mardi, décembre 06, 2005
Adieux bon marché
Cheap goodbyes.
Today was the last day of my Asean scholarship.
Today, I hugged my friends goodbye and pumped farewell messages from my cellphone all the way up to my plane. Today, my room disbanded completely, with all four of us roommates going our separate ways after two years of hilarity and stupidity together. Today, I lugged the junk I'd collected over two years -- clothes, cards, La Famiglia and Pre-University Seminar files, even the infamous 'BYRAN' Valentine's Day gift box that was the origin of my Byran moniker -- and smiled innocently as the lady at Check-In failed to notice I was 10kg over the maximum baggage weight. Today, on a 747 flying back to Kota Kinabalu, I thought of all the days I'd spent and all the people I'd met (and all the money I'd spent) in Singapore, the teenagers in front of me loudly declaring their worship of a certain air-stewardess's chest and the kids behind me playing soccer with my seat. Today, the Asean family separated.
Separation is a painful but necessary part of life -- that's what my Dad had offered to me as I considered leaving my Sabahan friends behind in search of a future in Singapore. On their last day together, my Dad and his friends knew it was truly very likely the last time they would see or hear of each other. Back then, separation really meant separation -- people truly walked out completely of that brief moment your paths juxtaposed and intertwined, never to grace your thread of fate again. A goodbye back then meant something.
Today's goodbyes are cheap, the full import of the meaning they once had lost. Because even once we're all home and it's begun to sink in that your closest of family are no longer just a walk across the hostel grounds, there's no separation. Everyone is just a phone call away. An e-mail away. An instant message on Messenger. A Friendster profile just waiting to be clicked on.
Goodbye? What goodbye?
Goodbyes today are not about separation, but the end of things. Our goodbye was the end of so many things we scholars had enjoyed and had taken for granted these two years. It was the end of parties and lunches and dinners and nighttime gelato and movies and birthdays together. It was the end of laughing together at our own private jokes, at all things pulchritudinous and all things lazy and tired. It was the end of concocting new ways to get ourselves all in trouble. It was the end of seeing each other all the time. It was the end of a family.
We will always be family, of course. We may always keep in touch and we may always be close. But our goodbye today was the end of much we had held dear and much we had loved. It will never be the same. Cellphones, Messenger and e-mail may connect us still, but behind a computer screen, staring at digital emotions in text, the nostalgic heart can only remember the days we had together and imagine the days we could have had if no goodbyes had come.
Commentaires: 3
Today was the last day of my Asean scholarship.
Today, I hugged my friends goodbye and pumped farewell messages from my cellphone all the way up to my plane. Today, my room disbanded completely, with all four of us roommates going our separate ways after two years of hilarity and stupidity together. Today, I lugged the junk I'd collected over two years -- clothes, cards, La Famiglia and Pre-University Seminar files, even the infamous 'BYRAN' Valentine's Day gift box that was the origin of my Byran moniker -- and smiled innocently as the lady at Check-In failed to notice I was 10kg over the maximum baggage weight. Today, on a 747 flying back to Kota Kinabalu, I thought of all the days I'd spent and all the people I'd met (and all the money I'd spent) in Singapore, the teenagers in front of me loudly declaring their worship of a certain air-stewardess's chest and the kids behind me playing soccer with my seat. Today, the Asean family separated.
Separation is a painful but necessary part of life -- that's what my Dad had offered to me as I considered leaving my Sabahan friends behind in search of a future in Singapore. On their last day together, my Dad and his friends knew it was truly very likely the last time they would see or hear of each other. Back then, separation really meant separation -- people truly walked out completely of that brief moment your paths juxtaposed and intertwined, never to grace your thread of fate again. A goodbye back then meant something.
Today's goodbyes are cheap, the full import of the meaning they once had lost. Because even once we're all home and it's begun to sink in that your closest of family are no longer just a walk across the hostel grounds, there's no separation. Everyone is just a phone call away. An e-mail away. An instant message on Messenger. A Friendster profile just waiting to be clicked on.
Goodbye? What goodbye?
Goodbyes today are not about separation, but the end of things. Our goodbye was the end of so many things we scholars had enjoyed and had taken for granted these two years. It was the end of parties and lunches and dinners and nighttime gelato and movies and birthdays together. It was the end of laughing together at our own private jokes, at all things pulchritudinous and all things lazy and tired. It was the end of concocting new ways to get ourselves all in trouble. It was the end of seeing each other all the time. It was the end of a family.
We will always be family, of course. We may always keep in touch and we may always be close. But our goodbye today was the end of much we had held dear and much we had loved. It will never be the same. Cellphones, Messenger and e-mail may connect us still, but behind a computer screen, staring at digital emotions in text, the nostalgic heart can only remember the days we had together and imagine the days we could have had if no goodbyes had come.
Commentaires: 3
lundi, novembre 28, 2005
Les torsions de sort
Twists of fate.
I'm writing this in an Orchard Road Starbucks, scribbling next to a hot mocha. The place is nearly empty; only soft conversation and Christmas music disturb the quiet here -- all a lullaby as I unwind and decompress my feet after three hours of shopping. At long last, it seems I'm slowly starting to accept that I've finally, actually finished my three-year roundabout pre-university journey.
Yet now that it's over, I can only think of how these two years began. The very first day of school here forced me to decide which of two paths I would take through the scholarship. I chose not the rational and smart choice. I chose the irrational, shallow one. And that has made all the difference (how very Robert Frost -- all we're missing now is a yellow wood).
That choice was my subject combination.
A lot of people know how much I dislike -- I won't say hate, though it feels like it sometimes -- Biology. I never tested well and I never liked the subject in any way. Quite tellingly, my first pre-university block test back in Kota Kinabalu yielded three As and one bloody D -- Biology. I was a much better Physics student, my frequently being unconscious during lectures notwithstanding.
Yet my subject combination is Mathematics, Economics, Chemistry, and Biology. I chose the subject I not only disliked but also sucked at.
When I'd first arrived in Singapore, I brought with me a deep terror of ever doing three science subjects again and being forced to endure three practical sessions a week. Particularly fresh was a recent Physics experiment where I'd spent an hour wondering why my bloody capacitor was taking the whole bloody hour to discharge while everyone else had already recharged and discharged their requisite five times, until I finally got my tutor to admit that it was the capacitor that had screwed up and not me. He gave me a new capacitor -- and promptly asked me to redo the whole experiment. I promptly responded by going home.
I was determined to take only two science subjects if I could -- and to my great joy, I discovered I was allowed to offer Economics as an A-levels subject here. With Mathematics and Economics, I just needed two science subjects. What was more, I could now start towards a career in Law by taking a humanities subject. My experiences in debate and resultant inflated ego convinced me that I was meant to be some hotshot lawyer, arguing in a courtroom somewhere. Economics would come in helpful somewhere, I was sure.
Between my two science subjects, Chemistry was an easy choice. I'd always done well and my previous tutor had actually taught me to enjoy Chemistry. That and the fact that we'd already finished the Chemistry syllabus back in Kota Kinabalu. So taking Chemistry was like taking only three subjects! How obvious (and how wrong I proved to be... but I digress).
So that left my final choice between Physics and Biology. I liked Physics. I did well. I loved Physics enough to order The Final Theory online to discover how to stump my Physics lecturer. Given sufficient goading and encouragement (especially in all its alcoholic forms), I can still argue today the flaws of Newton's Theory of Gravity and how magnetism violates the Law of Conservation of Energy and all that unbelievably boring crap, thus upsetting everything your tutors ever told you. I liked Physics. And, if I would just admit it, I am an ass.
I chose Biology.
