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Some Distinctive Taiwanese Communication Practices and their

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 Mandarin Chinese, Taiwanese, Taiwan

10
Some Distinctive Taiwanese
Communication Practices and
their Cultural Meanings
Todd L. Sandel, Hsin-I Sydney Yueh, and Peih-ying Lu

Two people from Taiwan are traveling in a place in Asia outside Taiwan. One hears the other
speaking Mandarin Chinese in an accent that is “southern” and distinct from the “standard”
Chinese of the north (Kubler, 1985; Sandel, 2003; Su, 2009). The questions then begin: Ni si Tai-
wan ren ma? (Are you a Taiwan person?) The verb shi (to be) is pronounced in the familiar and
colloquial form as si. (Mandarin words and phrases are italicized and Taiwanese are underlined.)
The response follows the same pattern: Si ah (Yes I am). The questioner switches to Taiwanese
(also called Tai-gi, Hokkien, Hoklo) and asks: Li Tai-oan doa do-wi? (Where do you live in Tai-
wan?) “Tainan,” a city in Taiwan’s south, is the reply. Then beginning in Mandarin and switch-
ing mid-sentence to Taiwanese: Tainan. Wo you yige gege di Tai-lam be jia-eh. (Tainan. I have
an older brother in Tainan who sells things to eat [has a small restaurant or is a food vendor].)
The smooth, sudden, and natural switch from Taiwanese-accented-Mandarin (also called Taiwan
Guoyu, Su, 2009) to Taiwanese is a sign that the two share a communicative code and are mem-
bers of a speech community (Hymes, 1974). It is also a metacommunicative device that indexes
a shared identity as Taiwan ren (Taiwanese person) in the midst of others who do not count as
“Taiwan ren.” They discuss familiar topics—places, family, and food—and may talk at length
as they happily learn that among the throngs of thousands, it is yuan—a predestined relation
(Chang, 2011), that they have found each other.
The above is a ritualized form of communication familiar to people across Taiwan: Connec-
tions are made through an identifiably “Taiwanese” style of talk, indicated by mixed Mandarin
and Taiwanese codes, and the discussion of safe and comfortable topics. Uncomfortable topics,
such as politics, are avoided (Zhang, Merolla, Sun, & Lin, 2012). People may chat for hours
about foods they have consumed (e.g., street food such as “stinky tofu” or “oyster pancake”), the
places where such items may be found (e.g., night markets), and foods associated with certain
places, such as Lukang’s “cow-tongue-shaped cookie.” Talk is linked to known others—family
members and/or a fluid and expandable group of friends—who may live and work in such famil-
iar and named places. And at some point in the conversation it will be remarked that “Taiwan
is a small place” where personal connections stretch from one end of the island to another, and
the naming of places known personally and vicariously anchors a sense of shared relationships
(Feld & Basso, 1996).
118

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 TAIWANESE COMMUNICATION PRACTICES  119

In this chapter we examine some Taiwanese conceptions of communication and practices.

We describe practices and local, associated cultural meanings. Theoretically we draw upon work
in cultural discourse analysis that sees “communication as a practice and culture as emergent in
practices” (Carbaugh, 2007, p. 169), and pay attention to cultural belief systems or “ethnotheo-
ries” that participants invoke when evaluating and formulating communicative practices (Miller,
Wang, Sandel, & Cho, 2002; Sandel, 2014).
A presentation of Taiwanese communication, however, must be made with a number of
caveats. First, with a population of more than 23 million people, and a number of diverse “ethnic”
groups (described below), what we write fails to capture the full range of communication prac-
tices. Second, we must be selective and examine but a few practices, acknowledging that if we
chose others our analysis might look different. And third, Taiwanese do not see themselves all the
same; their performances, and associated meanings, vary by region—falling on a “North–South”
axis—with the North understood as the city of Taipei, and all other parts as the South.
The rest of this chapter proceeds as follows. We first provide a brief description of Taiwan’s
people and history. This is followed by a discussion of ways communication is studied in Tai-
wan, pointing out strengths and weaknesses. We then provide a theoretical lens through two
related theories: cultural discourse analysis and ethnotheories. This is followed by an explana-
tion of regional differences across Taiwan, namely North–South communicative styles, how they
emerged, recognized, and interpreted, while focusing on three terms that index these styles: Taike,
Sajiao, and Tian Long Guo (Taipei). The chapter concludes by pointing out paths for future study.

