It used to be a private affar: the almost tangible weight of wetness and the inescapable racket even an amniotic fort of blankets cannot keep away.
When the clouds start to crowd I’d feel myself sink – the ground I’m on slowly submerge while everyone else stays level.
Then I’d hold my breath until the sun is back out again.
When we started going out, I watched him watch me whenever the ground ate me, and took in his confused concern. It made me almost embarrassed of my passive yielding to the damp, greedy earth.
“You get in such bad moods when it rains.”
“I do?” (I know.)
“Yeah, it gets really bad sometimes.”
“Oh. I hate the rain.”
He liked the rain, he told me. Especially when it rains when he sleeps. Everyone loves the rain when they sleep. It’s the first world’s giant cradle, the sheltered modern man’s fuck you to nature on it’s hunt for vengeance.
My rain dissolves concrete and metal and seeps right through me, into me.
*
On his bed, in the lull between words, we lay watching the congregation of clouds both outside and inside me. “You know… you’re making me hate the rain too.”
I didn’t reply, because there was nothing to say. But this time as I descended into hibernation I felt him grip my hand a little harder and didn’t let go.
Once there was an ambitious egg. It had lofty dreams for such a inert sphere. It wanted to be a chicken, and the best chicken it could ever be. It wanted to unite all the chickens in the world, and reduce worldwide chicken suffering.
Soon the little egg hatched into a chick. She was placed in a pen with all the other chicks, optimistic and excited about her future. Everyday, a human hand reached in and fed her grain. Day after day, she waited for her chance to live. But there was no where to go. She looked to her left and to her right, all there was were chicks that looked just like her; an infinite mirror reflecting the monotony of her life.
Refusing to let go of her dreams, she tried to fight back. She couldn’t go left, she couldn’t go right. So she had to go up. With all her might she flapped her wings… sometimes it almost seemed possible, but she never got above skimming the heads of the other chicks. Day after day, the squeezed with the other chicks, waited for a human hand, pecked at a scatter of grains. She tried to rebel; to starve, but she couldn’t resist her desire to survive. Her optimism began to wane.
Soon she grew big and strong. For a time she felt hopeful again, her body told her she had a purpose. And perhaps she was right, because the human hands no longer fed her passive grains, but lifted her into her own cage. The hen was grateful for the peace and privacy, but the solitary space had seemed to forebode an imminent end …
For the next month all the hen did was lay eggs. Through the night she worked at fulfilling the purpose her body demanded of her, in the morning the human hands affirmed her purpose. But she couldn’t stop to think about this, all she did was lay eggs – tiny, shiny mysteries that were gone as fast as they appeared.
Finally, she laid what she felt was her last egg. This time, the human hands took her along with the egg. Before she knew it, she was squawking on cold steel as her feathers were wrenched off her. She felt the scald of boiling liquid and indiscriminate hacks all over her neck and chest. Then it was cold – freezing – and it all became a haze
She woke up in a bath of hot, heady teriyaki broth. She was tossed and shaken and then tenderly laid into a bed of spongy white rice. She looked up, and there it was – that last egg she had laid, her baby, her last hope for a purposeful life – cracked and spreading over her body, warm and slippery with recent death.
AND THAT, KIDS, IS THE STORY BEHIND YOUR OYAKO DON!
I have made peace with sporadic LKY critics on my newsfeed.
On the first day, the offense i took was visceral and instinctive. With knowledge of his faults and failings, but respect for his brilliance, i had felt a personal loss. To have others take away my privilege to mourn this loss – much less to say for Lee’s family – seemed unfair. They can do this any other time, i thought. Why now? Why the need to be cruel?
On the second day, it became a more diffuse disappointment. I shook my head as friends showed me the latest snark amidst the mass of adulatory tributes. But this time, shaking off the bias that came with my private attachment to LKY, i reviewed these critiques. The anti-LKYs posts were varied: there were the irreverent, the pompous; the political, and the emotional. Some raised relevant arguments against his ideology, others dived straight into cold satire.
I then realized that these voices are necessary.
It is not that i agree or condone them – far from it. But it is exactly that: as we are allowed to mourn, to exalt, to love LKY; others have their right to do otherwise. How can we condemn others for not feeling the way we do, as if it were a choice? As we are allowed to decry critics for their lack of appreciation, so are critics free to denounce what they perceive as blind idolatry.
If every. single. citizen. in Singapore expressed only grief, what would that make us? North Korea.