If I'd gone Physics-Chemistry-Mathematics-Economics (PCME), I'd have joined my roommate in the same class. But I took the Biology-Chemistry-Mathematics-Economics (BCME) combination. Because of that, I was assigned to a different class and, more importantly, a different 'clan' for Orientation. The difference was that my clan had a strategy to tackle the Clan Dance and Cheer competition -- they enlisted the cheerleading teacher to train us.
His training, to be quite frank, erm, sucked. He had a way with his routines that would one day become a regular source of grumbling among us cheerleaders. We didn't win the Clan Dance and Cheer even with him, a cheerleading coach who also happened to be a dance instructor -- a good indicator of how good he really was. It wouldn't be the first time cheerleading training failed to win cheer competitions (National Education Cheer 2004, anybody? Danceworks 2005?); the Clan Dance and Cheer went to a different clan's routine -- choreographed by two first year dancers who soon joined cheerleading.
But losing didn't matter. What mattered was my discovering the fun of cheerleading stunts that day. The moment I went back from school and saw the shoe treadmarks on my shoulders -- looking very much like a shark had taken a nice gnaw or two -- from my first ever shoulder stand stunt, I'd decided to join cheerleading.
And the rest, as the much abused cliche goes, is history. I joined cheerleading instead of continuing Debate. I became Captain. I learned stunts, dance, cheering, and a bit of tumbling. I made new friends -- friends who spent time playing and joking on the gym mats and experimenting with crazy stunts; I'd already done enough of sitting around preparing cases and arguing with each other in various hotel rooms and Coffee Bean sofas for two years.
But most importantly, I had fun. Cheerleading gave me a purpose, something to look forward to each day -- cheerleading training, which inevitably led to hilarious accidents and stupidity, was my Golden Age back home manifest here in Singapore. Cheerleading would also one day lead the way to the Singapore Youth Festival with the Western Dancers (which I somehow fumbled my way through), opening the doors to a whole new game. After that first taste of playing with stunts, all four Malaysian scholars in my clan joined cheerleading.
The other scholars never did. And if I'd taken Physics, I doubt if I would have too. The physical exertion needed to perform stunts put a lot of us off. The fact that it looked, oh I don't know, dangerous to lift people and throw them into the air made it a lot less attractive than, say, the quiet romp of a librarian. If I'd not been forced out of my comfort zone to do a shoulder stand on my second day of school, I don't think I'd ever have stretched myself out to try.
And so because I'd taken Biology instead of Physics, because I was so irrational and shallow, I found fun unlike any other. I sometimes thought (unfairly and ignorantly, I'm sure) that it was the cheerleader scholars who were really enjoying life in Singapore; while the others bitched about lousy classmates and teachers, we were, I'd like to think, all smiles. How could a few insensitive words said in the morning compare to the thrill of successfully learning to basket toss? How could a bad feeling last against three hours of laughing and playing with stunts on the gym mats?
Luckily I was so shallow, right?
So why? Why did I choose Biology?
Because I wanted to shut my Mom up for two years. She'd been against my reading Law from the beginning, pressuring me to study a "real" course like Pharmacy at the National University of Singapore or the Nanyang Technological University. I thought I would take Biology to trick her into thinking I'd finally settled my rebellious roots down, all the while planning to apply for Law when it was all over. At the time, it seemed like a pretty good idea. Things changed along the way. I grew to love Economics. And I plan to continue studying it.
Funny way how things turn out, eh?
Commentaires: 0
I'm writing this in an Orchard Road Starbucks, scribbling next to a hot mocha. The place is nearly empty; only soft conversation and Christmas music disturb the quiet here -- all a lullaby as I unwind and decompress my feet after three hours of shopping. At long last, it seems I'm slowly starting to accept that I've finally, actually finished my three-year roundabout pre-university journey.
Yet now that it's over, I can only think of how these two years began. The very first day of school here forced me to decide which of two paths I would take through the scholarship. I chose not the rational and smart choice. I chose the irrational, shallow one. And that has made all the difference (how very Robert Frost -- all we're missing now is a yellow wood).
That choice was my subject combination.
A lot of people know how much I dislike -- I won't say hate, though it feels like it sometimes -- Biology. I never tested well and I never liked the subject in any way. Quite tellingly, my first pre-university block test back in Kota Kinabalu yielded three As and one bloody D -- Biology. I was a much better Physics student, my frequently being unconscious during lectures notwithstanding.
Yet my subject combination is Mathematics, Economics, Chemistry, and Biology. I chose the subject I not only disliked but also sucked at.
When I'd first arrived in Singapore, I brought with me a deep terror of ever doing three science subjects again and being forced to endure three practical sessions a week. Particularly fresh was a recent Physics experiment where I'd spent an hour wondering why my bloody capacitor was taking the whole bloody hour to discharge while everyone else had already recharged and discharged their requisite five times, until I finally got my tutor to admit that it was the capacitor that had screwed up and not me. He gave me a new capacitor -- and promptly asked me to redo the whole experiment. I promptly responded by going home.
I was determined to take only two science subjects if I could -- and to my great joy, I discovered I was allowed to offer Economics as an A-levels subject here. With Mathematics and Economics, I just needed two science subjects. What was more, I could now start towards a career in Law by taking a humanities subject. My experiences in debate and resultant inflated ego convinced me that I was meant to be some hotshot lawyer, arguing in a courtroom somewhere. Economics would come in helpful somewhere, I was sure.
Between my two science subjects, Chemistry was an easy choice. I'd always done well and my previous tutor had actually taught me to enjoy Chemistry. That and the fact that we'd already finished the Chemistry syllabus back in Kota Kinabalu. So taking Chemistry was like taking only three subjects! How obvious (and how wrong I proved to be... but I digress).
So that left my final choice between Physics and Biology. I liked Physics. I did well. I loved Physics enough to order The Final Theory online to discover how to stump my Physics lecturer. Given sufficient goading and encouragement (especially in all its alcoholic forms), I can still argue today the flaws of Newton's Theory of Gravity and how magnetism violates the Law of Conservation of Energy and all that unbelievably boring crap, thus upsetting everything your tutors ever told you. I liked Physics. And, if I would just admit it, I am an ass.
I chose Biology.
If I'd gone Physics-Chemistry-Mathematics-Economics (PCME), I'd have joined my roommate in the same class. But I took the Biology-Chemistry-Mathematics-Economics (BCME) combination. Because of that, I was assigned to a different class and, more importantly, a different 'clan' for Orientation. The difference was that my clan had a strategy to tackle the Clan Dance and Cheer competition -- they enlisted the cheerleading teacher to train us.
His training, to be quite frank, erm, sucked. He had a way with his routines that would one day become a regular source of grumbling among us cheerleaders. We didn't win the Clan Dance and Cheer even with him, a cheerleading coach who also happened to be a dance instructor -- a good indicator of how good he really was. It wouldn't be the first time cheerleading training failed to win cheer competitions (National Education Cheer 2004, anybody? Danceworks 2005?); the Clan Dance and Cheer went to a different clan's routine -- choreographed by two first year dancers who soon joined cheerleading.
But losing didn't matter. What mattered was my discovering the fun of cheerleading stunts that day. The moment I went back from school and saw the shoe treadmarks on my shoulders -- looking very much like a shark had taken a nice gnaw or two -- from my first ever shoulder stand stunt, I'd decided to join cheerleading.
And the rest, as the much abused cliche goes, is history. I joined cheerleading instead of continuing Debate. I became Captain. I learned stunts, dance, cheering, and a bit of tumbling. I made new friends -- friends who spent time playing and joking on the gym mats and experimenting with crazy stunts; I'd already done enough of sitting around preparing cases and arguing with each other in various hotel rooms and Coffee Bean sofas for two years.