TAIWAN AS SITE OF CULTURAL COMMUNICATIVE

PRACTICES AND MEANINGS

Taiwan refers to a place, an island of nearly 36,000 square kilometers (about the size of the U.S.
states of Maryland and Delaware combined), and the 23 million people who live in Taiwan and
the small islands that comprise the Republic of China (ROC). From 1949, when Chiang Kai-shek
and the Chinese Nationalists (Kuomintang or KMT), fled from China and established a “tempo-
rary” capital and government in Taipei, until 1987, Taiwan was ruled under a state of martial law.
For decades the government—with support from the United States—claimed to be the sole and
legitimate ruler of all China. This support eroded during the 1970s, first as Taiwan was forced
to give up the “China seat” to the PRC and left the United Nations, and then in 1979 when the
United States ended formal diplomatic ties with the ROC government. Domestically the govern-
ment was challenged by local activists who demanded an end to authoritarian rule, marked by
the “Kaohsiung Incident” of 1979 when the leaders of a publication that supported the cause of
Taiwan independence were arrested and imprisoned (Rubenstein, 1999). However, by the late
1980s with Taiwan’s economy growing rapidly, political reforms began. In 1988, native-born
Lee Teng-hui assumed the presidency. He set the government on a course of rapid and dramatic
political liberalization. The narrative that Taiwan was a “temporary refuge” and part of China
was replaced with one that it was a bao dao, 寶島 or “treasured island,” a place the people of
Taiwan should treasure and make prosperous. Lee also fostered a growing sense of “Taiwan
localization” (bentuhua), that Taiwan was Taiwan, and not China (Tsai, 2005); and a Taiwanese
identity has continued to grow stronger in recent years (Gries & Su, 2013).
The people of Taiwan today are comprised of five different groups: (1) Taiwan’s Aborigines,
(2) “Foreign” (waiji) born laborers and marriage migrants, (3) Waishengren or “Outside province
people” who came to Taiwan from China in 1949 and their descendants who identify themselves
as waishengren, (4) Hakka, and (5) Benshengren or “Local province people” (also referred to as

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 120  TODD SANDEL ET AL.

Taiwanese or Taiwan ren) (Sandel & Liang, 2010). The first two groups, Aborigines (Taiwan’s
earliest inhabitants) and Foreign people (arriving in large numbers since the 1990s), comprise
the smallest part of the population, about 5% combined (Sandel, 2011; Shepherd, 1993). The
remaining 95% trace their ancestry to China. Yet among this majority population exist important
and significant differences that map onto communicative practices and identity, with the most
important—to be discussed below—between Taiwan’s North and South.

ACADEMIC STUDY OF COMMUNICATION IN TAIWAN

In an insightful analysis of the academic study of communication in Taiwan—made more than

a decade ago—Chen (2002) claimed that it was “fragmented and unbalanced.” Most commu-
nication departments focused on studies of journalism and mass communication, with a heavy
emphasis in such applied areas as public relations and advertising. He also claimed there was
an unhealthy “Western bias” as most instructors were trained in the West, and simply adopted
Western textbooks and curricula design without making an attempt to explore Chinese concepts
and areas of research.
When we look at the state of communication studies more than a decade after Chen’s critique,
we find—with few exceptions—the situation has changed little. Many communication depart-
ments continue to emphasize studies in journalism, mass media, content analysis, and commu-
nication technology, while over-relying on Western theories, methods, and perspectives. There
are exceptions, however, to this paradigm. One institution that offers a balanced curriculum is
Shi-Hsin University in Taipei. The College of Journalism and Communications is the university’s
largest and most prestigious academic unit; in addition to having such “traditional” Departments
as Journalism, Public Relations and Advertising, and Radio, Television and Film, the college
hosts a well-known “Department of Speech Communication.” Methods taught include qualita-
tive and interpretive ones. It also offers a number of interdisciplinary courses and fields of study,
such as language and communication, pragmatics, psycholinguistics, and sociolinguistics; these
courses also train students in discourse analysis, interaction analysis, and conversation analysis.
One weakness, however, is that not much work is done on everyday conversation and cultural
meanings, as political communication and media discourse analysis receive greater attention.
The study of communication in Taiwan is not limited to work done in colleges and/or depart-
ments of communication and journalism. Work in communication studies that better allies with
the focus of this chapter can be found in departments such as linguistics and English, or to a lesser
extent anthropology or Taiwanese language and literature (Shih & Su, 1995). A range of topics,
such as political communication, media discourse analysis, intergroup communication, language
landscape, government language policies, code-switching/mixing in different scenarios such as
doctor–patient encounters (Huang, 1999), can be found in these departments.
As Taiwan’s language landscape offers an illustration of the interplay between identity,
politics, language, and citizenship, there is growing interest in the interaction between linguis-
tics and social change. An understanding of identity and belonging has been re-negotiated over
the past decades—whether it is to Taiwan alone, or to a greater Chinese-speaking community
represented by China (Gries & Su, 2013). According to a recent survey of the Election Study
Center of National Chengchi University, more than 60% of respondents identified themselves
as Taiwanese, 32% Chinese-Taiwanese. These figures show significant changes in Taiwanese
self-identity since 1992, when a similar survey showed that about 46% of respondents identified
themselves with dual identity as Taiwanese and Chinese, 25% as Chinese, and 17% as Taiwanese
only (NCCU, 2014).