Ironically, education for our generation – which Mr Lee had placed a premium on – is precisely why the nation consists of a multiplicity of voices. It is why we are discerning, capable of appreciating or disagreeing, bold enough to ram a foot against authority where ideology clashes with one’s own. In a twisted way, we should be proud to some degree that we have space for dissidence.
Mr Lee was a political legend. A controversial one. And rightfully, such a legend should have his fair share of fans and haters. It means he has been doing it right. If he had been as much of a tyrant as some claim, there would be no criticisms (allowed).
There was a particular thought i came across: “you cannot separate the man from his politics”. And it’s true. Much as most wish for compassion towards him and his family in a time of mourning, it is inevitable that the outpouring of love will be met with comments from some of his detractors. Many have the tact to keep it in, but others would see this as exactly the right time to voice out against support for LKY — because it is now that it has become most apparent and effusive.
So here i am to take back my words, or at least dilute them. Yes, i can accept the need for criticism, even if i do not understand it. I’m heartened, of course, that such a vast majority of us care enough to grieve, to be angered by critics. But it is also assuring that Singapore has come to a place where disgruntled netizens can speak up without the fear of arrest.
I have been accused of many things in my life, but not even my worst enemy has ever accused me of being afraid to speak my mind.
– 1955, The Wit & Wisdom of Lee Kuan Yew
Mr Lee, if as a hypothetical other, may have been proud of the presence of dissent, might have been the voice of dissent himself.
Right at the heart of the pool yesterday, a gripping numbness seized my lungs.
Some background might be useful. Months ago, i attempted to swim with a budding cold. I kicked off a few times, but was struck with a giddying breathlessness each time. Admittedly, this is where i should have quit. But hey, i was already there – and a tough swim seemed more appealing than shaking on the windy benches waiting for J. So i gave it one good go, ignoring the pressure expanding against my chest, threatening to burst.
In a disorientating moment i lost the easy movement of cutting across water and started grappling aimlessly, sputtering chlorine, my throat narrowing to reed-thin. What ensued was almost comical: a well-meaning but untrained tattoo-ed uncle coming to my rescue, succumbing to my frantic flails and ending up pushing my head underwater; stunned lifeguards sluggish from long periods of disuse; a very confused Justin finding his girlfriend dragged ashore like a dishonored, wilting seaweed.
Since then i’ve gone to the pool once more. Much of the time was spent toe-ing the water warily. I finally found comfort in trailing by the length-wise edge, my toes scraping the wall in each stroke for luck; for safety. It worked: i could pretty much swim full laps across the deep with my pal, the pool edge.
Alright, here’s where my foolhardy (more fool than hardy) made it’s determined entrance again. Eager to find my independence from safe walls, i ventured to Lane 2. I gave one solid push, tingling with awareness that sole against tile was the last concrete contact i’d have before i was alone, water all around me: man is now an island.
I trained my eyes on the tiles below me, exhaled to the saturation of blue. For awhile, it worked. My mind ran through flip-cards of distracting thought: school tomorrow, food later, punctuated with ok keep calm, ok. By then, a seeping, hollowed-out darkness was taking over my body. Believe me when i say this is not hyperbolic: the phobia was thoroughly physical. My heart went so quickly it was a negligible buzz, my muscles resigned and went slack – and that horrid, horrid consuming emptiness.
In an episode of Adventure Time, Finn developed a fear of the ocean after a drowning incident. His fear is personified as an inky, intimidating cloud sprouting from belly — the Fear Feaster. I never quite did appreciate the uncanny accuracy of this depiction until yesterday. Also reaffirming Adventure Time as an amazing show.
Remember trashy talk shows (alright, Maury) when participants face their phobias of the most innocuous objects and they yell like they’re skinned sans anesthesia? I used to scoff and think, uh yeah i believe you’re scared but your reaction is so fake. Now i get that fear is different from phobia. Phobia is irrational, is tangible, is all-consuming. Mine – a specific, baby-level phobia – had already such power over my primal instincts.
Back to the pool.
I ran out of distracting flip-cards, and the Fear Feaster took root in my brain. It was like an full-on adrenaline rush, except one that ran contrary to survival. I just barely managed to snatch at remaining scraps of courage/rationality, dragged myself across lanes back to the edge (was in reality just two strokes haha).
Having survived, i found my mild phobia a source of morbid fascination. Almost immediately after, i latched on to the nuances of fear, squirreled it away for later dissection. Maladaptive as it is, i’m almost pleased this happened. Not as a source of self-pity, but to quench a curiosity for the multiplicity of human experiences.
That aside, i really hope i’d be able to swim freely of my bff, the wall again.
Loss, i have learnt, finds us in new ways unique to the one we mourn for.
