I recently encountered a moment of cultural and linguistic tension while working on my audio paper. I had come across the Chinese slang term “土嗨” (tu-hai) and found myself struggling to translate it. It’s not that there was no English equivalent at all—words like “rustic” or “kitschy” might come close—but none of them truly captured the layered humor, aesthetics, and cultural specificity embedded in the original phrase. The pressure I felt to make it understandable in English was a subtle reminder of an ingrained hegemony, one in which English often dominates cross-cultural conversations.
Why did I feel compelled to translate it perfectly? After all, English speakers comfortably incorporate foreign loanwords all the time—think of “karaoke,” “amigo,” “genre”—without stripping them of their linguistic identity. Yet, when it comes to Chinese or other non-Western languages, there’s a lingering expectation to mold them neatly into pre-existing English concepts. I realized that this pressure comes not just from a desire for clarity, but also from an unspoken hierarchy: English as the global lingua franca, and all other languages as supporting acts that must adjust and adapt.
This reflection brought me back to a personal experience. In the past, when speaking Chinese, I would sometimes mimic the accent of English speakers attempting Chinese pronunciation. I thought it would sound more “authentic” or “acceptable.” Looking back, it’s clear that I felt English was the benchmark, even when dealing with my own language. It’s a subtle form of linguistic self-effacement, where the speaker tries to validate their own words through the prism of English expectations.
And yet, plenty of academics and writers across Europe and elsewhere insert French, Spanish, or Italian phrases into English essays without a second thought. These languages, due to historical colonial and cultural power dynamics, have earned a certain “prestige” that allows their words to slip seamlessly into English discourse. But Chinese, with its unfamiliar phonetics and a script that doesn’t neatly fit into the Latin alphabet, is expected to assimilate or be explained away.
This experience taught me that language hegemony is about more than just communication; it’s about power, identity, and recognition. Instead of forcing every non-English term into a neat English box, why not allow these words to live and breathe in their original form? Let them carry their cultural weight and complexity. Just as we have come to accept “sushi” or “macho” or “cliché,” we can learn to appreciate and pronounce “土嗨” as it is, acknowledging that true cultural exchange doesn’t always need the crutch of perfect English equivalency.