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Many years ago, when I was a graduate student, some friends who worked in a preschool in New Haven, Connecticut, phoned and said that a Japanese couple whose son attended their school needed a babysitter for Saturday night. My friends said that the child spoke only Japanese. Would I be interested?
I agreed and went to their apartment at the appointed time. Little Ken was playing quietly with his trucks, so I just settled in to do some reading. I occasionally made comments about what he was doing, but he just gave me funny looks. Then he got tired of the trucks, and started whining something incomprehensible.
I asked him in Japanese if he wanted to look at picture books. He stared at me blankly, but he seemed to understand when I opened the first book, which was an English-language alphabet book.
Sitting down beside me, he pointed to the first page of the book, a standard "A is for apple" page, and said, "Appuru!"
I pointed to the next page, and he said, "Bukku." "C" was "kyandii." "D" was "doggu."
Contrary to what my friends thought, Ken was not speaking Japanese. He was speaking English with a thick Japanese accent.
When the parents came home, I commented on the fact that he didn't understand my Japanese.
"He doesn't speak Japanese," his father said proudly. "We always speak English to him."
I was stunned at the idiocy of it. The parents' English was, to put it kindly, awful. Furthermore, I knew from having talked to the parents that they would be going back to Japan the following year. Ken would a) go back to Japan as a Japanese child who couldn't speak Japanese, and b) forget whatever English he knew anyway. (Small children learn languages rapidly, but they can forget even their native language if they aren't exposed to it, a fact that the directors of the Native American boarding schools cruelly used to their advantage.)
I tried to explain that Ken would be better off if he learned Japanese from his parents and if English was confined to pre-school, but the parents were adamant. They loved the idea of going back to Japan with a son who spoke only English, or more accurately, Engrish.
As if to underline the inadequacy of their English, the father asked me, "What should we say when we want him to stop doing something?"
"Ikenai," I suggested, "or yamero."
But the father wanted to know how to admonish his son in English. "Should I say 'Quit carrying on that way?'"
I gave up. "Just say, 'Stop it.'"
The next day, I told my friends what had happened, and they said that it explained a lot. Ken mostly did not talk at preschool, but every so often, he would babble incomprehensibly, getting louder and louder, and then have a temper tantrum. Now they understood why. He was a five-year-old without a real language.
I sometimes wonder what happened to Ken. He would be in his thirties now.
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