Davy sounded like a parent with a toddler. “Zhe shi shen me (What is this)?” he’d ask, pointing at his nose.
“Bize,” I’d answer.
“Zhe shi shen me?”
“Erduo (Ears),” I’d answer.
For weeks I couldn’t remember two words: xiong and gebe. Frustrated by my poor memory, one evening I decided to brand them into my gray matter once and for all. I danced around my empty apartment like a ninny, thumping myself in my chest chanting, “Xiong! Xiong! Xiong,” then clapping my upper arms shouting, “Gebe! Gebe! Gebe!” I danced wildly, switching between the two words in a sing-chanting tribalistic ritual.
They say it’s impossible to tickle yourself. I also suspect it’s impossible to embarrass yourself in front of just yourself … but that night I got pretty close.
Now, over a decade later, I can’t recall the Mandarin words for face, or mouth, or eyes, or hands. But xiong and gebe are as clear to me as their English counterparts.
