The 300th Blog Post: Between Passion and Profession.

So Blogpost is telling me that I am now writing my 300th blogpost since migrating from my previous blog.

To all of you who have read, liked, commented or felt anything I have written quietly resonate with you, thank you so much for reading.

It bends my mind and broadens my heart that anyone would continue reading beyond one blog post, but I am told I apparently have 'faithful readers', so thank you from the bottom of my ever widening heart.

That Defining Moment 

I remember I had just received my not-so-glorious A Level results and I was walking around my college in Singapore thanking all my teachers for their contribution in my life over the past eighteen months.

One of my favourite teachers was Mr L, my maths teacher. Not only did he excel as a tutor, what we really appreciated was that he always treated us all like adults despite our adolescence. He was firm but friendly, with an ever ready smile docked under the round glasses framing his pale moon face.

'So, what do you want to do when you grow up?' he probed. He always gave you the kind of non-judgmental look which made you want to tell him everything.

'I want to write,' came an instinctive, almost defiant response from somewhere deep inside me.

'Oh, okay...' he grinned, not unkindly.

'...and how are you going to put food on the table?'

There was no malice at all in his question, and I laughed out loud with a shrug.

'With much difficulty I guess!'

'Well, you know, writing doesn't have to be your main thing, you know. You can always write on the side. Many great writers have held different day jobs while writing in their spare time - they were mathematicians, teachers, government servants...'

Fifteen years later, and his words still remain with me, and I wish I could go back to thank him for opening my mind up to the possibility of earning a keep and pursuing my passion, and I'd like to believe I'm lucky enough to have struck a happy balance between the two.

Are Your Dreams Enough?

Oh damn you, Disney.

Growing up, we have always been confused by these two messages - our Asian parents convinced us that the only path to true happiness lies in the security of being an engineer, accountant, lawyer or doctor - and the other voice, the ones in Hollywood movies and Disney films - to Dream the Impossible Dream, that real happiness lay Somewhere Over The Rainbow, that we just needed to Follow The Yellow Brick Road, and that You Are Truly Special (Just Like Everyone Else).

We grew up believing we could be anything - kick-ass reporters, world class fashion designers, rock stars,
bestselling authors, Academy Award winners, sexy homemakers, performing dancers and award-winning photojournalists.

If only we believed hard enough.

Forget the requisite hard work - the months and years people spend perfecting their craft, making the right connections, patiently working their way up into opportunities for success and making their own luck, because you know, hard work is for losers.

And really, whose life ambition is it to be a stuffed-shirt accountant, a university lecturer, a middle manager, a boring engineer, a sordid lawyer, a mind-numbing waiter or a real estate agent anyway?

And then we grow up, and we realise that all is not so rosy.

Suddenly we find ourselves in the very real position that we are highly unemployable, that the world runs on money and connections and is carried on the back of ordinary 'uninspiring' jobs; that passion itself is not enough to pay the bills, repay mortgages or put food on the table.

Suddenly the Rainbows are revealed to be illusions, the Yellow Brick Road terminates in a Yellow Dead End, and we realise that we aren't actually all that special. In fact, we are Decidedly Average.

This life pivots around one truth for a majority of us - most of the time, the things that make us come alive, no one wants to pay money for.

Some of us are lucky enough to have the perfect intersection of our passion and our profession. We do what we love and we are paid well for it. We remain interested and motivated because of our natural inclinations towards the subject and people view it as valuable and will pay money for it.

But what about those of us who are passionate about things that people do not place a monetary value on? Who is going to pay us to pursue what is perceived to be a hobby, a dalliance. Herein lies the problem of the struggling artist, the starving musician, the unsustainable charities, that guy with all the latest gear who does not a professional photographer make.

Sure, there are a select few of us who get it - those who are able to marry our passions with our professions. We try and see if our passion is truly marketable and sustainable, and we pursue it for as long as it is. We get that discipline and determination are more important than raw talent and inspiration. We get that relationships matter, we slowly build our following and our brand, we recognise that luck is opportunity disguised as hard work.

And even then, there are times when even that is not enough. We encounter many false starts and heartbreak along the way. We realise we are lost in an ocean of people who are more talented, better looking and far more competitive than us. Our clients are demanding and draining, our industry contacts fail us.