But most importantly, I had fun. Cheerleading gave me a purpose, something to look forward to each day -- cheerleading training, which inevitably led to hilarious accidents and stupidity, was my Golden Age back home manifest here in Singapore. Cheerleading would also one day lead the way to the Singapore Youth Festival with the Western Dancers (which I somehow fumbled my way through), opening the doors to a whole new game. After that first taste of playing with stunts, all four Malaysian scholars in my clan joined cheerleading.
The other scholars never did. And if I'd taken Physics, I doubt if I would have too. The physical exertion needed to perform stunts put a lot of us off. The fact that it looked, oh I don't know, dangerous to lift people and throw them into the air made it a lot less attractive than, say, the quiet romp of a librarian. If I'd not been forced out of my comfort zone to do a shoulder stand on my second day of school, I don't think I'd ever have stretched myself out to try.
And so because I'd taken Biology instead of Physics, because I was so irrational and shallow, I found fun unlike any other. I sometimes thought (unfairly and ignorantly, I'm sure) that it was the cheerleader scholars who were really enjoying life in Singapore; while the others bitched about lousy classmates and teachers, we were, I'd like to think, all smiles. How could a few insensitive words said in the morning compare to the thrill of successfully learning to basket toss? How could a bad feeling last against three hours of laughing and playing with stunts on the gym mats?
Luckily I was so shallow, right?
So why? Why did I choose Biology?
Because I wanted to shut my Mom up for two years. She'd been against my reading Law from the beginning, pressuring me to study a "real" course like Pharmacy at the National University of Singapore or the Nanyang Technological University. I thought I would take Biology to trick her into thinking I'd finally settled my rebellious roots down, all the while planning to apply for Law when it was all over. At the time, it seemed like a pretty good idea. Things changed along the way. I grew to love Economics. And I plan to continue studying it.
Funny way how things turn out, eh?
Commentaires: 0
vendredi, octobre 28, 2005
Boîte Noire
Black Box.
Do you have your own Black Box? A box where you keep all the mementos you just never had the heart to throw away? Mementos like farewell cards you saved to one day reopen in the future so you would never forget those people who once meant so much to you. Gifts and trinkets that never found their place in your life and still haven't, still waiting for the day when they do. A withered, brown rose petal that somehow found its way inside.
Mementos like love letters you saved.
Rereading an old love letter is almost surreal. Just picking it up and unfolding it -- there's a tremor in your hands just holding it. You find yourself blushing remembering how you once felt that was the most beautiful prose you'd ever read, and your face burns hotter when your thoughts naturally wander to the prose you yourself wove in reply. You suddenly discover a deep urge to bury your face in embarassment at the poetry you once composed -- poetry now apparent to you to be what they were: laughable and puerile. You just want to run away when you think of the things you'd said -- oh, how you'd promised the moon and the stars and all the candy bars in the world to her. To say you were majorly screwed-up back then would be an understatement.
But you can't help but find yourself smiling fondly at those memories, at how happy reading the words on that piece of paper once made you feel, covered with pink glitter and sweetly perfumed as it was -- there's still a hint of spiced honey on the ink somehow surviving to this day. You can't help but chuckle remembering the words you committed to your own letter, how happy they made her feel -- like it was the best prose she'd ever read in her life. You can almost feel again how she'd held you like she would never let go after you showed her poetry you'd spent nerve-wracking hours building, all the time worrying she would think it laughable and puerile. That warm feeling in your chest threatens to overwhelm you when your memories flicker to how she cried in your arms as you promised the moon and the stars and all the candy bars in the world to her.
And now you realize, that for all your hate of all the things she did and the things she was, for all your coldness when you told her you didn't feel anything for her anymore, and for all the pain she'd caused you and the pain you'd caused her, you realize that you finally miss her.
Now, looking back through the window of an old love letter at memories of days drifting further and further into the realms of the forgotten by days past and days to come, you start to wonder if those were indeed the right words to have said that day. You wonder if things might have turned out for the better if you'd just given her a chance and tried to love her again. You wonder if you'd still be together today, still writing love letters to each other and composing puerile, laughable poetry and arguing over who gets to promise that new planet thing Sedna they just found to the other.
You wonder indeed. And with one last whiff of spiced honey, you fold the letter, like the memories of that girl you once loved, back the way it's been folded for years and fondly return it to its rightful spot in that Black Box where it will always be for you to find again.
Commentaires: 6
Do you have your own Black Box? A box where you keep all the mementos you just never had the heart to throw away? Mementos like farewell cards you saved to one day reopen in the future so you would never forget those people who once meant so much to you. Gifts and trinkets that never found their place in your life and still haven't, still waiting for the day when they do. A withered, brown rose petal that somehow found its way inside.
Mementos like love letters you saved.
Rereading an old love letter is almost surreal. Just picking it up and unfolding it -- there's a tremor in your hands just holding it. You find yourself blushing remembering how you once felt that was the most beautiful prose you'd ever read, and your face burns hotter when your thoughts naturally wander to the prose you yourself wove in reply. You suddenly discover a deep urge to bury your face in embarassment at the poetry you once composed -- poetry now apparent to you to be what they were: laughable and puerile. You just want to run away when you think of the things you'd said -- oh, how you'd promised the moon and the stars and all the candy bars in the world to her. To say you were majorly screwed-up back then would be an understatement.
But you can't help but find yourself smiling fondly at those memories, at how happy reading the words on that piece of paper once made you feel, covered with pink glitter and sweetly perfumed as it was -- there's still a hint of spiced honey on the ink somehow surviving to this day. You can't help but chuckle remembering the words you committed to your own letter, how happy they made her feel -- like it was the best prose she'd ever read in her life. You can almost feel again how she'd held you like she would never let go after you showed her poetry you'd spent nerve-wracking hours building, all the time worrying she would think it laughable and puerile. That warm feeling in your chest threatens to overwhelm you when your memories flicker to how she cried in your arms as you promised the moon and the stars and all the candy bars in the world to her.
And now you realize, that for all your hate of all the things she did and the things she was, for all your coldness when you told her you didn't feel anything for her anymore, and for all the pain she'd caused you and the pain you'd caused her, you realize that you finally miss her.
Now, looking back through the window of an old love letter at memories of days drifting further and further into the realms of the forgotten by days past and days to come, you start to wonder if those were indeed the right words to have said that day. You wonder if things might have turned out for the better if you'd just given her a chance and tried to love her again. You wonder if you'd still be together today, still writing love letters to each other and composing puerile, laughable poetry and arguing over who gets to promise that new planet thing Sedna they just found to the other.
You wonder indeed. And with one last whiff of spiced honey, you fold the letter, like the memories of that girl you once loved, back the way it's been folded for years and fondly return it to its rightful spot in that Black Box where it will always be for you to find again.
Commentaires: 6
samedi, octobre 08, 2005
Mon Age D'or
My Golden Age.
I used to love school. That might be a bit too much to believe coming from a guy who skipped school for a whole bloody month without the slightest twinge of remorse, but it's true. There was a time when I actually woke up excited to get to school -- groggy and still wishing I could have five more minutes in bed, but excited. That's not even considering that when I say waking up, I mean waking up at 5.00am every morning just so I could catch my school bus.
If you think I'm some freak who loved going to school to worship that heathen god called Education, think again, buster. For better or worse, I've always prided myself on my independence when it comes to studying. That's not to say I don't like learning from my good tutors; I've just had too many inept and completely boring tutors who could never consider that they were the reason why no one was listening. I've had to study so much from clunky, sleep-inducing textbooks on my own that it's becoming a habit; if I can't stay awake when my tutor is droning on and on without ever getting to the goddamned point, I just let my head hit the desk and study it later when I get back.
