Of poverty, books & parenthood

We are a product of our upbringing. I am my father’s daughter, and here’s a little window into what makes me.

I have a rather large family - there’s six of us - my parents and three other siblings. In order to raise a large family, my middle-income parents worked extremely to put us all through school.

We didn’t have much luxuries growing up - we ate simply, seldom in restaurants, never had a family vacation, never had my parents buy us toys or new clothes for the new year. All we had was food in the table, miserly pennies for food in school, and hand-me-down clothes from our older cousins. But if there’s one thing in abundance in the house - it was books. Books were the only thing my father would invest in. He strongly believed in education as the only vehicle for upward mobility. I remembered him asking me one day if I would like to own a set of LIFE Encyclopedia. Back in the 1980s, that series of encyclopedia was a huge deal. Having developed a love for books and reading in me since I was little, I of course said yes. I didn’t think he was serious when he asked me for my opinion if he should purchase the whole set from my cousin, at a used rate. But he was. He negotiated the price and bought it for a hefty thousand dollars (a brand new set cost $2,000).

I was both thrilled and confused. Thrilled at having a whole collection of what I thought then to be a window into the world - I could learn anything and everything, from that huge volume of encyclopedia - at my disposal, for my reading at my whim and desire. Confused that my highly-thrifty dad would splurge a thousand dollars on a set of encyclopedia on his 10-year-old daughter. It baffled my young mind.

Now more than 20 years later, I’m testament that my father’s investment in our education has paid off. I had a rather long career in law, not as a lawyer, but as a legal assistant, as I couldn’t tolerate the academia and what seemed a dry and monotonous routine of a practicing lawyer. I also had my fair share of fun as an audio editor and a creative writer and researcher producing documentaries for big-time broadcasters including Nat Geo, Discovery, Lonely Planet and the History Channel. I’m not earning millions right now, but the foundation in education that he gave me through instilling a love for books and knowledge in me helped to shape my destiny today.

For all of his imperfection and extremely stern upbringing where I was repeatedly caned till I was 17, I appreciate all that he did, in his best capacity as the head of the household, the man in the family, the leader of the tribe and a father to a bunch of very obstinate children.

Having grown up in a rather impoverished household with only our bare necessities provided for by our sacrificial and hard working parents (they often had two jobs each), up till today, I struggle to break free from the gripping mentality that I don’t have enough and I should always measure the value of the things I spend on. Every time I stand at the counter prior to a purchase, my eyes would be scanning the figures while my mind would be churning and clicking numbers to give me an evaluation of whether item A or B would give me a better bang for my buck. And that’s the truth - that’s my purchasing decision - price versus my perceived value. It’s tiring to live like this, and I’m no prouder of it than I am to confess it now, but I do try, every time, to break free from that crippling poverty-limited mentality and to make a conscious paradigm shift on the concept of money and value. I’ve had several well-meaning friends who have observed that uncomfortable trait of mine concerning money, and many a times, when they jokingly poke at my extreme thriftiness, a cloud of shame would shadow me and I’d retreat into an invisible corner of self-reprimand, reminding myself to step out of that poverty hole and to learn to practice generosity. I try, and still am trying, so my friends, please be patient with me. My husband, who fortunately grew up in higher middle income family, has been key in helping me to take baby steps out of my poverty-stricken past into a life-giving lifestyle.

We live and we learn. In documenting my struggles, I’m coming face-to-face with my weaknesses, shedding light on them and with direction, support, and conscious decision, I can only get better.  

Work & Play

Reflecting on the highly controversial book by Amy Chua, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, and looking back on my personal upbringing, I must say I've been incredibly fortunate to have my dad made me do things for my good which I didn’t particularly dislike, like working on English, Math and Science assessment books on top of my piling homework in school; but the key thing was, he afforded me balance in work and play. When I would come home from school and start on my homework and assessment books after lunch right through till evening time, at 6pm typically, he would say, “Enough homework now, go out and play, because all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

For that I am extremely thankful, because that value never left me - I don’t push myself to hard work to the point of collapse or burnout - each day is made up of a nice balance between work and play.

