Taglish.
by Samantha Elalto Cuneta ‘21
Language forms the basis of a culture, and Taglish, a combination of Tagalog and English, is a daily norm in the Philippines. Yet the concept of synonyms is almost nonexistent. “Nakakatuwa” translates into “funny” in English, and is interchangeable with “humorous” or “witty.” In my country, the word is almost never used in these contexts.
To translate “nakakatuwa” from its native form—to strip it of connotations built up through three centuries of colonization—would dissolve the culture that invented this word and prevent its people from adopting a permanent culture of indignation. The word has been passed down in families for generations. The most conclusive way to understand this word is to see how it has been used in all-too-overlooked daily interactions.
It’s humorous to trace the complex journey of a connotation stapled onto an overcrowded pack of letters. It’s funny to remember how my grandfather-figure, Ernesto, solidified my first memories of what “nakakatuwa” precisely means to me today. His nose would flare as he sat on a fluffy brown chair, and he would point to an array of toy ducks clasped in my hands. I sat on a tiled floor mimicking a mini democratic town, with equally loved stuffed animals representing citizens, and upright picture books representing homes. How could I neglect the animals in which I saw different parts of my personality? In my household, my habit of pacing back and forth to give each picture book home a chance to have my only toy fridge was well-known. These moments were my earliest discovery of redistribution. Every time my grandpa saw me in action, he’d squint his watery eyes and howl, “Na-ka-ka-tu-wa ka talaga!”
He grew up poor, scraping through the bones of dilis (anchovies) for food. When he took up office in Pasay City Hall, he knew how pervasive political corruption was in the Philippines. He’d set out every Pasko (Christmas), donating a bag of rice and canned food to every household in the slums of Metro Manila. The Disyembre (December) before I turned two, I began scooping the rice. He showed me what it meant to unconditionally mahal (love) people, that it was possible to feel for others even when hardening my puso (heart) was the easiest response to the state of the mundo (world). I can’t remember the precise look on our receiving neighbor’s face, but I remember everything I felt because at the end, he’d also say, “Na-ka-ka-tu-wa ka talaga!” In my cultural equivalent of “You’re really funny,” the assonance builds up a refreshing inner sensation, a conviction that strengthens with every uttered word.
It’s funny how the true meaning of a non-English word is questioned. It’s humorous how its origins can be subsumed so easily into a foreign study. This intellectual wordplay should be witty. In the absence of connotations, the essential meaning of “nakakatuwa” is lost in translation. In English, “nakakatuwa” can achieve a range of rhetorical outcomes—from the sarcastic to the scholarly to the intellectual—but it’s funny because as an average Filipino, the word is simply used to complete one thought: “You make my heart feel happy.” My culture’s singular usage of this word comes from the belief that despite the reality that abounds from our confiscated past, we create happiness and hope when we speak our words into existence. Our language survives on the unspoken insistence to do better than the narrative of defeat we’ve been taught.
How can these natural letters be regarded as witty? How can we replace the feelings spurred in the microseconds a word takes to drip off a tongue? Say “nakakatuwa” in the Philippines and families will know exactly what you mean. Say “nakakatuwa” and you’ll realize that its most basic meaning contains the sentiment that allows an entire culture to rebound again and again. Say it in English and it loses its meaning forever.
Samantha Elalto Cuneta ‘21 (scuneta) gives a glimpse of her culture by telling the story of her grandfather in her mixed-language “Taglish” home. From the September/October 2020 issue.