It's my friends that kept me going to school, you fools. I loved going to school not because I could learn but because school to me was just hanging out with my classmates for six hours everyday -- a brilliant deal. I don't remember a single day of my last two years of secondary school when I didn't laugh so much and so hard in school that I'd still be chuckling to myself the rest of the day. Man, we did so many wild things together, I'm smiling just thinking about those days. It was our Golden Age, our Zaman Kegemilangan, as we called it.
Those were days when I hated to miss school. I remember being too ill to go one time and I nearly tore my hair out the next day when I heard all the madness that had gone down in school while I was at home. I swore I'd never miss another day of secondary school again -- unless, of course, we'd all decided to hit a LAN centre together to play some Counterstrike or Warcraft III the whole day.
Damn. I really miss those days.
I was rereading Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour the other day, about how he went back to France and his old childhood haunts with his brother looking for the perfect meal when he'd actually been looking for his late father all along. And it struck a chord with me: I came to Singapore looking for new experiences and learning new things like cheerleading, hiphop, and ballet when I've actually been looking for my old class. I've been trying to recapture those days of our Golden Age, our Zaman Kegemilangan Chinatown. I've been looking for another Kelvin P.Raider, another Father Edwin, another 5 Vega. I hadn't come to Singapore because I wanted to leave all my old friends to make new ones and learn to be independent when I already was and try new things when I didn't need to. No. I came because I was still searching for a memory of time quite beyond me now. I'd had a lot of fun in my old pre-university centre back in Kota Kinabalu, lots of stupid, wild adventures with my partners-in-crime, Wilson and Karthik (and more recently Robert, the German-who-wants-to-be-Malaysian), but in the end it wasn't really all that hard for me to leave. I'd not found that elusive ideal, and I was willing to start again and try to find it in Singapore, even if I had to spend another two years on my A-levels.
I'm quite sure my Singaporean readers are snorting now. Your Golden Age? Here in Singapore? Are you serious? Please wait while I laugh until my intestines burst.
But it's true. I was willing to travel the world to find those days again, even if I didn't know what I was really trying to do. And I came up empty after nearly two years. It was only in these past two weeks, basking in post-Preliminaries hedonism with my classmates -- enjoying a class barbeque together, book shopping, watching movies, playing Defense of the Ancients -- that I finally found what I've been looking for.
It wasn't exactly my Golden Age -- it was only close to those days when we just played and played and forgot about everything else. But it felt right. It felt like I was seventeen again, with Father Edwin and Kelvin and the rest of the Chinatown gang, just living our lives without a care in the world.
No, it wasn't the same. But it still felt right.
It's only now when I think about it that I understand. I understand now that deeper under my search for my old secondary school days is something else completely.
Life will not be school forever; what I'd been looking for wasn't really my old secondary school days, but something less concrete than that. I'd been looking for happiness, the kind that comes not because I've got a really cool cellphone or I just went on vacation to Las Vegas (though I'd still like those) but the happiness that comes when you look forward to each day because you know it's going to be an exciting day full of fun and laughter, a day you know you'll never want to miss, that you'll never want to forget.
You can't force these days to happen. You can't go around planning outings and movies and picnics and dinners, hoping it will make life a lot more fun, hoping it will 'bond' people together. Planned outings don't work very well. Like Bourdain, who'd recreated his childhood days to eat his oysters and fish soup to, you're trying too hard.
It has to be natural. When you try too hard, it never quite lives up to your expectations because you've expected perfection when nothing in the world can quite catch up with an expectation that just keeps growing further away whenever reality comes close. Like Tyler says in Fight Club, "Stop trying to control everything and just let go."
It's days when you let go that life becomes truly exciting. There is no perfection to meet -- it's just pure unscripted fun and nothing else. When it happens, it makes the day special unlike any other.
It's how your heart races when the Vice Principal stops his car next to you and asks what you're doing walking out of school. It's how you just decide to screw the Chemistry test on the spot so you can finish that round of Defense of the Ancients and end up playing six hours of it when you'd only planned to play three. It's how you skip school, get a phone call to get your ass back to school so the class can finally take its damned photograph, only to end up leaving immediately after with your classmates to watch Star Wars III: Backstro -- Revenge of the Sith. It's how you equally decide to blow the rest of the day and go watch Resident Evil II on a whim a week before your Promotionals. It's how you laugh when someone's shoe somehow ends up in a base's mouth halfway during cheerleading practice. It's how you somehow end up on television practicing stunts in school when you're just innocently minding your own business.
It's how you wake up, see your roommate sleeping, and go back to sleep instead of getting up for school, only to have him wake up, look at you sleeping, and go back to sleep too. It's how you both end up keeping Sophia company on her last day in Singapore because of that mutual interdependence, something you'll never forget even if it doesn't mean much anymore these days. It's how you fib to the director of the boarding school that your classes ended early when he probably knows all too well you're accompanying her out on her last day.
It's how you only planned to spend an hour writing this post -- and end up spending five.
It's how you think back on these days, on all those days past when something unexpected happened that made them beautiful, and smile to yourself. And as you smile, you reflect that it's good to be alive.
Commentaires: 11
I used to love school. That might be a bit too much to believe coming from a guy who skipped school for a whole bloody month without the slightest twinge of remorse, but it's true. There was a time when I actually woke up excited to get to school -- groggy and still wishing I could have five more minutes in bed, but excited. That's not even considering that when I say waking up, I mean waking up at 5.00am every morning just so I could catch my school bus.
If you think I'm some freak who loved going to school to worship that heathen god called Education, think again, buster. For better or worse, I've always prided myself on my independence when it comes to studying. That's not to say I don't like learning from my good tutors; I've just had too many inept and completely boring tutors who could never consider that they were the reason why no one was listening. I've had to study so much from clunky, sleep-inducing textbooks on my own that it's becoming a habit; if I can't stay awake when my tutor is droning on and on without ever getting to the goddamned point, I just let my head hit the desk and study it later when I get back.
It's my friends that kept me going to school, you fools. I loved going to school not because I could learn but because school to me was just hanging out with my classmates for six hours everyday -- a brilliant deal. I don't remember a single day of my last two years of secondary school when I didn't laugh so much and so hard in school that I'd still be chuckling to myself the rest of the day. Man, we did so many wild things together, I'm smiling just thinking about those days. It was our Golden Age, our Zaman Kegemilangan, as we called it.
Those were days when I hated to miss school. I remember being too ill to go one time and I nearly tore my hair out the next day when I heard all the madness that had gone down in school while I was at home. I swore I'd never miss another day of secondary school again -- unless, of course, we'd all decided to hit a LAN centre together to play some Counterstrike or Warcraft III the whole day.
Damn. I really miss those days.
I was rereading Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour the other day, about how he went back to France and his old childhood haunts with his brother looking for the perfect meal when he'd actually been looking for his late father all along. And it struck a chord with me: I came to Singapore looking for new experiences and learning new things like cheerleading, hiphop, and ballet when I've actually been looking for my old class. I've been trying to recapture those days of our Golden Age, our Zaman Kegemilangan Chinatown. I've been looking for another Kelvin P.Raider, another Father Edwin, another 5 Vega. I hadn't come to Singapore because I wanted to leave all my old friends to make new ones and learn to be independent when I already was and try new things when I didn't need to. No. I came because I was still searching for a memory of time quite beyond me now. I'd had a lot of fun in my old pre-university centre back in Kota Kinabalu, lots of stupid, wild adventures with my partners-in-crime, Wilson and Karthik (and more recently Robert, the German-who-wants-to-be-Malaysian), but in the end it wasn't really all that hard for me to leave. I'd not found that elusive ideal, and I was willing to start again and try to find it in Singapore, even if I had to spend another two years on my A-levels.
