Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Mum-meries 5: Fire! Fire!



I like to tell others about how my parents were very strict and that not only did they wallop us with a cane, they also bought the cane in a roll rather than by short lengths: when one length wore out, they simply cut a new one.

The truth is that I was never really punished severely. Tony says I was spoilt and to some extent I tend to agree with him - perhaps though, only in comparison with their thrashings.

I was rather afraid of Dad for some reason. He didn’t say very much you see, but in truth he only once raised his voice at me and that was when I was 19 and had been staying out late too much. “You think this is a hotel?!” really was uttered in my home.

Mum, I was closer to and understood better. My interactions with her were more frequent and I kinda knew where I stood with her. And to be honest, though I never knew how to express it, and despite some other issues between us, she was Mummy and I loved her. Still do.

On one particular day though, I don’t think my feelings were quite so affectionate. Fearful, terrified and just about pee-in-my-pants scared would better describe them.

I was quite young then - not even school-going age I think. My sister, Rosemary, was doing some craft at home and messing about with candles and newspapers in the hall. I wandered over and after a while of watching, rolled up a bit of newspaper and lit it from the candle. Fascinated by the flame, I watched as it slowly ate away at the length of tightly rolled paper, consuming print and pictures as it made its way down…down…down… towards my little fingers.

Suddenly aware of  the proximity of the flame, I knew I had to do something but what? I went to the window to throw it out but then suddenly thought I might end up burning the house down. That would not do!

So what next?!

How?

What should I do?!

Well, what does a person do with something he doesn’t want anymore?

Throw it in the bin, what else?

And I did and sauntered off to look for something else to amuse myself with.

A minute later, I was in the middle room, still looking for something to do when I heard a scream ‘Ahhhhhhhh!’ then watched as my sister ran screaming past me down the short corridor. A few moments later she ran back in the opposite direction, armed with a pail of water. I knew something was wrong and that I somehow had something to do with it.

I closed the door and locked it. I may have been spoilt but I sure knew when I would be thrashed.
True enough, a few moments later there was a loud banging on the door. My mother pounded on the door Bam Bam Bam and screamed in Cantonese - you knew it was really bad when she screamed in Cantonese - ‘Sui Chai! Hoi Moon!’ “Evil boy! Open the door!”

That was the moment the fear and terror began though fortunately not the pee. I stubbornly refused to unlock the door - the only thing that separated me from the wailing banshee on the other side.

Eventually she wore me down. She was Mummy after all. But I was smart too! I’d let her in alright, but I had a cunning plan! I would hide! And so I unlocked the door then quickly hid behind it. Hey I didn’t say I was that bright then… She rushed in, cane in hand and immediately looked behind the door, pulled me out and that was when she caned me.

I really don’t remember the caning. I do know it didn’t last long and I do know nothing much else caught fire and the water and ash was cleaned up and the fire - including the one in my mother’s body - was quickly put out.

Perhaps this was the only time I was caned. I don’t remember. It wasn’t the only time I was scolded but when I look back on this and other incidents now, I am consumed - slowly but brightly like the fire on the newspaper - by an overwhelming affection and love for my mother and my family. For our shared stories. For the good stuff we did get to enjoy. And even for the house we still have today - despite the best efforts of some - oh, OK ‘one’ - of us to burn down.

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Mum-meries 4: The Wedding Dinner



OK so my brother Tony reminded me of more of my mother’s absent-mindedness. To be fair she wasn’t often absent-minded, and in this instance was accompanied by my Dad.

The story is a very short one. My parents were invited to a wedding dinner. Distant relatives’ son or daughter - you know how it is. So on the day, my parents turned up at the restaurant and entered the dining hall. I guess in those days it was not quite so common to have registration or even ushers so they made their way to a table and sat down. They did recognise one or two people, people they probably would see only at weddings and funerals. They didn’t know many others, but again this wasn’t surprising.

So they sat through dinner, making small talk, and when the festivities were over, they trooped out along with the other guests. At the door they realised the restaurant was actually hosting two events that night. Both wedding dinners. And a sign pointed down the corridor to the wedding dinner my parents should have been attending.

I believe they made a discreet exit...

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Mum-meries 3: The Psychology of Teaching


It was 1978, I was in Form 1, my Mum was still teaching in the primary school next door and and my own class teacher was Pn Aminah. One of my close friends then, and someone I recently very happily reconnected with, was Eric Toh. One afternoon, I had something urgent to announce to the class and I asked Pn Aminah permission to do so. She asked me to wait as she was attending to some of the other boys. I remember there wasn’t actually any lesson going on and the class was quite boisterous, as any class of 13 year-olds would be when the teacher was either missing or preoccupied.

Minutes passed and I brought the matter up again to Pn Aminah who once again asked me to wait.

More minutes, more waiting until I finally got quite fed up and also quite petulant. In frustration I exclaimed very loudly something to the effect that I couldn’t be bothered to try and help the class anymore. I never did make the announcement.

The next day and again it was Pn Aminah in class and once again the class was a little noisy. Hmm I’m seeing a pattern here I had not seen before… Anyway, through the burble of voices, I heard my name called. Pn Aminah looked up from talking to a few boys in the front and asked me ‘John did you do it?’ I thought she was referring to something that Eric had done which was rather good though I forget what it was now and I said ‘No Cikgu, it was Eric.’

There was confusion for some time as she was clearly referring to a different matter, then it slowly emerged that at the end of the previous day, someone had written something nasty about her on the blackboard and she had thought it was me because of my outburst. She asked me directly in front of my classmates and when I denied it, she said ‘I think it was you’ and I then denied it again and the matter was, I thought, laid to rest.