Work, to me, apart from paid assignments, is anything that advances my personal development, which, in future, may result in a paid assignment. Like researching, reading, networking, writing, strategizing.

Play, to me, is anything that evokes relaxation and a feeling of non-pressure. Like my sports training, watching movies, having a meal with my loved ones and friends, cracking nuts over the fireplace, having freshly cut fruits and chatting.

If I were to isolate work to solely income-generating types, I would be highly discouraged because I am a work in progress and every little activity I take, in reading, researching, networking, etc, are eventually helping me to get to a point where I would be valued and paid for my contribution in my field of expertise.

Sounds obscure? Totally. Who can look into the future and know exactly what's in store? We plan, strategize and take steps *there. But even we aren't certain if our steps will lead us *there. But while the future is uncertain, one thing I'm certain of - the future's not dark - it's bright - and simply with that guiding light, I'm walking in and ahead.

*there = that aha point in the future where we proclaim and acknowledge, "we've arrived/accomplished"

His legacy

As I sat sipping my coffee and munching my toast, with a pen in hand to write my usual morning reflections, I saw a middle-aged father walking in with his teenage daughter. He was dressed simply in a grey collared tee and dark blue berms, carrying a black backpack slung over one shoulder. She was in a bright pink top and white shorts. He ordered breakfast for his daughter and himself, and repeatedly turned over to check that he had ordered sufficient food - he wanted to ensure she had enough to eat. She had rice, while he merely had bread and coffee. They ate mostly silently, except for a few exchanges of animatedly-spoken Indonesian conversation.

The sight of them reminds me of my dad, and created a wishful longing for quality time and intimacy which has been missing from my life for over 10 years.

As I thought of him, I'm puzzled myself that I did not long for a similar intimacy with my mom. Though she played the crucial role of sacrifice in the family (my only recollection of her is just that - lots of hard work and sacrifice), there was almost no exhibit of intimacy, support and encouragement; no providence of knowledge and recreational fun. She was constantly labouring away, making sure there was money for household expenses, the children's education, and savings. There was never a moment of indulgence or luxury. Everything was spoken in terms of money saved. Growing up, she never told me she loved me, was proud of me and never indicated the need to spend time with me, to bond with me.

My dad, on the other hand, though an extremely hard, stern and ready-to-punish man, gave me what every child needed - love, support, encouragement, knowledge and recreation. His declaration of love and demonstration of fatherhood was never conventional - while maintaining a stoic and practical demeanour (at all times - he has never let up or changed, all through the years), he supported me in my love for language; brought me books (from relatives, having not enough money to buy them); encouraged me to read and write extensively; was a strict teacher at home to ensure my good grades; made me read the newspaper and watch the news at nine every night; prohibited me from watching drama serials which to him were a complete waste of time and uneducational; played with me; encouraged me to play with kids in the neighbourhood, saying all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy; brought me and my friends to places adults wouldn't usually bring their kids to - abandoned houses with drug addicts, seedy back lanes of red light districts - in an effort to teach me 'general knowledge' and expose me to the 'real' world.

For all of that, I am very grateful. He was very real, very human. He never tried too hard to become anything he wasn’t. And when I say he was a hard man, he really was. And still is. For all the fond memories he brought me, so many more were painful, for I endured excruciating beatings for my disobedient ways and constant rebellion. My sister was often privy to the display of my bloody wounds, now healed with time.

How very often I've tried to write about my mom, a woman far virtuous and gracious above any other I’ve known, but I have ended up writing about my dad instead. This is yet another instance, a true account of my life, even as I'm still searching for the right words to pen them all down and do justice to those whom I’ve not credited enough.

I breakthrough

I have been trained to be independent from a very young age. I learnt to stand up for myself and deal with situations when I was bullied, sad and down. 

I was constantly blamed, accused and judged.

Even as I write now, I write each line beginning with “I”.

Because that was how I was taught.

Thus in their times of need now, I recoil from them. I don’t know how to reach out and sympathise.