The way I see it, we can do one of three things:

1) Deaden Our Hearts. We give up on our dreams, we let life and its practicalities swallow us, we harden our hearts. We go to a job that provides a valuable service to the world, and come home drained from the politics of work, the mind-numbing routine, the endless meetings, the difficult customers. We escape momentarily in weekend getaways, the next fancy electronic gadget, the emotional eating.

We will live vicariously through our children and one day die in comfort, perhaps with regret.

2) Live Our Passion. We do the things that make us come alive.  We work hard and get good at it, we get out there and build a network of the people who share the same passion as us, we find our unique selling point and we try our hardest to make it sustainable. We devote all our time and energy to it, losing sleep, friends and our sense of security along the way. And with any (self-made) luck, we will make it one day.

3) Balance The Two. This was the revelation from my Maths teacher. Although not always possible, this may be the best intermediate solution for some of us.

I think about the example of the apostle Paul from the Bible, who while travelling around the region to spread the Good News, never took it upon himself to expect the kindness of others but earned a living making tents.

We can work at a day job and bring home an income that will sustain what we really want to do. This way, we balance both the practicalities of earning a keep while pursuing what we are truly passionate about - we find enough hours left in the day or the weekends to sing, dance, shoot, write, perform, create and help others.

This is where I find myself most fortunate - to be able to bring home a wage in my daily work (which I secretly love) and still be able to write for an audience of family and friends (which I openly love).

So thank you once again for reading, and for sharing my experiences, thought processes and my stories. May you find what you truly love and what you were put here for, and may you make a way of keeping it sustainable enough to make a difference in this world.

The Art of Procrastination Again

One of the reasons for my writing silence of late is that I am trying to psych myself up to prepare for my fellowship exams come next August. In all that time of psyching myself up, I have:

1) Bought the required books, which are serving as very useful paperweights at the moment
2) Colour coordinated my wardrobe according to the rainbow (including underwear and socks)
3) Rearranged all the files and folders on my laptop in alphabetical order
4) Baked up a storm (oh wait, that's Karen)
5) Decided to write this blog instead

Now August might seem like months away, but these are major exams and they require consistent hard work and discipline, both of which I haven't really trained myself for growing up.

I used to be that annoying kid in primary school and high school who would do well academically by cramming for exams a few days before. Yes I would complete my homework daily, but school was so filled with extra-curricular activities and distractions that I barely got any studying done.

All the requisite studying would be saved for the few days before the exams, where the midnight oil was so consumed I had to source for an alternative fuel. Couple that with the fervent prayer that can only precede public school exams (and stapling fifty dollar notes to exam papers *winkwinknudgenudge*), somehow I managed to do well enough both in primary and high school.

Those who know me know that I do not say this boastfully, but rather to reflect on where my habits today have come from.

My ease of passage through primary school and high school soon unraveled when I went to do my college years in Singapore. Suddenly the bright hope of Methodist Boys' School KL became evidently quite dim and mediocre amongst the ocean of academic talent and sheer hard work that is Singapore.

It was a remarkably humbling time for me and one would have thought that it would have spurred me on to a life of discipline and concentration.

Instead, some habits die hard, and once again, I find myself procrastinating whenever I have to prepare for an exam.

I sometimes look at Karen with envy when she studies. She has the ability to sit down at a table for hours and focus on the subject at hand intently. Yes, she can break for the occasional bout of silly madness which I impose on her, but then it's straight back to the task at hand.

On the other hand, I am as distractable as a puppy with ADHD that has just been let loose into an open field and I don't know which butterfly to chase first. Everything else will take priority - the garden is suddenly trimmed, the laundry done, the wardrobe rearranged, the dishes washed, the house cleaned, and then I can sit at the table to start studying.

And then I open the laptop.

Suddenly I have all these e-mails to reply and spam to clear, and an entire cyberspace filled with soccer news, funny pictures of cute animals to be ogled at, random videos to be watched, motivational articles to be read (ie. 10 Steps to Quit Procrastinating Now), Facebook status updates to be liked and commented on, and it needs to be all done first.

The best motivation I have going for me at the moment is that what I am studying for is extremely relevant to my line of work, and that has kept me going. Passing the exams is less of an incentive to me than becoming a better doctor.

Perhaps that is the true cure for procrastination - having the right motivation.

All right, I am going to take my own advice now and head back to my books.

After some relaxing Youtube videos first, of course.

The Art of Procrastination

On second thoughts, I'll write this tomorrow.

Down Under Where?

I hate packing for trips. I hate that you have to go through a mental checklist of things that you should bring, and inevitably, you will always forget something important - your shaver, hair products, your phone charger, socks, your Hello Kitty bolster. (What? Don't judge me.)