I'm quite sure my Singaporean readers are snorting now. Your Golden Age? Here in Singapore? Are you serious? Please wait while I laugh until my intestines burst.
But it's true. I was willing to travel the world to find those days again, even if I didn't know what I was really trying to do. And I came up empty after nearly two years. It was only in these past two weeks, basking in post-Preliminaries hedonism with my classmates -- enjoying a class barbeque together, book shopping, watching movies, playing Defense of the Ancients -- that I finally found what I've been looking for.
It wasn't exactly my Golden Age -- it was only close to those days when we just played and played and forgot about everything else. But it felt right. It felt like I was seventeen again, with Father Edwin and Kelvin and the rest of the Chinatown gang, just living our lives without a care in the world.
No, it wasn't the same. But it still felt right.
It's only now when I think about it that I understand. I understand now that deeper under my search for my old secondary school days is something else completely.
Life will not be school forever; what I'd been looking for wasn't really my old secondary school days, but something less concrete than that. I'd been looking for happiness, the kind that comes not because I've got a really cool cellphone or I just went on vacation to Las Vegas (though I'd still like those) but the happiness that comes when you look forward to each day because you know it's going to be an exciting day full of fun and laughter, a day you know you'll never want to miss, that you'll never want to forget.
You can't force these days to happen. You can't go around planning outings and movies and picnics and dinners, hoping it will make life a lot more fun, hoping it will 'bond' people together. Planned outings don't work very well. Like Bourdain, who'd recreated his childhood days to eat his oysters and fish soup to, you're trying too hard.
It has to be natural. When you try too hard, it never quite lives up to your expectations because you've expected perfection when nothing in the world can quite catch up with an expectation that just keeps growing further away whenever reality comes close. Like Tyler says in Fight Club, "Stop trying to control everything and just let go."
It's days when you let go that life becomes truly exciting. There is no perfection to meet -- it's just pure unscripted fun and nothing else. When it happens, it makes the day special unlike any other.
It's how your heart races when the Vice Principal stops his car next to you and asks what you're doing walking out of school. It's how you just decide to screw the Chemistry test on the spot so you can finish that round of Defense of the Ancients and end up playing six hours of it when you'd only planned to play three. It's how you skip school, get a phone call to get your ass back to school so the class can finally take its damned photograph, only to end up leaving immediately after with your classmates to watch Star Wars III: Backstro -- Revenge of the Sith. It's how you equally decide to blow the rest of the day and go watch Resident Evil II on a whim a week before your Promotionals. It's how you laugh when someone's shoe somehow ends up in a base's mouth halfway during cheerleading practice. It's how you somehow end up on television practicing stunts in school when you're just innocently minding your own business.
It's how you wake up, see your roommate sleeping, and go back to sleep instead of getting up for school, only to have him wake up, look at you sleeping, and go back to sleep too. It's how you both end up keeping Sophia company on her last day in Singapore because of that mutual interdependence, something you'll never forget even if it doesn't mean much anymore these days. It's how you fib to the director of the boarding school that your classes ended early when he probably knows all too well you're accompanying her out on her last day.
It's how you only planned to spend an hour writing this post -- and end up spending five.
It's how you think back on these days, on all those days past when something unexpected happened that made them beautiful, and smile to yourself. And as you smile, you reflect that it's good to be alive.
Commentaires: 11
dimanche, septembre 25, 2005
Les aveux d'un intoxiqué de boîte de nuit
Confessions of a nightclub addict.
I have a confession. I have failed you, my friends, and I am ashamed. Despite all your high expectations of me and all your requests (more like demands backed by threats of castration) for first-hand reviews and tales of bad behavior and lascivious conduct, I still failed to venture out a single time into the exotic landscape of Singaporean nightlife.
It is true. And I have no excuses. Perhaps it was the tyrannical boarding school, barring us from any nocturnal shenanigans beyond that most unreasonable curfew of 11.30pm. Perhaps it was the lack of wingmen and fellow nightlife enthusiasts amongst the Malaysian clique I hung out with, who preferred less uncouth entertainment like fancy dinners and theatre and birthday parties. And perhaps it was also the lack of any dough to spend on clubs and martinis, especially when I've been in a state of almost constant debt with my cellphone operator and college since coming here. Monthly allowance, my ass.
Whatever. I am not here to point fingers. But 21 months and not a single Singaporean club visited, not a single Singaporean girl chatted up over drinks, not a single Singaporean bar brawl?
And I yet dare to call myself a hardcore clubber. Shameful.
Well finally, my friends, it is a new chapter for me! The first step on the road to atonement and redemption!
I finally went clubbing! Last Friday night, to be precise.
Finally, a fortuitous juxtaposition of factors allowed me to experience the Singaporean nightlife for the first time! Key to this was my recent discovery (after 21 months of living in the same room) that one of my roommates shared my enthusiasm for scantily clad ladies and loose women and booty shaking and --
Wait, that doesn't sound right.
Oh wait, it does. Whatever.
Anyway. We'd finally agreed to hit the clubs as wingmen after 21 months of yelling gibberish at each other (during the so-called Dakun era) and having deep, intellectual discussions about such fundamental issues like whether there was any worth in studying for Growth and Reproduction, since study or not, we'd still fail so might as well go sleep, riiggghhttt? We hyped each other up. We reminded each other every five minutes or so that we didn't have any A-levels examinations to worry about so there was nothing wrong with a little partying. We were so ready to go.
Now all we needed to do was solve the Problem of the Curfew.
The Problem of the Curfew is simple: the boarding school curfew is officially set at 10.30pm on Friday and Saturday nights (when we'd want to be hitting the clubs). With some creativity, it can be pushed to 11.30pm but no later. To push beyond 11.30pm, we'd need parental consent, which can be obtained illegally (don't ask) but still would only allow us to stay out overnight, not stagger back to our rooms at 3 in the morning. So staying out beyond the curfew would automatically force us to stay out until 6am. Assuming the human body is a human body, there are only so many hours that the average teenaged delinquent can dance continuously before collapsing for lack of tobaccoless air and alcohol. Most clubs here close at 3am; being the optimistic, young energetic studs that we were, we estimated that we could go on until the place closed.
Therein lay the problem.
What the hell were we supposed to do from 3 to 6am? Sit by the roadside? Cry? Prostitute ourselves so we could at least go somewhere until 6am (a very horrifying somewhere nonetheless). Back home, we'd never have this problem. After the clubs closed for the night, everyone would hop into their cars and engage in some reckless and dangerous driving (if it can be called driving at all). And if we somehow survived those very exciting swings through the streets of Kota Kinabalu without having the privilege of becoming part of a gigantic fireball ballooning into the sky when our driver makes the mistake of stopping at a red light when the guy behind wasn't expecting anyone to be retarded enough to do something like that (stop at a red light? Hah!), we'd all hit Lintas, where there were mamaks to enjoy some refreshing post-clubbing teh tarik and roti telur tambah bawang, pool halls where each game seems to go on forever because somehow imbibing alcohol has a way of messing with your aim (and driving too? I didn't know that! Ha. Ha.), LAN gaming centres for a quick game of Counterstrike or Warcraft 3. It had everything! Even a health centre! Which specializes in, erm, health! Really, the whole place really comes alive in the wee hours of the morning.
Here in Singapore, it's a nightmare. Everything closes too early. So again, what the hell were we supposed to do until 6?