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 TAIWANESE COMMUNICATION PRACTICES  121

Finally, the ability to speak Taiwanese and/or Taiwanese-accented Mandarin has arisen as
markers of a local identity and notions of national citizenship. Recognition of these linguistic
forms may spur more studies of the communication style, linguistic patterning, and the social
mechanisms of change. For example, recent studies of television commercials have demonstrated
changing attitudes toward language use and social roles (Lu & Corbett, 2013). This can be used
for researching ethnic and political identity and socioeconomic issues.

CULTURAL DISCOURSE ANALYSIS

Cultural discourse analysis (CDA) claims we can look at “meaning as an ongoing commentary that
is immanent in actual communication practices” (Carbaugh, 2007, p. 174). When people are in con-
versation with each other, they are not only conveying content (e.g., the best place to find “stinky
tofu”), but also “saying things culturally, about who they are, how they are related, what they are
doing together” (p. 174). These “are formulated as . . . ‘radiants of cultural meaning’ or ‘hubs of
cultural meaning’ ” about “personhood, relationships, action, emotion, and dwelling” (p. 174). It is
the task of the researcher to uncover and unpack the “interactional radiants” or “semantic hubs” as
they serve as “ongoing meta-cultural commentary” on communicative practices (p. 174).
Studies that use this approach have examined communication in a number of contexts and
found terms and event sequences that demonstrate cultural meaning systems. For instance,
Katriel studied the vernacular Hebrew term “dugri” in Israel and found that it is used to describe
“straight talk, straight talkers, and speech occasions that involve ‘saying it like it is’ ” (Katriel,
2015, p. 493). Nuciforo (2013) examined both the verbal and nonverbal communication asso-
ciated with Russian toasting and drinking. She demonstrates that drinking is more than the
consumption of alcohol; it is also “an important communication ritual that reinforces Russian
cultural values and beliefs” (p. 173).

TAIWANESE ETHNOTHEORIES

A second way to frame a study of Taiwanese communication is through the concept of an ethno-
theory. While the concept “theory” often invokes universal frames and meaning systems, such as
Darwin’s Theory of Evolution, an ethnotheory (also called folk theory or cultural belief system)
is a “locally understood way of looking at the world” (Sandel, 2015, p. 5). Across the world we
find local understandings of cause and effect relationships that people use to guide, interpret, and
evaluate an array of behaviors.
One example is the belief that blood type influences personality. The origins of this can be
traced to the early twentieth century when Japanese scientists were learning about blood types. One
high school administrator claimed he could observe links between blood type and personality. This
idea was subsequently adopted by the Japanese government as it sought to “breed better soldiers”;
later it was used during World War II as a way to claim and assert racial superiority (Sandel, 2015).
This belief spread to Taiwan, presumably during the period of Japanese colonization (1895–1945).
When I (TLS) went to Taiwan in the late 1980s, I was surprised to hear people talk at length
about so-and-so who did not get along well with so-and-so, and the “reason” was because of
incompatible blood types: “A person with type A is compatible with A and AB; a type B person
is compatible with B and AB; type O with O and AB; and type AB is compatible with any blood
type” (Sandel, 2015, p. 5). I once gave a lecture at a university—with an audience of profes-
sors and graduate students—and raised the blood type–personality link as an example of an