Can I be blamed? No and yes.

No, because I am a product of my upbringing.

Yes, because I am a new creation in Christ. The old things have passed, behold, He makes all things new.

I need not be a victim of my circumstances.

I cannot control the events that shaped my life, but I can choose not to be reduced by them.

Therefore I choose to take steps towards them, to embrace them, and to love them.

I am certain that this is the only right thing to do.

Short story: Home - where we belong

No matter how many times she swore never to let her father's voice torment her, it always did. She was always living in fear of her father's sudden temper outbursts and the pain and shame from caning that she has come to associate her father to a tyrant, a sort of autocratic leader like Stalin who ruled with an iron fist. She sometimes joked with her elder brother Wallace that father was a 'communist' – when he spoke, no one dared to interrupt. What he says goes. No one could question nor defy him.

Yet she understood the hard side of her father. She has heard him scream in the middle of the night, while he was asleep, a scream so tormenting she found it hard to sleep after. In the morning, as she took her usual seat at the kitchen table, she would eat her breakfast in silence and observed her father intently, looking for any sign that could explain the mystery the night before. None. His face offered no answer; in fact, he did not look bothered at all. She winced in disappointment. Finally, unable to hold her curiosity no longer, she caught her mother when she was alone cooking, and creeping up quietly behind her, while stealing glances at the kitchen doorway to make sure her father did not step in, asked in a low tone, "what happened last night?"

Her mother, wiping a film of sweat off from her forehead, answered softly: "He dreamt that he was being beaten up by his father. He always does. Even at this age - can you imagine? You see, your grandfather was a very violent man. And your father had it the most. He was most severely beaten by your grandfather all through his boyhood. And when your dad dreams, it was real to him. He still feels the agony of his childhood..."

Mindy's heart broke. 'So that was why he was always so hard on us,' she thought to herself. Excusing herself, she went up to her room and closed the door behind her. Tearing out a piece of paper from her notebook, she sat down and wrote her brother Wallace a letter.

"Dear Wallace, I miss you. It has been three years since you last came home. Dad and Mom miss you too. We all do, you know that, don't you? I am writing to explain why Dad hit you so hard the last time you came home announcing your plans to drop out of university. Please understand that Dad placed high hopes on you to be the first graduate in the family. You know Dad, he was always studious, reading late into the night, even bearing hopes of going back to school himself. Can you imagine? At 58? But that is Dad. He loves knowledge, and had hoped that you would too. It was understandable why he reacted so strongly when you decided to drop out of university. You were given an opportunity he never was.

You see, Dad had a rough childhood. He was a hard working boy, and had big dreams of being a policeman, but his father could not afford to send him to high school. When his father found out that he has not been tending to the chickens and pigs in the farm, but had instead been hanging out in the backyard of schools to listen to lessons being taught, he became furious and chased him around the 'kampong' compound, hitting him again and again with a thick wooden rod.

How do I know this? Mom told me. You see, last night, I heard Dad scream in his sleep. And when I asked Mom this morning, she told me the whole story. Dad always dream the same dream - and he is 58 years old! He is still being tormented at this age. I am not writing to justify the pain Dad caused you. I am writing to make you understand why Dad leashed out on you in such anger.

Wallace, stop running away from Dad. Stop running away from our family. I don't want you to get married some day, have kids, and still dream of being beaten by Dad when you are old and grey.

Come home soon ok? I love you, big bro.

Love, Mindy."

That year, her brother Wallace came home to visit. He brought with him a new girlfriend the family has never met before - a young, sweet-looking Thai girl whose age was the same as Mindy. Since Wallace's return, things at home brightened up. For one, Mindy's father came to smile more often, and spoke kinder to them both. His outbursts became less frequent. Mother cooked nicer dishes too; an occasional Thai dish or two; a new skill she learnt from Eleenikrabot, Wallace's girlfriend. Even the family dog barked lesser, Mindy noticed, which has found for itself a new joy - chasing birds across the front porch on hot, lazy afternoons.