In a flash of inspiration, I suddenly remembered the 24-hour movie promotions I saw all those times dancing at the Cineleisure Mall during the Street Festival back in June. I'd solved the Problem of the Curfew! What do you do from 3am to 6? Watch a movie.
Brilliant, right? If the movie sucked, we could sleep! If we couldn't sleep, we could watch the movie! And if the movie sucked... Well... Watch a good movie?
So we set out last Friday night to really party here for the first time in a shameful 21 months. Weeks before this, I'd already received an invitation for some "Post-Prelims Party" at Club Aquadisiac in Wisma Atria, Orchard Road, where there would allegedly be lots of Junior College girls looking for a good time and thus, allegedly, lots of opportunities for trouble on that Friday night. So, almost drooling at the prospect of trouble, we set out for Club Aquadisiac that night.
Now, I was fully aware that Club Aquadisiac is supposedly not as hot as many of the other clubs in Singapore. Hence I was equally aware that the crowd would not be as hot either. I was also fully aware that this "Party" had been marketed to Junior College students: the crowd would be predominantly, pardon my French, immature.
So given that, what did I think of my first foray into the Singaporean nightlife?
As expected, I saw a lot of bad behavior due to the dangerously low average mean age. And by bad behavior, I mean pushing and shoving. Don't get me wrong: as a somewhat avid fan of the nightlife, I know it's a given that you'll get pushed and shoved in a club. You could even get hit in the face by a flailing limb attached to some completely inept jerk-off spazzing out on the dancefloor -- we have a term for that kind of dancing back home called syok sendiri which literally means self-entertainment or, more accurately in this context, masturbation.
But a ring of openly horny guys huddling around two girls? And by huddling, I mean suffocating the poor things -- what the hell is that supposed to be? Jumping around like it's a goddamned concert, bumping into everyone? Screaming moronic, Tarzanesque howls like you've never been near a double X chromosome before?
Terrible. Just terrible.
Other than that? Prices were kind of average for a Singaporean club, at a S$20 cover charge (including the customary free drink) and S$10 per glass of housepour. Definitely more expensive than the clubs in Kota Kinabalu (back when I was last home at least), but I heard it's not too far from prices you'd pay in Kuala Lumpur so I'm not too sure how that'll work out for anyone from home thinking of hitting the clubs here.
We staggered out of Club Aquadisiac at about fifteen past two in the morning. And, as planned, watched the Brothers Grimm at 3, which in retrospect, was a lot less funny than our exhausted brains had thought it was. So I offer you my four word review for the Brothers Grimm as a bonus: waste your money elsewhere.
In the end, it was rather okay, I guess. Not spectacular, but acceptable. I had fun. Okay, it was slightly more than just fun, but I'm not telling too much. It was also a complete blast of cash -- we dropped about S$70 each for everything -- but I keep reminding myself that it was a well-deserved party after months of working at my Preliminaries (which I'm still going to fail nonetheless, especially since I have my Economics S paper up tomorrow morning -- at this rate, I'll never qualify for the London School of Economics; more like the London School of Elephant, which is not in London but next to Taiping Zoo in Malaysia where you get to learn the fine and exciting art of scrubbing elephants... among other, horrifying things involving elephants). Still, it could've been better.
Next time, I'm hitting Chinablack!
P.S. If you plan to hit Chinablack, don't count on using just your Student or Concessionary Pass (in other words, your bus pass) as ID. Why do I know this? Because we changed our minds halfway and wanted to go to Chinablack, and then saw a sign on the wall near the bouncers. I had my Malaysian ID; my roommate didn't. Shamefully, we turned back, and contented ourselves with Junior College kids.
Commentaires: 11
I have a confession. I have failed you, my friends, and I am ashamed. Despite all your high expectations of me and all your requests (more like demands backed by threats of castration) for first-hand reviews and tales of bad behavior and lascivious conduct, I still failed to venture out a single time into the exotic landscape of Singaporean nightlife.
It is true. And I have no excuses. Perhaps it was the tyrannical boarding school, barring us from any nocturnal shenanigans beyond that most unreasonable curfew of 11.30pm. Perhaps it was the lack of wingmen and fellow nightlife enthusiasts amongst the Malaysian clique I hung out with, who preferred less uncouth entertainment like fancy dinners and theatre and birthday parties. And perhaps it was also the lack of any dough to spend on clubs and martinis, especially when I've been in a state of almost constant debt with my cellphone operator and college since coming here. Monthly allowance, my ass.
Whatever. I am not here to point fingers. But 21 months and not a single Singaporean club visited, not a single Singaporean girl chatted up over drinks, not a single Singaporean bar brawl?
And I yet dare to call myself a hardcore clubber. Shameful.
Well finally, my friends, it is a new chapter for me! The first step on the road to atonement and redemption!
I finally went clubbing! Last Friday night, to be precise.
Finally, a fortuitous juxtaposition of factors allowed me to experience the Singaporean nightlife for the first time! Key to this was my recent discovery (after 21 months of living in the same room) that one of my roommates shared my enthusiasm for scantily clad ladies and loose women and booty shaking and --
Wait, that doesn't sound right.
Oh wait, it does. Whatever.
Anyway. We'd finally agreed to hit the clubs as wingmen after 21 months of yelling gibberish at each other (during the so-called Dakun era) and having deep, intellectual discussions about such fundamental issues like whether there was any worth in studying for Growth and Reproduction, since study or not, we'd still fail so might as well go sleep, riiggghhttt? We hyped each other up. We reminded each other every five minutes or so that we didn't have any A-levels examinations to worry about so there was nothing wrong with a little partying. We were so ready to go.
Now all we needed to do was solve the Problem of the Curfew.
The Problem of the Curfew is simple: the boarding school curfew is officially set at 10.30pm on Friday and Saturday nights (when we'd want to be hitting the clubs). With some creativity, it can be pushed to 11.30pm but no later. To push beyond 11.30pm, we'd need parental consent, which can be obtained illegally (don't ask) but still would only allow us to stay out overnight, not stagger back to our rooms at 3 in the morning. So staying out beyond the curfew would automatically force us to stay out until 6am. Assuming the human body is a human body, there are only so many hours that the average teenaged delinquent can dance continuously before collapsing for lack of tobaccoless air and alcohol. Most clubs here close at 3am; being the optimistic, young energetic studs that we were, we estimated that we could go on until the place closed.
Therein lay the problem.
What the hell were we supposed to do from 3 to 6am? Sit by the roadside? Cry? Prostitute ourselves so we could at least go somewhere until 6am (a very horrifying somewhere nonetheless). Back home, we'd never have this problem. After the clubs closed for the night, everyone would hop into their cars and engage in some reckless and dangerous driving (if it can be called driving at all). And if we somehow survived those very exciting swings through the streets of Kota Kinabalu without having the privilege of becoming part of a gigantic fireball ballooning into the sky when our driver makes the mistake of stopping at a red light when the guy behind wasn't expecting anyone to be retarded enough to do something like that (stop at a red light? Hah!), we'd all hit Lintas, where there were mamaks to enjoy some refreshing post-clubbing teh tarik and roti telur tambah bawang, pool halls where each game seems to go on forever because somehow imbibing alcohol has a way of messing with your aim (and driving too? I didn't know that! Ha. Ha.), LAN gaming centres for a quick game of Counterstrike or Warcraft 3. It had everything! Even a health centre! Which specializes in, erm, health! Really, the whole place really comes alive in the wee hours of the morning.
Here in Singapore, it's a nightmare. Everything closes too early. So again, what the hell were we supposed to do until 6?
In a flash of inspiration, I suddenly remembered the 24-hour movie promotions I saw all those times dancing at the Cineleisure Mall during the Street Festival back in June. I'd solved the Problem of the Curfew! What do you do from 3am to 6? Watch a movie.