This morning, groggily, i flipped on the tv just in time to hear PM Lee collect his quavering tone. Cut to you, black and white, wreathed with orchids, a rousing speech; you stoically wiping tears away in the scene we’ve played and replayed through social studies class. The LKY i knew from textbooks.
Then came the later years, the you i knew throughout my childhood: sharp eyed and articulate. Of these, the most recent images of you in NDP 2014 was especially touching. In them, you had neither the solemn face of a man on a mission, nor the polished, polite smile of a politician. Instead, you held a carefree expression; a smile wide with abandon. You regarded the celebrations and your fellow countrymen with a simple content you so rarely wore.
It was then that it hit. Perhaps because you looked as any benign, friendly coffeeshop uncle would, perhaps it reminded me of how beyond a hard-nosed luminary, you were a loved husband, father and grandfather. It hit that there would no longer be wise, sometimes entertaining, always brilliant words newly said by this man.
Sir, all I hope for is that you felt the nation’s gratefulness, that we did (and will do) you proud, that you went knowing your work was fully worthwhile.
Thank you, and thank you again. With all my heart I pray that you’re now resting well with your beloved wife.
Early in March i picked up LKY’s autobiography. Less than a month later his health is dipping, the nation steeling ourselves for the eventual. I am not devastated, that would be overdramatic of me – but definitely more saddened than i thought i’d be, given how inevitable death is for everyone. He might be brilliant, but he is mortal. It is perhaps this reminder of his human fallibility that shakes us.
from the straitstimes.com
The pebble of loss already sits heavily somewhere at the back of my mind. It exists not only for the man who founded my Singapore, but simply for a man who was slicingly sharp; harsh maybe, but undeniably intelligent. Cleverness is probably the trait i revel most in, all things aside, and Mr Lee was one of the cleverest.
The man deserves a peaceful, painless death; and dignity in departure. This is all i pray for everyday since PMO released the updates.
Unpopular opinion, perhaps, but i think it cruel to wish him a recovery. At his age, what would recovery be but temporary or torturous? To be frank, i think LKY himself knows he’s done all he wanted to, and he’d find peace in finally being with his wife. I get that most who wished him to get well soon are concerned and well-meaning, though.
Ultimately i’m quite heartened that everyone has been appreciative of LKY. Even the sector with reservations about PAP’s ways are magnanimous enough to recognize respect where it’s due. Well besides the idiots who released false statements of course. Shit, that boiled my blood. Even if it weren’t LKY, even if it were a completely unknown citizen, think of how hurtful it is for his family.
It wasn’t even funny, not that humor would have justified the act at all. It made me cringe, thinking about the poor guy who had invested decades building a safe home for us, and getting these meaningless boliao crap. The Asian child in me was stricken with shame, seriously, it was like witnessing a wild sibling waving his genitals about at the sickbed of our parent. I mean, alright, you want to blame him for being strict with you – but c’mon. Grow up.
Also a great pain to watch was the #prayforLKY selfies on Instagram. My god all the frolicking on green grass, phony mournful expressions while showing your best angles, spending half an hour on meituxiuxiu overlaying LKY images and finding the most flattering filters. Ok but all of you make me sick. You want to selfie then go do so indulgently all you want, stop trying to parade your compassion under the guise of concern.
Sorry this had to turn the corner into rant city. It is just quite sad to have LKY’s illness being taken so carelessly by frivolous people. Of course that’s just an exceptional few. I hope he doesn’t come to know of these nonsense, because i’m sure he’d be embarrassed by their triviality. Instead i pray that he knows of the surprisingly effusive outpouring of love and respect from the majority, and if he does go soon – may he go in peace.
If there’s a fact we too often forget, it’s that humans are animals, too. Our executive cognitive function, our gift of introspection, and need for greater knowledge makes us superior animals. But essentially, we are animals.
Why should we be reminded of that, does it really matter? Yes, because too often we forget our insignificance and limitations. As much as we have free will, we are shaped by circumstances, environment, impulses. There are times we see ourselves as how we are, within the scale of the universe, and be humbled by our smallness and transience.
We should surpass ourselves, but never think of ourselves as more than we really are. The human race needs some humbling from time to time.
Recently i’ve been catching myself holding a breath.
“Oh. I need to exhale,” i’d think – and then do so. As if my lungs were a new, foreign installation i’ve yet to grasp. In a way though, they are. A friend of mine, with whom i share a common enthusiasm for blue-spot-activating facts, once told me our cells regenerate in such a way that – at some point – we’re essentially a different person than before.