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 122  TODD SANDEL ET AL.

ethnotheory. Following the talk many responded with vigor, disputing my claim that this was just
an ethnotheory. In recent years identifying a person’s blood type has become accepted as part
of the discourse of dating and marriage. Online dating services based in Taiwan include “blood
type” as one of the items listed on a person’s profile. Prospective daters want to know if a person
of interest has a compatible blood type!
A second example comes from work by Chang (Chang, 2002, 2010, 2011; Chang & Holt,
1991), who has identified the term yuan 緣—translated as “predestined relation”—as one that
people in Taiwan use to describe and interpret interpersonal relationships. In brief, yuan is a Chi-
nese Buddhist concept that describes a secondary cause, or the context that fosters (or hinders)
a relationship. For example, one might say that the “cause” of frost is sub-freezing tempera-
ture. However, absent the presence of vapor in the air—a secondary cause—frost will not form.
Likewise, “any relationship has its roots in uncounted numbers of lifetimes and is situated in a
complex web of interdependent causative factors that are outside the control, or even the compre-
hension, of the the human mind” (Chang & Holt, 1991, p. 34). If a relationship develops, then it
is said it to you yuan (have yuan) as the participants were in the same place at the same time, and
in a favorable environment (e.g., neighbors in an apartment complex, office mates, classmates),
for the relationship to bloom. Yet if a relationship does not develop, or after a period of time
dissolves, then it can be described that it was wu yuan, or had no yuan.
An implication of this folk concept is that people in Taiwan pay greater attention to situational
factors, or context, when interacting with others, and that this often takes the form of indirect com-
munication. For instance, when during the course of research I (TLS) visit people, I am often met
in the “living room,” or first room that one enters after opening the door. It is a recognizable public/
private space, usually furnished with a television set, a tea table, low-set sofas or chairs, and a “god
shelf” where the image of a deity looks down upon those who enter. After making introductions,
someone brings out a small beverage: If a man is present he has an “old man’s tea” set and boils the
water and prepares tea that is served in small cups; women, usually, do not make tea and instead bring
out packaged juice or some other drink. I intuitively understand that this simple act says, “You are
welcome to sit here and talk with us for a time.” The host is fostering and facilitating the context—
creating the conditions to “have yuan”—for the event. Yet on those occasions when such a drink is
not offered, I realize that there is no yuan. The hosts are busy, or not willing to talk with me. This is
an important folk concept that has both a vocabulary, or way of describing the emotional quality of a
relationship (Chang, 2011), and associated set of practices. The fictive conversation described at the
beginning of this paper is one where there is a feeling of yuan between the conversants.

NORTH–SOUTH DIFFERENCES

One day I (SHY) was walking on the streets of Taipei on a cold day and overheard the following
conversation between two young women:

A: Jintian tianqi hao leng. Pihu bian hao gan

The weather today is very cold. [It] makes [my] skin very dry.
B: Pihu? [Emphasizing the h sound]
Skin?
A. Pifu hao gan [pronouncing skin as pifu]
[My] skin is very dry
B. Hah hah hah [laughing]. Hai yiwei ni bian taike le!
Hah hah hah. [I] thought you were becoming taike!

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 TAIWANESE COMMUNICATION PRACTICES  123

In this conversation about the weather’s effects on her skin, A initially pronounced the Mandarin
Chinese word for skin as pihu. (The standard pronunciation is pifu.) Noticing this, B responded
by repeating the word in the same way, and emphasized A’s use of the h sound in the word for
skin. Realizing her non-standard “mistake,” A uttered the phrase with the correct pronunciation,
Pifu hao gan. B then laughingly commented on A’s malapropism: “I thought you were becoming
taike!”
The above can only be understood in the context of Taiwan’s North–South distinctions. Both
North and South, or nan-bei 南北 (literally South-North in Chinese), refer to distinct regions of
Taiwan, and different socially constructed understandings of Taiwan. The North is associated
with the capital city of Taipei 台北 (the character pei 北in Taipei is a variant spelling of bei
or north). Most other parts of Taiwan are thought of as the South (nan). Two expressions have
emerged in recent years that demonstrate differences. One describes Taipei: Tian long guo 天龍國,
which literally means “Heavenly dragon kingdom.” The people of Taipei may be called Tian
long ren, or Heavenly dragon people. The south is referenced less as a place and more as a style
of talking and being, called taike, 台客 (Taiwan guest); when someone performs in a certain
way, people will say, Ni hen tai! 你很台 (You are so tai!) (Su, 2011). Both Tian long guo/ren
and taike may be used in a joking manner to point to and mark some verbal and/or nonverbal
communication.