Brilliant, right? If the movie sucked, we could sleep! If we couldn't sleep, we could watch the movie! And if the movie sucked... Well... Watch a good movie?
So we set out last Friday night to really party here for the first time in a shameful 21 months. Weeks before this, I'd already received an invitation for some "Post-Prelims Party" at Club Aquadisiac in Wisma Atria, Orchard Road, where there would allegedly be lots of Junior College girls looking for a good time and thus, allegedly, lots of opportunities for trouble on that Friday night. So, almost drooling at the prospect of trouble, we set out for Club Aquadisiac that night.
Now, I was fully aware that Club Aquadisiac is supposedly not as hot as many of the other clubs in Singapore. Hence I was equally aware that the crowd would not be as hot either. I was also fully aware that this "Party" had been marketed to Junior College students: the crowd would be predominantly, pardon my French, immature.
So given that, what did I think of my first foray into the Singaporean nightlife?
As expected, I saw a lot of bad behavior due to the dangerously low average mean age. And by bad behavior, I mean pushing and shoving. Don't get me wrong: as a somewhat avid fan of the nightlife, I know it's a given that you'll get pushed and shoved in a club. You could even get hit in the face by a flailing limb attached to some completely inept jerk-off spazzing out on the dancefloor -- we have a term for that kind of dancing back home called syok sendiri which literally means self-entertainment or, more accurately in this context, masturbation.
But a ring of openly horny guys huddling around two girls? And by huddling, I mean suffocating the poor things -- what the hell is that supposed to be? Jumping around like it's a goddamned concert, bumping into everyone? Screaming moronic, Tarzanesque howls like you've never been near a double X chromosome before?
Terrible. Just terrible.
Other than that? Prices were kind of average for a Singaporean club, at a S$20 cover charge (including the customary free drink) and S$10 per glass of housepour. Definitely more expensive than the clubs in Kota Kinabalu (back when I was last home at least), but I heard it's not too far from prices you'd pay in Kuala Lumpur so I'm not too sure how that'll work out for anyone from home thinking of hitting the clubs here.
We staggered out of Club Aquadisiac at about fifteen past two in the morning. And, as planned, watched the Brothers Grimm at 3, which in retrospect, was a lot less funny than our exhausted brains had thought it was. So I offer you my four word review for the Brothers Grimm as a bonus: waste your money elsewhere.
In the end, it was rather okay, I guess. Not spectacular, but acceptable. I had fun. Okay, it was slightly more than just fun, but I'm not telling too much. It was also a complete blast of cash -- we dropped about S$70 each for everything -- but I keep reminding myself that it was a well-deserved party after months of working at my Preliminaries (which I'm still going to fail nonetheless, especially since I have my Economics S paper up tomorrow morning -- at this rate, I'll never qualify for the London School of Economics; more like the London School of Elephant, which is not in London but next to Taiping Zoo in Malaysia where you get to learn the fine and exciting art of scrubbing elephants... among other, horrifying things involving elephants). Still, it could've been better.
Next time, I'm hitting Chinablack!
P.S. If you plan to hit Chinablack, don't count on using just your Student or Concessionary Pass (in other words, your bus pass) as ID. Why do I know this? Because we changed our minds halfway and wanted to go to Chinablack, and then saw a sign on the wall near the bouncers. I had my Malaysian ID; my roommate didn't. Shamefully, we turned back, and contented ourselves with Junior College kids.
Commentaires: 11
vendredi, septembre 16, 2005
L'illusion d'unité
The illusion of unity.
Today is Malaysia Day. On this day, we Malaysians are supposed to commemorate the proud formation of Malaysia Truly Asia 42 years ago (as a sidenote, Singapore is usually quietly left unmentioned these days; the government doesn't really want to remind us that Singapore also joined us only to quit later over "disagreements" -- and that they also happen to be far more developed than we are today despite their choosing obviously inferior and socially-divisive policies like meritocracy).
But let's be honest: who really cares about Malaysia Day apart from Sabahans and Sarawakians? Most Malaysians other than us don't even know it exists -- some don't even know we exist.
I remember how, more than a few years back before we got Astro satellite television and started watching CNN, my family would watch the news on ntv7 almost every night. And it only truly struck me that there was something wrong with Malaysian unity when they had this segment on the news called the "Sabah/Sarawak Edition." And as a Sabahan, I couldn't help but wonder: why did news from Sabah and Sarawak need a separate segment? If there was a Sabah/Sarawak Edition, why wasn't there a Penang Edition or a Perlis Edition? The mainstream news would have news from Penang and KL and Perlis but we were obviously too special to be treated equally. Obviously, only East Malaysians would be interested in news from Sabah and Sarawak, just like only Peranakans would be interested in news from Perak. Somehow I always felt the media thought us not Malaysian enough for the people in Peninsular Malaysia to treat what was happening across the South China Sea to their East Malaysian countrymen as equally important as the story about the latest snatch-theft in Subang Jaya.
And then there's the ignorance. I remember when my good friend and fellow debater Aaron first came back from Peninsular Malaysia while he was just beginning his Public Services Department scholarship tenure (read: JPA) and he told us that people there thought Sabah was a land of paddy fields where people lived on trees. As amusing as it was, it really was more than a bit shocking that this was the extent of the ignorance of our own countrymen.
But really, who can blame them? It's not like Sabah is a two-hour drive down the highway. All the advertising keeps painting us as Land of the Mountain, the Orang Utan and the Rafflesia. And, truth be told -- if you're really honest about it -- in comparison to the other states, the prospects for Sabah's future sometimes really does feel to be little more than that. We're the least developed and poorest state in the whole of Malaysia and we know it. Forget those Form 3 Geography textbooks that said we have natural resources like petroleum, timber, and minerals; with corruption as rife as it is in that most unbelievable and over the top comedy called Sabahan politics, it's as good as not having them. You don't have it if you don't get paid for it.
With such a legacy of mismanagement, I sometimes question if Sabah will ever break free of its underdevelopment. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever want to go back if I somehow make it big. And I always know that as screwed up as it is, I'll be back. If there is one thing that I am proud of Sabah, it's our culture. People get along better in Sabah than in Peninsular Malaysia. That's right. Kadazan Dusuns, Chinese, Malays, Indians -- we're all cool with each other. No one walks around feeling like the state or country belongs to them and everyone else is trespassing. I'm proud to call people of all these varied races some of my best friends. The only discrimination we have (if you could call it that; it's more like nonchalance as we buy our fish and cigarettes from them, sprinkled with righteous anger every time they stab one of us locals) is primarily against the damned illegal immigrants from the Phillipines and Indonesia who're slowing raping our beautiful homeland into a wasteland of slums and crime.
We have a lot less racism. I didn't know this, but apparently quite a number of those rumors about open houses in Peninsular Malaysia where Malays actually go to Chinese or Indian homes and vice versa happen to be hoaxes. I didn't know that because I thought this was normal for crying out loud. I remember this one time after we'd moved into our new house and we invited our Malay neighbors over for Chinese New Year and gave the kids red packets (and where we served halal food; we've done this enough to know). Our Malay neighbors had just moved in from Peninsular Malaysia and they were shocked. Because, dammit, he'd never been invited into a Chinese home to celebrate Chinese New Year before with a Chinese family. And I think he was even more shocked when he saw other Malays there at the party chilling with Chinese and Indian and Kadazan Dusun people like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He said he was never going back to Peninsular Malaysia. In this small state called Sabah, he'd discovered what was already a way of life for us: the Malaysian Malaysia.