One of the worst packing experiences I have ever had was when I was going for a church camp in my first few years here in Melbourne. I had gone through my mental checklist methodically - 'Towels, underwear, toiletries, shirts for wearing out, shirts for sleeping in...' and packed my suitcase initially, but just realised that it wasn't big enough so I transported everything over to a bigger knapsack.

We took a bus to the campsite about two hours away from civilisation, and laughed and joked along the way. Soon, we poured out of the bus and dropped our luggages off at our respective cabins and got changed for the first event of the day - icebreakers and games. We had a great time, and I was in my element - getting everyone laughing, taunting the opposition, playing the fool.

I had worked up quite a sweat and felt really good about being there as I returned to my cabin with my other bunkmates to shower and change before dinner. I sat astride my backpack, mocking my friends good-naturedly as I rummaged around and pulled out my toiletries, my towel, my shirt, my trackpants, my underwear...my underwear....*grunt*... my underw....

It was then I broke out in a cold sweat. I went through my knapsack with the fervency of a United States customs officer, frisking it up and down, looking in every pouch and orifice possible before the truth hit me squarely in the groin.

I had forgotten to transfer my underwear from the small suitcase to the bigger knapsack.

Now how shall I put into words how I feel?

It was a mixture of when Frodo witnessed Gandalf falling to his death, when Luke found out who his father was, when Manchester United fans found out Sir Alex Ferguson was retiring, when you've poured out that bowl of cereal, and then open the fridge to find that there is no milk.

No. Milk.

If I could have sunk to my knees and cried out a dramatic protracted 'NOOOOOOO!' I would have. Or maybe I did, because my bunkmates had to lift me up again, slap me a few times and ask me what was wrong before I sheepishly replied 'Urm, nothing. Nothing what. Everything's okay.'

And so I went to the shower, my shuffling feet betraying my ruminating mind. This church camp had suddenly turned into the Worst. Camp. Ever.

I was going through the motions of showering myself and looking up at my solitary (slightly used) underwear hanging woefully up on the shower door next to my towel when I tried to come up with a plan of how to maximise my single underwear use.

Now, I have four days of the camp to last, so if I wore it normally on the first day, back-to-front on the second day, inside out on the third day, inside out and back-to-front on the fourth day, I should just be able to manage, I thought to myself, as I pulled my towel down to dry myself....

And that's when my only underwear dropped to the wet shower floor.

*sinks to his knees* NOOOOOOOO!

Now, it was the really the Worst. Camp. Ever.

I almost dived into the shower floor tiles trying to rescue my precious briefs (or in this case, brief). I picked it up as quickly as I could, but not quick enough, apparently - a wet patch had developed around half the underwear. At this point, I despaired even for life itself and wondered how long I could stay hidden in the showers before someone noticed I was missing.

I dried my underwear as best as I could by swinging it around for a few minutes and I *eew* slowly *yuck* put *urrgh* it *oh, man* back *gross* on.

Urrgh, I still shudder at the thought of wet underwear against my skin.

Anyway, I noisily squelched my way back to my cabin, and into the arms of my understanding bunkmates, who I confided to with the earnestness of a inconsolable child who had just lost his puppy.

They looked at me with great kindness in their eyes - and proceeded to laugh their asses off at me while rubbing their own stock of clean underwear mockingly against their faces (Ooh, can you feel that Heng Khuen? Feels so... clean. And dry.)

Okay, so they weren't that bad, but they certainly did laugh really hard at me before offering to help me out with my predicament.

My pastor was informed, and he rang some guys who were driving up to the camp later that night to bring in some disposable underwears.

After having laughed until he held his sides for a good five minutes, of course.

And so salvation came in the form of some Made in China disposable underwears that night from my friends (amidst a bit more chuckling and ribbing) and I could finally heave a sigh of relief and enjoy the church camp properly once more.

In case you needed a visual aid
to go with this story.
It goes without saying that I am
far better looking, of course.

The disposable underwears were like, how shall we say, really sheer. It was made of a gossamer thin paper material with two holes in it to put your feet through. It was like wearing a shower cap around your ass instead of on your head. I was worried every time that I ran in it, that I would somehow spark off a fire in my pants from my thighs rubbing against this potentially flammable material.

But I was grateful, nonetheless. At least I didn't have to survive on one semi-wet underwear for the whole camp.