Growing up, she has always wished she was born into a different family, in a kinder home. Yet through the years, she has come to thank God for her imperfect parents and her intolerable brother Wallace. She has come to realise that even her parents have their past demons, and even they are learning to deal with it. She realised that no one set of parents have it altogether, that no matter how hard they try, they would be less than perfect.

Standing at the church altar with her handsome groom in hand, Mindy turned around to look at her aged parents and a beaming Wallace with his newly wedded Thai wife by his side. Mindy smiled and under the veil, she prayed that as she steps into a new phase in her life, into a family of her own now, she would always carry with her a valuable lesson learnt – that there is no greater place on earth but a place to belong to, a unit of identification, a family to call one’s own.

Loneliness sobers

At 66, he confessed that loneliness knows no age – it strikes anyone, anywhere. And loneliness cannot be explained – it has to be personally experienced to be understood. He has probably not felt lonelier than he does now, with the absence of his wife who has never left home for more than a month at a stretch. She is halfway across the world in dark and dreary London, to care for her daughter who has just given birth to a lovely baby son. 

He used to live his life around a fixed routine – waking at half past five in the morning, have a simple breakfast made up of two slices of plain bread and a cup of hot drink, then jog for an hour at the park nearby, before heading to his shop to clean up the drains and surroundings, picking up dried leaves, watering and trimming the plants. He comes home by noon, cooks himself a simple lunch of plain porridge with lots of vegetables and a few slices of fish, reads the newspapers for a couple of hours before taking his nap. He wakes in the evening to go out for dinner with his wife, strolls by the beach as the night wears on, before heading home to read some more, and off to bed by half past ten. 

He seemed perfectly fine with this routine, until his wife left for London. He initially tried to stick to the routine still, but after a few days, the reality of being absolutely alone sunk in. He started to loathe the emptiness in the house, of not having someone at home to talk to, to banter with. He dreaded returning to a lifeless, concrete enclosure, and would rather hang out in coffee shops and eating places with old friends and chat till the wee hours of the morning. 

Such is the power of loneliness that it has made him sober up in his parenting and social skills. He has time, lots of it, to reflect on his strict upbringing of his four children, who are now residing in various parts of the world, returning home to visit far fewer times than he would have preferred, given the geographical distance in between. He is sorry for his lack of tact in his interaction with his family and friends. 

At 66, he is making a conscious effort to be tactful, patient, gracious, caring and loving. For this I am extremely proud of hm. He is my father. 

Children and Commitment

Thoughts on having children: on one hand you have less personal time and higher expenditure; on the other hand you are building a heritage of love.


Someone once said, the amount of money you earn will not count at your deathbed; what matters is the people that are gathered at your deathbed. This brings to point the importance of building quality relationships with family and friends, rather than just accumulating wealth for personal achievement and satisfaction. Everything in life is a trade off. You lose something, you gain something.

You lose time, you gain achievement.

You lose energy, you gain fitness.

You lose devotion, you gain love.

You lose procrastination, you gain discipline.

You lose reluctance, you gain commitment.

You lose personal agendas, you gain friends.

You lose personal freedom, you gain children. And children are a blessing from the Lord. Happy is the man who has a quiver full of them!

Sheena

She is close to my heart and I love her so very much. I am always thinkin of her and what fun growin up is for her - she is so full of life, joy, enthusiasm and passion she can't be locked in by limitation or restriction. She is wholesome, creative and overflowing with life.

She is compassionate and sensitive to her loved ones - especially her mommy who sacrificially gives up all that matters to her so her little girl could grow in an environment of love, acceptance, encouragement and security (in that order).

Sheena is a representation of all that a child is to have - much love and room to grow, regardless of the environment which sometimes threatens the protection in which she currently enjoys.

The beauty of family

You see people smiling and laughing when they are with other people - friends, family, etc. You don't see them laughing as much when they are by themselves (fact is, you'd start speculating their sanity if they do). Reason being there is chemistry when people get together. And that is why I love families, particularly my husband's. The sense of belonging, acceptance and oneness. A warm shelter from a cold solitary world.