At home, during casual conversation with my Mum, I mentioned the incident as a sort of ‘funny thing happened to me today…’ and ‘guess what? I stood up to Pn Amindah and showed her who’s boss.’ sort of thing. To my surprise, Mum became very serious and asked me some very direct questions ‘What exactly did she ask you?’, ‘Was this in front of your classmates?’ and so on. I thought it strange but explained the whole thing as best I could and that was that.

Until the next day.

Once again the class was a noisy, active mass of white-shirt/green-shorts pubescent boys. Yes, there definitely was a pattern to Pn Aminah’s classes then, come to think of it… Again through the burble of voices I heard my name called. I stood up and as the class fell silent at her gesturing, she said to me ‘I would like to tell you something. Your mother came to see me this morning and we had a talk about what happened yesterday. I would now like to apologise to you for accusing you in front of your classmates when I didn’t know for certain if you’d done what I thought you had.’

I was quite taken aback. A teacher apologising to me? Almost immediately a wave of bravado and smugness swept over me and I generously replied ‘It’s OK Cikgu, no problem.’

When I got home that evening I asked my Mum if she had been to see Pn Aminah and she explained why she had: ‘When I studied to be a teacher, we learnt child psychology. I told your teacher that it was not right to accuse a child in front of his peers without complete evidence. It can destroy a child’s ego and confidence. She agreed.’

My sublings and I were brought up in a non-touchy-feely environment. An almost typical Asian family, in other words. We never hugged, much less kissed and I never heard a single member of my family say ‘I love you’ to another. At that moment however, I think I loved my mother very much and although she went on to do much more we are proud of, that was probably the first time I felt immensely proud to be her son.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Mum-meries 2: Why Aren't you Talking to Me?

Why Aren’t you Talking to Me?




My mother could not drive. She did go for lessons once a long long time ago but she proved particularly inept. So inept in fact, that it seems the instructor declared at the end of her first and only lesson that he would be long in his grave before she would ever learn to drive. And yes, he’s been gone a long time now, I’m sure, and she did never learn to drive.

For going around, she often depended on my father. And so it was with her visits to the bank - usually on Saturday mornings. Dad would take her to nearby PJ New Town where the HSBC Bank was, drop her off to do her banking then return some time later after his breakfast to pick her up from that very busy part of town. Right in front of the HSBC Bank was a carpark (invariably full) and the lane that ran through it. Mum would usually just be waiting by the side of the lane and hop into the car as Dad came by. Perhaps people were simply more patient in those days, or maybe they’d gotten the routine down pat because she wouldn’t usually be waiting too long for him.

One very busy Saturday, she stood waiting for him as a long line of cars made their way slowly past. She finally spotted the beige Mazda 323 we used to have in those days and walked up to it, grabbed the door handle as it paused momentarily, then got in and sat down. As she reached to her left for the seat belt, she began talking to my father, the topic of which we never found out. That morning she struggled a bit with the belt, and as she continued her conversation with Dad, she became frustrated with both the belt and his silence. She finally got the belt sorted, clicked it into the receptacle on her right while saying sharply, ‘Eh, why aren’t you talking to me?’.

She looked up from her seat belt struggles only to find, not my father, but a strange young man, his eyes big with surprise and shock and his mouth hanging open in stunned silence.

Mum, in equal shock, quickly said ‘Oh, sorry!’ somehow smoothly unclicked the seat belt and jumped out of the beige car - not a Mazda and certainly not our Mazda, leaving behind a bewildered young man with a tale to tell his family.

She stood there embarassed for a while then eventually spotted the correct car, got in and asked my Dad ‘Eh, where were you?’

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Mum-meries 1: The Patriotic Songs Sessions

In the lead up to Mothers Day, I thought I’d just write a little about my mother. Nothing too organised - just random recollections and bits of trivia.

Here’s one of my favourite Mum-meries which I’ve told and retold quite a few times, but I reckon it’s worth another run around the block.

During World War II, Mum worked in a Japnese bank. It was a civilian-run affair but of course despite the absence of army uniforms, one was constantly reminded that one worked for a colonising power. Mum was only 16-17 then but being the eldest child, she had to contribute to the family too.

The Manager of the bank at one point started an after-work Patriotic Songs session where the staff were taught, and practiced singing, patriotic Japanese songs. Mum chose not to attend and one day the Manager came to her with a sealed letter addressed to her father. ‘You are very disobedient. Show this to your father and I want a reply soon.’

The letter said Mum was very headtsrong and disobedient and that she’d refused to attend the Patriotic Songs sessions. It ended with a request for my grandfather to discipline Mum.

How do we know the contents of the letter? Well, Mum took it back to her desk where she opened it, read it, and disgustedly threw it in the bin! A few days later, the Manager came to Mum and asked if she’d handed the letter to her father. She said ‘No! Why should i? It was all nonsense.’ thereby admitting she’d not just disobeyed him, but had also opened a private missive.

Infuriated, he raised his arm to slap her but she reached out and grabbed his hand in mid-flight, glared at him and said ‘You are someone now because your country invaded us. But after the war you will be nobody and if I ever see you again then, I will spit in your face!’

Remarkably, he did not react and did not get her in trouble. And as I understand it, she did not have to go for Patriotic Songs sessions.

When she told us this story many years ago, we said she had been mad, and that if things had gone just so slightly differently and the Manager had gotten her in trouble, we’d never have come to be. She was unperturbed and instead said something about this manager eventually settling in Singapore. His name was Sasaki and she’d never seen him again.

I checked and at the time there was just the one Sasaki in the Singapore phone book and I jokingly invited her to call and see if he was the same guy. She just laughed and said ‘Why should I?’