Or no underwear for that matter.

Now that would have made me really popular and potentially made it the Best. Church. Camp. Ever.

Not.

Did I mention I hate packing?

Where Is Your Accent From Again?

When we were still in primary school, we had a slightly eccentric schoolmate return from a holiday to Australia. Somehow in that one week where he was away, he caught something while he was overseas which he brought back home to Malaysia - the Australian accent.

He would walk past us, smile brightly, and greet us with his slight lisp - G'day!. None of us, having ever been to Singapore, much less Australia stared at him weirdly and walked quickly away, before he finally explained to us that it was a customary greeting there, replacing our well known Good Morning, Good Afternoon, Good Evening greetings.

We did what all caring, considerate, thoughtful twelve-year-olds would do - we teased him no end. From that day forth, he was Sir G'day to us.

'Oi, G'day lei le! Fai tit chao ah!' (G'day's walking this way! Let's run away!) or 'G'day, G'day, hei sei le lei!' (G'day, G'day. Go and die lah you!)

It was almost this tribal cry of twelve-year-olds who could no longer identify the scent of one of their own - he looked like one of us but no longer sounded like one of us, and we quickly distanced him from the pack.

Not until he came off his high Westernised horse and joined us again in the Malaysian-English world of lahs, where gots, dowans and How I knows would we be his friend once more.

***********************************

I absolutely love this video from dmingthing, a popular Malaysian Youtuber who, together with the team from Wah Banana in Singapore, collaborated to show us that this is a problem common to both our countries. This video eloquently captures with wit what I am trying to explain here better than my words will ever do. 

*************************************

How many Tiffanys do we know? How many people who are seemingly ashamed of our own localised versions of English (Manglish or Malaysian English or Singlish, Singaporean English) have resorted to coming up with some indistinguishable version of Westernised English (American, British or Australian) just to sound more sophisticated and impress others?

There are some who handle it quite well, and perhaps have spent a significant amount of time overseas in a Western country (ie. longer than four days) and then I have met some who have never really been overseas, whose accents are so put on and jarring, and would even dissociate themselves from being Singaporean or Malaysian completely. These people make me sad, and wonder what traumatic experience would have happened to make them want to so badly be identified with a whole different country altogether.

This phenomenon is unique, as far as I know, to Malaysians and Singaporeans but I am certain that it is true of any country that has been previously colonised before.

My friend refers to this phenomenon as the Pinkerton syndrome - a reference to Lieutenant Pinkerton in Puccini's Madame Butterfly where it describes the tendency of some Asians to consider the Caucasians to be superior in every aspect, and to be biased towards them and to despise our own.

Blame it on our post-colonial masters heritage, or blame it on all the American cartoons and sitcoms that stream through our television and Hollywood dominating our silver screens - there was a distinct group among us who thought the world of the white person, and wanted to join that group, sometimes to the exclusion of our own local friends.

We were affectionately (or derogatorily) known as bananas (yellow on the outside, white on the inside) or Oreos (the Indian version) while the Singaporean version - 'ciak kantang one' [Hokkien for 'one who eats potatoes' because obviously all Westerners are Irish. :)].

Interestingly enough, this phenomenon is quite rare among my Malay friends, as far as I know. Their sense of community and identity is so strong, and their ties to their religion so deep-rooted that there are fewer of them who I know belong to this group, although times are changing that as well.

You could tell these people by a few features:

1. Speaks English only, or mainly English

2. Speaks little to completely decimated Cantonese, Mandarin or Tamil and are in no rush to rectify that

3. Grew up listening to English radio stations mainly, secretly loves boybands

4. Devoured Enid Blyton books and all other form of English literature growing up

5. Were more likely to be Christian or Catholic (the 'Western' religions)

6. Tended to have friends who did 1-5.

Oops, guilty on all six counts as charged.

I speak in some kind of indistinguishable accent of English myself, but I believe I am a product of my upbringing. My family spoke mainly English at home, I went to a school that used to be run by religious brothers, listened to Radio 4, the only English radio station in my time, watched He-Man and Friends on TV, went to church, and read all of The Secret Seven, The Famous Five and The Magic Faraway Tree. And I secretly loved boybands. (Okay, love, not loved.)

It's not like I thought the world of the Western society necessarily - it's just what I was exposed to. I know I am Malaysian through and through still - I love food so much I want to marry it, eat at hawker centres and mamak stalls, I am easygoing and friendly, I turn up late to almost everything, everyone older than me is my 'uncle' or 'auntie' and all my Indian friends are my 'macha's and I support an English Premier League soccer team.