They give me a reason to look forward to coming home from a long day at work, an arduous day in class, a weekend gathering with friends, an overseas vacation. I have every reason to find my feet excitedly bringing me home each day because I find a place to belong to no matter the season that lifts or drowns me.

Enjoy thy family

I thoroughly enjoy watching my family bask in comfort, love, warmth and most importantly security, in this land of great governance and upright leadership.

I thoroughly enjoy having my family spend precious time doing the most mundane of things that families do together – eating together, watching television together, sharing comments about the latest company take over or rise in property prices, having mom cut fresh fruits a couple of hours after dinner time, us sitting around the living room in front of the television; watching Discovery Channel together, the cold December wind blowing furiously through the wide open windows, telling us that Christmas is beckoning.

I thoroughly enjoy the blessings I have been given.

He taught me

Like a child he sat down and read every word I wrote. Not mere browsing, mind you, but with focused concentration, so much so he didn't even turn around to wave goodbye when I bid him & mom farewell on my monthly visit back home.

I have to admit, I felt somewhat flattered that dad would take an interest in my writings, never mind they're but journal entries on Multiply (http://lildrummergie.multiply.com/journal).

I have been trained to write since I was little. Dad would make me reach for the brown notebook placed at the edge of a tall cupboard in the living room, and have me sit down quietly by myself for 15 mins to pen my journal entry, every single day. I was encouraged to write about anything and everything - the weather, my encounters in school, my friends, teachers, sports, my favourite things, etc. He read and marked my journal each day, and each new day I had to do corrections on top of making a fresh entry. And so I wrote. And kept writing.

And today I'm still writing. I'm writing because the words just wouldn't stop flowing. I see pictures and images in my mind that dad taught me to see. He taught me to question what I didn't understand, he painted me illustrations to explain everything he knew from science to geography to mathematics, economics and politics. He taught me all that he knew and all that he was constantly learning. Like a sponge, I took in all he had to offer.

At 29 today, I am a sum total of his impartation. The good aplenty, the bad, well, a number, but most importantly, I took in the best of them all - the love of a father, my teacher and guide.

Recent Photo Albums

JB Trip 6 Apr 2007
http://lildrummergie.multiply.com/photos/album/6

Chinese New Year 2007
http://lildrummergie.multiply.com/photos/album/7

Sis & Family
http://lildrummergie.multiply.com/photos/album/9

Pa

I think of him daily,
Sometimes first thing in the morning
Each thought of him reminds me
Of the failed expectation that I am
I failed to listen, obey and offer filial piety

I want so much to step nearer
Into his paternal embrace
I want so much to touch
His tenderness and grace
I dread the cold tone,
Felt its sting over the line

I could have, would have,
But fear freezes me in

I think of him daily
And wish I’m bigger than my fear

Lovely

Sis and Sheena



Sheena the rapper

Family

Familiarity breeds contempt. Especially within the family. Now let me make a qualifier here – no, it doesn’t happen to all families, but most. Because family members are people you spend most time with. Family members are always around, even when separated by vast oceans. Family members stick around whether we've been bad or good, because blood runs thicker than water. And precisely so we take our families for granted.

Recently I vow to myself not to second prioritize my family, as I always do. The numerous funeral wakes that I’ve attended this year slapped me hard out of my selfish, immature and ungrateful shell. It woke me up to the reality of someday losing a dear one I now take for granted. It breaks my heart to imagine the immense sense of loss and agony upon the demise of a family member.

So now I remind myself to give while there are opportunities, care while there are needs and love while there is time.

Books & Writing

I was brought up surrounded by books. As far back as I can remember, books were everywhere in the house, in school, even the Presbyterian church that I attended since I was five. I love reading. By jolly, I do!

My cousin Alinna is 6 years older than I, and being the only child, she was pampered with all she desired. I believe she loved reading too – she had more books than I had clothes in my wardrobe! When she grew older, my siblings and I were at the receiving end of her treasures. I didn’t care about anything else but the tonnes of books which packed my father’s bookshelves in the living room, spilling over to the dining area that we had to buy a bigger cabinet and bookshelf to store them (I was of course happy as a bee).