SOUTHERN STYLE: “TAIKE” DISCOURSE

The opening illustration, and the above dialogue between speakers A and B, illustrate a style of
talk known as “Taiwan Guoyu” or Taiwanese-accented-Mandarin (Su, 2009, 2011). Mandarin
has a number of sounds that do not occur in Taiwanese, and speakers routinely substitute Tai-
wanese sounds for Mandarin ones (Kubler, 1985; Yueh, 2012). For instance, Mandarin retroflex
sounds, zhi, chi, and shi, in Taiwan Guoyu are pronounced as zi, ci, and si. Likewise, the f sound
becomes h, as pifu was pronounced as pihu; l is substituted for r, such as the word for person(s),
and ren is pronounced as len. By the early 2000s the phrase taike started to be used as a slang
term among Taiwan’s youth to describe those who spoke Mandarin with this style. Taike, how-
ever, marks more than a pronunciation style.
Taike was first used in the 1960s by Mainland gangsters to denigrate Taiwanese gangsters
(Su, 2011). By the 2000s it was appropriated by Taiwanese youth and spread through online
discourse. By analyzing online uses of taike the following four characteristics were revealed:
“fashion senses, linguistic practices, behavior/conduct, and mentality” (Su, 2011, p. 285). That is,
someone who is taike wears unfashionable clothing, “pretends to know things he doesn’t know
[taike originally referred to males only], and who swears and speaks in Taiwan Guoyu” (p. 285).
More recently taike and its variant ta, are used more widely and refer to any behavior by
males or females that is markedly “Taiwanese.” For example, in a Youtube video titled, “Pi rou
ni hao tai oh ha ha” 屁柔你好台哦  haha (“Fart Rou” you are so tai oh haha), one young woman
is singing a Tawanese song in a KTV parlor. As she sings, another young woman—the person
filming the performance—can be heard laughing and saying, Tai mei! Tai mei! The phrase Tai mei
means “Taiwanese sister,” or slang for Taiwanese girl. That is, the joke is that singing a song in
Taiwanese at a KTV parlor is a kind of showy behavior that is tai and can be made fun of. This
kind of mocking is evident in the title chosen by the person who posted the video to Youtube,
nicknaming her friend as “Pi Rou.”
In Chinese pi literally means “fart” and native speakers often add vulgar words, such
as pi 屁 fart, chou 臭  stinky, fei 肥 fat, in front of or in back of one’s given name (e.g., piqiang

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 124  TODD SANDEL ET AL.

屁強–strong fart; chou xiao jie 臭小傑–stinky little hero; cai fei  蔡肥–fat cai). It is a playful way
to show intimacy among close friends. I, SHY, surmise that the singer has the character rou 柔 in
her given name, and “Pi Rou” 屁柔  is her nickname. I (SHY) have a list showing how Taiwanese
people nickname each other in this style (Yueh, Forthcoming).
The above examples are characteristics of a style of communication associated with “South-
ern” Taiwanese people. To speak Taiwan Guoyu, to talk or sing in Taiwanese, and to wear cloth-
ing and act in a manner not fashionable, these are the marks of a tai or Southern person; such a
person may be viewed negatively and is an object of humor.

