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MOTHERSHIP ESSAY COMPETITION: What does it mean to "sound local" or "speak like a local" in Singapore?

In June, Mothership launched our inaugural essay competition. Over the course of one month, we received around 300 submissions from readers of different ages and backgrounds. 

Lee Bee Hian was awarded first place, receiving a prize of S$500. 

About the author: Lee is a market researcher by profession who loves drama and stories. She is also a mother-of-one. Pre-Covid, she enjoyed going for plays and volunteered to read to kids at libraries.

By Lee Bee Hian

I grew up in a Chinese- and Hokkien-speaking household. Singlish was the only English I had ever known for the longest time.

It only dawned upon me that it was deemed a poorer cousin to Queen’s English when I started becoming more aware of my classmates who spoke differently.

English teachers in each year of my earliest education trimmed, pruned, and corseted my English as much as they could, but for a long time, I felt insecure and inferior when I had to speak up in class. I would mentally go over and over what I would say in proper English and then deliver my speech, heart pounding, palms clammy.

A turning point came in the form of an altercation with a secondary school classmate who spoke perfect English. What the quarrel was about, I forget. But I always remembered how she sneered that I couldn’t even form an English sentence to quarrel properly.

I remembered how I felt something explode and blaze within me. I remembered how I turned into a mean b**ch and informed her that at least I could understand what was coming out of her stupid mouth and how she wouldn’t even be able to understand if this quarrel was in Chinese because she was a total “banana” — yellow outside, white inside.

I remembered the look of shock on her face because: one, I shouted back, which was uncharacteristic of me back then, and two, I called her "banana", accompanied by some (regrettably) choice Chinese curse words.

Was determined to learn proper English, but not completely give in

While I managed to stand up for myself, I also resolved that I was going to get very good at proper English so that there would be no chance of me getting sneered at again.

But deep down inside, there was still a stubbornness about not giving in 100 per cent to proper English. Because if I did, wouldn’t that make me one of those snobby perfect English speakers?

Years later, when I stepped out into the working world, I started working with international clients and found that speaking proper English was de rigueur — it wasn’t exactly up to me to choose.

This was when I realised that even without Singlish, the Singaporean accent and our fast talking speed were already trying for many foreigners who, in my experience, would look upon me intently with a slight furrow as they tried their best to understand or lip-read what I was saying.

I found myself slowing down the speed of my speech, enunciating, and even changing the tones in my voice when conversing with a non-Singaporean, just so that it was easier to communicate and be understood.

Singlish became one of the topics that was often discussed when socialising with these clients.

People were interested in the origins of the language — surprised to see code-switching when we spoke to a fellow Singaporean and tickled by the abruptness, yet uber-efficiency, of the language (“can!”).

Singlish is comfortable and casual

I owned it proudly as a bedrock of what it meant to be Singaporean.

It was like a secret code between the sons and daughters of Singapore, where with just a few seemingly disjointed words from different languages and dialects, there was an immediate connection and we established a common understanding of what was happening, the urgency or otherwise, and exactly how the other was feeling at that moment in time.

As a frequent code-switcher, I relished this like a child who had a secret tunnel linking up to her favourite hideout.

Singlish represented the ability to relax, hang loose, be yourself.

There were no clients to impress (“you speak English very well!” *eye-roll*), no potential communication hurdles to overcome, no need to worry about the bosses’ judgement (“please, all of you, watch the way you speak when handling international clients”).

If Queen’s English is the weekday, Singlish was the weekend.

If Queen’s English is an Oxford shirt, Singlish was the decade-old, faded t-shirt that is still so comfy.

If Queen’s English is a 4-course meal at a restaurant, Singlish was the wanton mee at the nearest hawker centre where I could flip-flop to in my slippers.

And more importantly, in the pride that I took in the language, I would be able to look my 13-year-old self in the eye and say, “See? I didn’t sell-out and become one of them snobby anti-Singlish-speak-proper-English folks.”

The dilemma of my child speaking Singlish

But come 2019, I found myself changed when I became a mum.

When my two-and-a-half-year-old came home from childcare spouting perfect Singlish with all the right tones (“I got this already!”, “Why like that?”), I found myself getting somewhat nervous and starting to correct her (“Not got, have”, “Don’t end with 'already', please”). All the while, doing so with very mixed feelings.

On the one hand, a part of me loves how Singaporean my daughter is and amazes at how Singlish is like a resilient plant that sprouts and grows even without us tending to it.

On the other hand, questions abound: What if in her prime soak-up-everything-like-a-sponge age, we allow Singlish to take up precious memory space in lieu of other more internationally spoken languages? What if Singlish is the only language that imprints on her?

I had to take a hard look at my relationship with Singlish. My support for and pride in Singlish — was it all just humbug on my end?

Singlish is part of my daughter's Singaporean DNA

In a way, writing this essay is a journey in which I’m on to sort through this basket of mixed emotions.

I believe Singlish will be a part of my daughter’s identity as she grows, with or without any intervention on my end. Singlish is not a weed that I can or should excise or poison. It is part of her Singaporean DNA.

And I believe she will be the richer for it.

For being able to experience the range of emotions that somehow only Singlish can carry (“walau…so sian!”). For the ability to relate to a hawker uncle or auntie serving food that warms the soul. For the ability to feel immediately closer to a fellow Singaporean she might meet on her possible future travels…

I recognise now that my job is not to tamp down, but rather, to open her eyes and ears to the world of languages. To expose her to other languages (English, Mandarin) at the same time that she is learning Singlish, without prizing one over the other. To help her experience the joy of mastery, language-play, and the fun of being a language amphibian (“What do you think should be the English word for 'sian'?”).

What I hope for is that as she makes her way around the world someday, that she is able to enthusiastically and clearly relate to a foreigner and her own kid(s) the beauty of Singlish, what it means to Singaporeans, and what it’s actually all about.

Read our other essay competition winners here:

2nd place:

3rd place (tied):

Top photo courtesy of Lee Bee Hian.