Besides studying hard, participating in sporting championships in school, playing myself crazy in the evening with my dad and the neighbourhood kids, I was reading all the time. I did not go a day without a book in my hands (no kiddin’!). I especially love lying on my bed reading (a bad thing to do – my vision is badly impaired because of that and there’s no point crying over spilt milk). I read every book that Alinna passed on to my family – Enid Blyton, Alfred Hitchcock, Nancy Drew, Roald Dahl. Reader’s Digests. I love those hot sunny after school afternoons where after a quick lunch and bath, I’ll leap onto my bed (literally!) with a book in hand, all ready to devour and drool all over the yellow stained pages. Dad was very pleased that his little daughter loved reading and he used to come to my bedroom - first he would smile, then he would enquire which page of the book I was at, and then he would ask me when do I reckon I would finish reading the book, and I would tell him in a day or two and I would make sure I kept my word. And I did.

At fourteen, he bought over from Alinna her entire collection of The Times Encyclopedia (I have never finished reading them all – I only like 2 of them – one on Space, and the other on the Mind). Now that I’m much older, I feel bad at not having fully utilised the entire collection that my Dad paid good money for, thus I make it a point whenever I go back home to visit my parents, to read a little if not glance through the pages of some of the other topics.

Love strikes quickly and fatally. I fell in love and never out since – with Penguin’s Classics – great literature by my all-time favourite English writers – Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson. I would say it was literature pieces like A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn that left a deep imprint in my soul and etched an innate longing for English products – books, movies, songs. You’ll probably find this an exaggeration, but please trust my integrity – I read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer over 20 times, averagely 4 times a year. I had no sense of boredom reading the adventurous and often mischievous Tom Sawyer trading junks for pearls with his richer, snobbier but dumber friends. If you ask me, Tom Sawyer makes a mighty good businessman!

Sometime later a friend recommended Christopher Pike’s fiction/mystery novels – a whole series of ‘em to get you imagining monsters and believing that chain letters were real. I started checking out John Grisham’s legal thrillers in poly because I majored in law (duh!).

Looking back, I was a more rampant reader. I devoured any book that came within sight. I borrowed books extensively – from libraries of all sorts – school library, church library, public libraries, friends’ libraries. Now I am a more picky reader. I read less and from a narrower range of topics – mostly autobiographies, cultural stories and Black American experiences. I feel for the sufferings of the characters and I empathise with the injustice inflicted upon the weaker ones.

I love to read. And I want to translate my reading (input) into writing (output). I dislike being distracted from what I’m meant to do. Here's a list of distractions that has won me over too many times. It’s adapted from Jane Schneeloch's poem, an amateur writer trained in well-known writing teacher, Pat Schneider’s Amherst workshop.

WRITING TIME

I stop writing
to check my email
to make a cup of coffee
to read the mail
to put a load of wash in
to play a game of Minesweeper
to straighten out the piles on my desk
to pluck my eyebrows
to cut my nails
to call my mother
to pay a bill
to text a long lost friend
to get another CD to play
to transfer pictures from my handphone to my laptop
to buy lunch
to watch Discovery Travel & Living
to watch the news
to read the newspapers
to take a nap
to dry the clothes
to shut off the computer
and wonder where
I will find time
to write great things.

So don’t be surprised the next time you find me missing from writing for days and weeks on end. The above list is the reason why.

P/S: This must be the longest post I've written and published thus far. And I'm only doing so to prove a point - strike while the iron is hot - I got to write while I can before I start losing my heart to a thousand other "important" to-do things.

