Lannang."

My head turns to meet his gaze. "Lannang?" My brow rises. Did he not hear what I just said?

"Filipino, Chinese. Di ka lang Filipino, pero you're not just Chinese either," he shrugs easily, turning his body. 

His hand moves to gesture to my eyes. "Lannang." 

Then, he points to my mouth. "Huanna."

And before I could sigh in defeat, he gestures to my temple. Pauses, then drifts to where my heart lies.

"Lannang."

"Isn't my existence a rebellion?"

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. That's all there is to it."

The airport intercom blares to life, diverting our attention away toward the airplane. It moves gently, easing onto the runway, lights blinking proudly. It moves with precision underneath the gaze of yellow overhead lights, following no orders other than the tower that watches over it in the distance. 

"…The flight's taking off," he grunts with a stretch, eyes bright with excitement. "Dî dīm mango shakê. You should finish it."

"It's not a shake anymore," I sigh, raising my wet, sopping cup. "It's all melted. No matter how we look at it, you can't call it a shake. It's literally juice now."

He takes a moment to glance between his cup and mine. They look similar. Still, he lifts his straw to his lips, taking a good sip. "Hm, it's still good," he says, tone somehow still pleasant. "Tsî-gê mangô."

I shake my head. "We wanted mango shakes, not mango juice."

"Well, with enough effort, we can still turn it into a shake again. Just needs ice, some milk, a bit more mango, a spoon of sugar," he shrugs again. "We'd still get mango shake regardless - no one would suspect a thing."

"We'd know what we did."

"Does it matter? Learn it, do it anyway. The mango shake's for you - not for anyone else."

The plane comes to a full stop at the end of the runway. It hums — quiet and patient as its lights blink against the night. Then, all at once, it builds — from a soft vibration, to a song, to a rasped, powered roar as its wheels scrape harshly against the runway. It speeds past us, wind and dust and the smell of rubber and gasoline flowing against our skin, taking its throne among the stars in the sky.

Tō. Sià. Hó. Sè. Tsî. Gê. Mango. Shakê. Bue. Phaî.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Dî. Tshî. Kông.

Guâ. Bue. Hiaú. Kóng. Lánnang-uè.

Phaí-sè. Phaí-sè. Phaí-sè. 

…

Guâ. Si. Lánnáng.

"…Yeah," I say, my eyes trailing after the blinking end of the airplane tail. "Maybe it is."