TAIPEI STYLE: TIAN LONG GUO, KINGDOM OF THE HEAVENLY DRAGON

A taike discourse reveals a Taipei-centered perspective, and creates a dominant perspective for
people to do things and speak things in the Taipei way. Taipei, with a population of 2.7 million
(Statistical Yearbook, 2013), is Taiwan’s political, economic, and media center where the most
important and widely watched television programming is broadcast. It has the highest concen-
tration of Waishengren and their descendants. Taipei is also a magnet for young people from all
parts of the island, not only for education, but also for work, and the fast pace and lifestyle of the
city. Young people—especially those who move there from the South—see Taipei as a place of
opportunity where dreams can be fulfilled.
As a third generation descendant of Waishengren and life-long resident of Taipei, I (SHY)
know many friends who moved to Taipei from the South. They see it as a place to “work hard for
their livelihood” (wei shenghuo da pin 為生活打拼) and pursue their “dreams.” It is also a place
with an urban and colorful night life. Some of my friends from the South, who stayed in school
dormitories or rented apartment rooms, felt a sense of freedom and adventure. On many nights
they would go to KTV parlors, watch movies, go out to night clubs, and party. Out of curiosity,
I would ask them why they would do these things. They would respond: “That’s how Taipei peo-
ple live their lives! I am just enjoying it!”
There is, however, another side to the excitement of living in Taipei. The individualistic, fast-
paced style of Taipei sometimes makes “non-Taipei people” feel isolated. In 1980, a well-known
pop singer Lo Ta-yu 羅大佑 wrote a song Lukang xiao zhen 鹿港小鎮 (Lukang little town). The
lyrics express the nostalgia of a young man who left his Southern hometown of Lukang and then
came to Taipei for work. In the chorus he sings, “Taipei is not my home. My hometown does
not have any neon lights.” It gave voice to those from the South who moved to Taipei in pursuit
of a dream, only to have that dream broken by the reality of a busy and unfriendly city. In the
movie, Cape No. 7 filmed in 2008 by the Taiwanese director, Wei Te-sheng 魏德聖, the movie
opens with a scene that resonates with many. The main character, a young man and singer, gets
on his motorcycle and leaves Taipei in a fit of anger. He destroys his guitar and curses, Wo cao
ni ma de Taipei 我操你媽的台北 (I fuck you Taipei). This is a poignant example of the love–hate
relationship many from the South have with the city of Taipei.
The term Tian long guo (Kingdom, or Land, of the heavenly dragon) started to spread among
Taiwanese people to refer to Taipei City after taike discourse appeared and became popular. It has
its roots in traditional Chinese concepts of the royal family, emperor, and the middle kingdom,
China. The contemporary understanding of the term in Taiwan, however, can be traced to a Japanese
manga series by Eiichiro Oda, One Piece, serialized from 1997 to the present. The series depicts
a young man’s adventures and ambition to become the next Pirate King; in the process he strives
with many friends and companions to attain his goal while fighting against enemies. The phrase
Tian long ren refers to the descendants of the creator of a World Government who enjoy many

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 TAIWANESE COMMUNICATION PRACTICES  125

privileges in their kingdom: they consider themselves too noble to breathe the same air as common
people and wear oxygen masks. Whenever they break a law, the government protects them and they
are not punished; the “dragon people” can do whatever they want without fear of consequences.
Taipei City has been jokingly labeled by young Taiwanese people as Tian long guo天龍國
and its residents, Taipei People, as Tian long ren 天龍人 thanks to the popularity of the manga
series. However, the appropriation of this term became well-known due to a series of comments
made by a former government official, Kuo Kuan-ying 郭冠英. Kuo wrote a series of political
commentaries that were critical of “Taiwanese” and referred to himself as a “high class Chinese
Mainlander” (Ling, 2014). In response, many, beyond the online youth groups, started to refer
to all Waishengren (post-1949 China immigrants and their descendants) as Tian long ren and
Taipei City as Tian long guo. This was to express their dissatisfaction with Taiwan’s politics,
scandals, and public affairs. The usage then spread and the term came to be associated with all
Taipei City residents, whom many saw as having the most resources and privileges, but knowing
or caring little about other parts of Taiwan, that is, the South.