The J. Tan Family Lineage

Recently I did a backgrounder on my family history for one of my class assignments. I decided to do it in the following style. I hope you are as amused reading it as I was writing it. (P/S: By the way, J. Tan stands for Johnson Tan, i.e., my father's name)

Origins

Tracing its roots back to old Malaya, the J. Tan Family lineage presents an unlikely union of two prominent but rival families from the fishing village of Stulang, beside the mouth of the Johor River. Johnson, the eldest son of the Tan family, though an intelligent scholar and expected to teach in the local school, was a poor match for the fair and lovely Rosalind whose family owned the village’s only provision business. Yet a brief introduction at a tea party quickly set sparks flying between the two youths and before long, the charming Johnson had won the heart and hand of the enchanting Rosalind, much to the disapproval of their elders.

Current Members

Not long after their joyous union, the couple gave birth to their first born, a chubby and bubbly Wilson Tan whose witty nature and street-smart ways won him the hearts of the villagers and school teachers who graded him excellently in his subjects.

Next in line came Willy, though born prematurely and sickly most through his growing years, much to Rosalind’s worrying concern, he eventually outgrew his frail health into a fine young man; handsome with strong chiseled features.

A daughter then came along, Irene is her name. Petite and demure, she is a tender-hearted girl whose soul is filled with much love and compassion for people around her, especially her family members.

Finally, the youngest and most adorable girl, Angeline, added to and completed the family tree. Like Alice in Wonderland and Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, her inquisitive nature often brought her many an adventures that strongly defines her extroverted personality.

Profession

Johnson is a semi-retired private tutor who currently tutors still in the comfort of his quiet home in Taman Pelangi. In his leisure time, he does gardening and reading.

Rosalind is a retired nurse who serves actively in the church choir and manages a comprehensive lifestyle of morning tai-chi exercises, afternoon karaoke and tea sessions with the neighborhood ladies and the occasional baby-sitting for Willy’s young children.

Wilson, being the dream-driven man that he is, is on the active look-out for decent business opportunities in Thailand where he enjoys the sour and spicy food as well as the rich ethnical culture.

Willy is a responsible and fulfilled family man who adores his wife and dotes on his two young children, Isaac, aged 7, and Eunice, aged 3. He shuttles between Singapore and Johor Bahru for work as a technician in an engineering firm.

Irene takes residence in London with her British-born Chinese husband, Martin, and her young daughter, Sheena. She is a full-time housewife with little personal time and energy left at the end of each day – her little daredevil, Sheena, being the reason why.

Angeline is living out her all-Asian dream of holding a prestigious job in a huge, internationally renowned firm as well as pursuing her childhood dream of mass communication studies. Though easily tired out by mid-week due to work and studies, she finds time to play music as well as write, being strongly inspired by her favorite author, Maya Angelou, of the famed, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.

Lil' SuperStars!

Korean superstars in the making... hahaha ;)

My nephew Isaac and niece Eunice

First Lesson

My first lesson on obedience came when I was seven years old. I was called back home from playing with my two older brothers and sister at the corner of the street, jumping on broken zinc plates meant for roof tops. It was fun, being small and yet on top of things and destroying it. So when we were all called home for dinner, my mind was still trailing back to the corner of the street where my poor lifeless victims await my destruction.

The television was turned on moderately loud, Dad was reading the papers next to the television (it was a small house); Grandma was at the dining table and Mom was busy making sure every one of her kids got to their dinner. When she saw me, she handed me my bowl of rice and cooked dishes. And then I did the unthinkable. I shook my head in response to her outstretched hand. Now, patience was a stranger in our family; anger and screaming voices are next-of-kins. Mom tried to shove the bowl into my hands but I refused to accept it. I wanted to display my refusal so I could go back to playing. Dad looked up from his papers and told Mom, “It is time to bring the cane out. She has to learn not to disobey her elders. If we let her off this time, she will grow up to think she can have her way around and disobey authorities in her life.”

I was in a state of panic and shock. I have seen and thought Dad only hit my older siblings, but never me, because I was young and adorable. That first beating was to be the beginning of a string of beatings that molded and shaped my adolescent years, which left me scarred and wounded emotionally, but thank God, healed with forgiveness and love.

Sheena

The apple of my sis' eye... and mine too. My lovely niece, Sheena. Aged 1 year plus.