Our lungs have a life cycle of 3 weeks; i am currently sporting a brand new respiratory control station.
Why was this a surprise though? I’ve been so changed by years – broken and mended, stretched and shrunk – it’s quite bizarre a belief that i’d be as before.
“You used to be so crazy!” There are parts of that self i miss: the effervescence, the unceasing energy. Now i’m prematurely aching bones and half-caf coffee for early nights.
At the same time, i think about the journey here. There were bumps in the road but i wouldn’t change anything, except perhaps invest in some Google stocks and .coms.
“You’re at a good place,” a close friend recently remarked. I don’t think she meant it the way i took it, but it was very reassuring.
Feeling poops today – the heat, the noise, the PMS. Pretty much every thing was overwhelming. After the fifth child shrieked incessantly in public i felt like pelting a wad of paper at him. Zen zen arimasen. That’s my peace chant, literally plucked it off a weird dream i had. Had a busy week (nothing school-related, lol) and will have another busy one ahead… in a good way.
Did some retail therapy: bought peripera cushion blusher and Berrisome lip tint from Korea. At least the package is something i can look forward to getting!
Some things to pull me out of the dumps.
My darling baby cousin!!! She was so tiny and precious and warm and… alive! so amazing to have a squirming vulnerable thing in your arms! was so, so afraid of hurting her. she slept really well when i was over, have yet to see her scream-y side (hopefully she doesn’t have one). I’m so ready to shower her with cousin-ly love and gifts.
Candy from J! They came in nice clear jars. These were some pretty good confectionary too, like the best gummi bears ever made, and liquorice softs which i love. I don’t know who Victoria is, but thank you! This is from a french bakery in Gardens where J is a regular.
Celine on her birthday. <3
Found a reaaaally good salad place. It’s a BUCKET filled to the brim with fresh veg, and you can choose an assortment of great topping + sauce. Best part? ONLY $5!!! Usually salad can’t fill me, and i HATE lettuce-based salad cause i feel pathetic eating it. But this one is genuinely delicious and cheap and moderately filling if you get heavier toppings.
Speaking of yummy finds……
Greek yogurt x raspberry popsicle from Momolato @ SMU one VERY HOT afternoon. Starbucks has also rolled out amazing greek yogurt parfait with granola and compote.
Nat + Vanessa one night for Thai food and talk, like the old times.
My b, who can’t keep his face natural when the camera’s out. But anyway he does that face a lot when i get weird – which can be often depending on caffeine intake and hunger.
The first vivid realization i had of my parents’ love for me was on a morning before my primary 5 camp. At the time, unlike my bowel-movement-tracking, rabid scheduling self now, i had no idea of organization. Often, i’d find myself stranded an hour before school without a washed set of uniform, without my name-tag, or homework.
That morning, it was socks. On our packing list, “Socks – 5 pairs” was conveniently forgotten until 5.30am the day of the camp. I had to be on campus by 6.45. In a groggy panic, i woke my parents up and told them about my worrisome sock-less state. They were always on my case about neatness and preparedness, so i was understandably steeling myself for a good nag.
But nope. Without a grumble, they set out determined to procure socks. At 5.30am, just woken up, for their daughter’s adventure camp which probably seemed very insignificant in their adulthood. On hindsight, they might have just been too dazed from recent sleep to say anything.
One of them fished out my used socks from the laundry and hand washed them; the other used a hairdryer so i wouldn’t have to squish my feet in dampness.
I remember sitting on the parquet floor at the foot of their bed, trying hard to keep awake, listening to the whirr of the hairdryer. The morning was a cold one, but the warmth radiating from the dryer kept me content. I watched my parents, heavy lidded and silent, but their faces steadfast. There’s nothing my parents couldn’t fix for me, I had thought – and at 11 I resolutely believed in that.
–
I was reminded of this a few days ago, when i woke up chilly, but was far into sleep to rise and find the comforter (kicked off my bed, i think). A couple of minutes into a half-hearted slumber grumble, i felt warm fluffiness slide up my legs. My grandma did that almost without fail. She sleeps at ungodly hours, but before she does she’d check in on me. Before i stumbled back to unconsciousness i thought of how uncanny her timing was.
The next morning i asked my po how she knew i was cold. “Tch, I do this every night for you ok. I’m your grandma, who else would dote on you like that?”
And i thought there really isn’t. Friends, even lovers, love you but conditionally – it develops over time with shared experience, favors, understanding. Family loved me once i popped out, imperfect, vulnerable – a squealing useless lump. One day i want to have my own lump to love too.
Q 