PERFORMING SAJIAO (BABYISH, CUTE TALK) IN TAIPEI

Few scholars have studied differences between the communication of Taipei and the South. This is
perhaps a reflection of the attitudes of Taipei residents—and the many academics who live there—
who see themselves as “normative” and tend to look at Southerners negatively. One exception
is study of the term sajiao 撒嬌, a babyish form of persuasion, as a metalinguistic cultural term
that describes a style of communication widespread in the Mandarin-speaking community and
used predominantly by females (Yueh, 2012, 2013, Forthcoming). Sajiao refers to a set of persua-
sive communication that imitates children’s behavior to play cute, and can be used by both gen-
ders. However, most believe sajiao is a women’s speech style, and that women with a “natural”
sajiao charm, such as a sweet voice, will make a good spouse (Yueh, 2013). The attractiveness of a
female is enhanced when she can play cute, to sajiao naturally or not. It is similar to and influnced
by popular Japanese culture and the kawaii (cute) trend that “cutified” everything, such as “Hello
Kitty” and female Japanese music bands and the construction of female “idols” (Yueh, 2012).
A sajiao style exhibits the following: (1) change of the first-person pronoun, referring to the
self by saying renjia (other) instead of wo (I/me); (2) use of sentence-final particles, such as ma
(嘛), la (啦), a (啊), ya (呀), ou (喔), and yo (呦); (3) use of endearment of address forms to refer
to acquaintances or strangers and unconventional characters to represent them in written form
(e.g., “gege”—big brother—written as 葛格 instead of 哥哥); (4) the reduplication of monosyllabic
words, such as saying chi fanfan 吃飯飯 (“eat rice rice) instead of chi fan 吃飯 (eat rice); and (5)
the use of tag questions (Su, 2008; Yueh, 2013).
This sajiao style was observed when I (SHY) did fieldwork in Taipei City; it was used per-
formatively and during such speech acts as greeting someone, negotiating, or apologizing (Yueh,
2012). The most notable display of sajiao, however, was seen on television, especially “light”
television programming such as game shows or talk shows (but not by female news broadcast-
ers). It was most often voiced by a woman who was young, cute, and otherwise spoke “standard”
(i.e., not Taiwan Guoyu) Mandarin. In contrast, when people on the streets of Taipei, or on televi-
sion shows, spoke accented Taiwan Guoyu, it was more likely to be mocked and not appreciated
as “high class” style of talk.
Many young female interviewees said they can perform a sajiao style well, and this helped
them to create and maintain successful relationships (Yueh, 2012, 2013). For example, one per-
son said: “I will use my innate babyish voice to sajiao to my love to make him happy.” When a

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 126  TODD SANDEL ET AL.

male was asked to comment on a female’s sajiao style, he said: “I feel that she has this innate
ability, naturally expressed.” From both quotes we see the implication that the effective sajiao
performer can do it “innately,” or in a manner that seems “natural” and feminine.

CONCLUSION

We conclude this chapter with the following observations. First, in the recent past, most West-
ern anthropologists who came to Taiwan to study “Chinese” society, did so because they were
denied access to China under communist rule (Madsen, 1993; Sandel, 2000) It can be argued that
because the people of Taiwan did not experience the radical excesses and attack on traditional
Chinese values and practices that happened in China during the cultural revolution, Taiwan better
“preserves” Chinese culture than China. Yet as this paper has demonstrated, Taiwan as a place
and context that emerged from 50 years of Japanese colonial rule to then become the “temporary”
capital of Nationalist China, has developed its own unique culture. It is a place where there are
shared ways of building and developing friendships, sharing “good news” with others, constitut-
ing families, and speaking in a mixed style that differs from that of China.
Second, this chapter addresses the competing discourses of a Taipei-centered interpretation
of Taiwanese culture (the North) versus the South. While the majority of Taiwanese residents
speak “Taiwan Guoyu,” or “Taiwanese-accented-Mandarin,” this speaking style is not viewed
as the “standard.” The examples shown above demonstrate how some people respond to sounds
that are accented. And if we were to analyze television broadcasting—something we have not
done in this paper—it would be found that “standard” Mandarin is voiced by news broadcasters
and many television “authorities.” How the media discourse influences native speakers’ under-
standing of personhood, culture, and communication, as well as researchers’ interpretation of this
society should be further studied.
Last, we believe that the theoretical lenses we have used for this paper—cultural discourse
analysis and ethnotheories—can broaden and enrich our understanding of intercultural communi-
cation. In our fine-grained, locally situated analysis, we have not used the theoretical lenses (e.g.,
individualism-collectivism, high- and low-context) that most scholars use when examining the
communication in a place such as Taiwan. While we do not discount the valuable contributions
such work has given to intercultural communication scholarship, we believe that there is a need
to move beyond them, as too often they are used as simplistic, binary categories (e.g., Americans
are individualists and Taiwanese are collectivists) that tends to end the scholarly conversation.
Instead, it is more important to have a grounded, culturally situated view of communication. The
present analysis shows how this can be done. It also opens up ways to move forward in our work,
by pointing out emergent discourses (e.g., taike and sajiao) and intra-cultural differences (e.g.,
North–South) that warrant further study.

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