He promptly invited us over for Aidilfitri. It was a year of firsts for him indeed.
Commentaires: 0
Today is Malaysia Day. On this day, we Malaysians are supposed to commemorate the proud formation of Malaysia Truly Asia 42 years ago (as a sidenote, Singapore is usually quietly left unmentioned these days; the government doesn't really want to remind us that Singapore also joined us only to quit later over "disagreements" -- and that they also happen to be far more developed than we are today despite their choosing obviously inferior and socially-divisive policies like meritocracy).
But let's be honest: who really cares about Malaysia Day apart from Sabahans and Sarawakians? Most Malaysians other than us don't even know it exists -- some don't even know we exist.
I remember how, more than a few years back before we got Astro satellite television and started watching CNN, my family would watch the news on ntv7 almost every night. And it only truly struck me that there was something wrong with Malaysian unity when they had this segment on the news called the "Sabah/Sarawak Edition." And as a Sabahan, I couldn't help but wonder: why did news from Sabah and Sarawak need a separate segment? If there was a Sabah/Sarawak Edition, why wasn't there a Penang Edition or a Perlis Edition? The mainstream news would have news from Penang and KL and Perlis but we were obviously too special to be treated equally. Obviously, only East Malaysians would be interested in news from Sabah and Sarawak, just like only Peranakans would be interested in news from Perak. Somehow I always felt the media thought us not Malaysian enough for the people in Peninsular Malaysia to treat what was happening across the South China Sea to their East Malaysian countrymen as equally important as the story about the latest snatch-theft in Subang Jaya.
And then there's the ignorance. I remember when my good friend and fellow debater Aaron first came back from Peninsular Malaysia while he was just beginning his Public Services Department scholarship tenure (read: JPA) and he told us that people there thought Sabah was a land of paddy fields where people lived on trees. As amusing as it was, it really was more than a bit shocking that this was the extent of the ignorance of our own countrymen.
But really, who can blame them? It's not like Sabah is a two-hour drive down the highway. All the advertising keeps painting us as Land of the Mountain, the Orang Utan and the Rafflesia. And, truth be told -- if you're really honest about it -- in comparison to the other states, the prospects for Sabah's future sometimes really does feel to be little more than that. We're the least developed and poorest state in the whole of Malaysia and we know it. Forget those Form 3 Geography textbooks that said we have natural resources like petroleum, timber, and minerals; with corruption as rife as it is in that most unbelievable and over the top comedy called Sabahan politics, it's as good as not having them. You don't have it if you don't get paid for it.
With such a legacy of mismanagement, I sometimes question if Sabah will ever break free of its underdevelopment. I sometimes wonder if I'll ever want to go back if I somehow make it big. And I always know that as screwed up as it is, I'll be back. If there is one thing that I am proud of Sabah, it's our culture. People get along better in Sabah than in Peninsular Malaysia. That's right. Kadazan Dusuns, Chinese, Malays, Indians -- we're all cool with each other. No one walks around feeling like the state or country belongs to them and everyone else is trespassing. I'm proud to call people of all these varied races some of my best friends. The only discrimination we have (if you could call it that; it's more like nonchalance as we buy our fish and cigarettes from them, sprinkled with righteous anger every time they stab one of us locals) is primarily against the damned illegal immigrants from the Phillipines and Indonesia who're slowing raping our beautiful homeland into a wasteland of slums and crime.
We have a lot less racism. I didn't know this, but apparently quite a number of those rumors about open houses in Peninsular Malaysia where Malays actually go to Chinese or Indian homes and vice versa happen to be hoaxes. I didn't know that because I thought this was normal for crying out loud. I remember this one time after we'd moved into our new house and we invited our Malay neighbors over for Chinese New Year and gave the kids red packets (and where we served halal food; we've done this enough to know). Our Malay neighbors had just moved in from Peninsular Malaysia and they were shocked. Because, dammit, he'd never been invited into a Chinese home to celebrate Chinese New Year before with a Chinese family. And I think he was even more shocked when he saw other Malays there at the party chilling with Chinese and Indian and Kadazan Dusun people like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He said he was never going back to Peninsular Malaysia. In this small state called Sabah, he'd discovered what was already a way of life for us: the Malaysian Malaysia.
He promptly invited us over for Aidilfitri. It was a year of firsts for him indeed.
Commentaires: 0
jeudi, septembre 15, 2005
Le démasquer
The unmasking.
Google just launched their Blog Search function yesterday. It's brilliant -- imagine a Google search that only returns hits on blogs. So if, say, you wanted to find all blogs with "Dugong Junior College" somewhere in them, all you need to do is to search that phrase on Blog Search. Amazingly easy. Brilliant.
And so bloody crazy. That was exactly what I did out of curiosity and imagine my utter voyeuristic delight at discovering countless blogs belonging to people I know with just a simple search. At the same time, imagine my complete horror as I eventually found what I dreaded seeing -- a hit on my own blog. That's right. Blog Search has made us all a little bit more public than we wanted to.
I mean, there really isn't much to complain about when you go out and publish a public blog only to find that -- surprise -- people you know are reading what you're writing. Sometimes, you even go out of your way to publicize the existence of your little digital ego gem to people, you attention whore you.
But there are just some people you don't want reading your blog. Your tutors, for example, who might not be too hot about reading what you really think of their tutorials (guilty as charged). Your parents who you might not really want knowing what you were really doing when you went out for your "walk" yesterday. And that bitch sitting two seats to your right who might start a flame war with you when she knows what you've been promoting her as to your male friends.
Terrible. Just terrible.
And so delightfully fun. This should mean plenty of excitement; I can't wait for my first unwelcome visitor, especially when two Singaporean bloggers have already been charged under the Sedition Act.
Cindy: We should call the cops.
Ray: No way! I ain't going to jail!
Greg: Hey Cindy! You know what they do to young boys in prison? All those sex-starved convicts just waiting for a fresh piece of ass?
-- silence --
Ray: Hey Cindy. Maybe we should call the police.
I hope I haven't been racist.
Commentaires: 0
Google just launched their Blog Search function yesterday. It's brilliant -- imagine a Google search that only returns hits on blogs. So if, say, you wanted to find all blogs with "Dugong Junior College" somewhere in them, all you need to do is to search that phrase on Blog Search. Amazingly easy. Brilliant.
And so bloody crazy. That was exactly what I did out of curiosity and imagine my utter voyeuristic delight at discovering countless blogs belonging to people I know with just a simple search. At the same time, imagine my complete horror as I eventually found what I dreaded seeing -- a hit on my own blog. That's right. Blog Search has made us all a little bit more public than we wanted to.
I mean, there really isn't much to complain about when you go out and publish a public blog only to find that -- surprise -- people you know are reading what you're writing. Sometimes, you even go out of your way to publicize the existence of your little digital ego gem to people, you attention whore you.
But there are just some people you don't want reading your blog. Your tutors, for example, who might not be too hot about reading what you really think of their tutorials (guilty as charged). Your parents who you might not really want knowing what you were really doing when you went out for your "walk" yesterday. And that bitch sitting two seats to your right who might start a flame war with you when she knows what you've been promoting her as to your male friends.
Terrible. Just terrible.
And so delightfully fun. This should mean plenty of excitement; I can't wait for my first unwelcome visitor, especially when two Singaporean bloggers have already been charged under the Sedition Act.
Cindy: We should call the cops.
Ray: No way! I ain't going to jail!
Greg: Hey Cindy! You know what they do to young boys in prison? All those sex-starved convicts just waiting for a fresh piece of ass?
-- silence --
Ray: Hey Cindy. Maybe we should call the police.
I hope I haven't been racist.
Commentaires: 0