Having been in Australia for nearly a decade now (has it been that long already?) I find that I still gravitate towards Malaysian, Singaporean and Indonesian friends as we share somewhat similar values and culture. (We all take Instagram pictures of our food).

Being away from home has made us even more acutely aware of what we really miss from home and we seek solace in familiar faces all these miles away from our tanahair (motherland).

What I do find myself and friends like me doing is what Karen describes as code-switching - our grammar and accents change depending on whether we are at work with a mostly Australian group or at a Malaysian restaurant with our friends. I think we do this chameleon-like transition not necessarily to be accepted but because we care for who we talk to and want to communicate as effectively as possible.

As the world becomes more and more globalised, I wonder what our children's futures would look like one day, and who would they truly identify with, and whether we can really pick from their accents where they come from.

Boy Bands, I Hate You.

Wow - kids nowadays! What's up with all this One Direction madness! I can't look anywhere without seeing some kind of product tie-in with 1D! And what kind of lame-ass music are they churning out anyway? Why, back in my day...

.... erm, well, erm... back in my day... we had... erm...

New Kids on the Block
Take That
Backstreet Boys
N'Sync
Boyzone
Westlife

... okay, screaming girls (and some screaming boys). Here you go. Enjoy your One Direction. I'll be sitting here sulking in the Corner of Hypocrisy.

God must have spent a little more time on  you,
I mean them.

Ah yes, boy bands. Oh, how I used to hate them.

I hated their schmaltzy love songs, I hated their perfect hair, hated their million-dollar smiles, despised their clear skin and well-trimmed beards.

I hated the fact that they were rich, hated that they were popular, and hated that girls tripped over themselves trying to get to them. I hated that there was the Cute One, the Shy One, the Silent One, the Bad Boy and the Only One With the Actual Singing Talent.

But most of all, I loathed the way that girls my age were talking about them. 'Oh, I'm in love with Robbie, he's such a bad boy!' or 'Nick's floppy hair, oh my God!' or 'I'm going to marry Justin!' or 'I want to pour Ronan's voice all over my body' (okay, maybe not this last one).

Love me for a reason, let the reason be...
my immensely good looks and stylish clothes

And then we would take a look at our woeful teenage selves - the scrawny average Malaysian male student with the

acne-ravaged face from too much spicy food and too little facial wash

centre-parting hair

wearing the short-sleeved used-to-be-white school shirt and

the baggy olive green pants that looked like we had been prancing around in mud

waving our stick thin muscle-less arms used only for computer gaming and shoving food into our mouths

singing with our puberty-afflicted voices which always broke, making us sound like donkeys in heat

splurging the daily RM 1.50 we got for our allowance, which just got us above the poverty line.

Oh hai baybeh. 

We weren't anyone's fire, or the one desire, if you know what I'm saying. It ain't no lie, the girls our age were looking at us and going Bye, Bye, Bye. (Hands up, 80s kids!)

We were more Friendzone than Boyzone.

Weren't they supposed to be singing songs that made us fall in love with each other instead of in love with them? Damn it! How were we ever supposed to live up to that kind of perfection? Talk about girls being pressured to look a certain way, it's not like we boys had it easy either!

So here you go, new generation, here's a new batch of pretty boys for you to idolise and scream your lungs out to, and to throw your undergarments at - and leave you shaking your head at the substandard quality of men around you.

Don't bother going out with that boy who's got his eye on you all of last year - he's no Zayn Malik! And why date that dorky loser who sits next to you in class when you could be saving yourself for Liam, Harry, Niall or Louis?

But seriously, enjoy it while you can - every generation is entitled to their version of The Beatles (go ask your grandparents who they are) and one day, you will fall madly in love with that boy who waited patiently in the corner for you to sit out your imaginary crushes, and he will be far from perfect, but then again neither are you (and that's okay).

And if you're really lucky, you will be perfect for each other. Pock marks and braces and all. (...and that's what makes you beautiful, oh oh oh).

I am sure the Backstreet Boys would have wanted it that way.

Here's one for all the screaming fangirls who 
were in their teenage years in the 90s.

Between Stinginess and Sacrifice

A friend used to love telling this story of his schoolmate, who was the ultimate Scrooge - this particular friend was from a rich family, and yet lived like a pauper. He would go out to the movies with you and ask if you could pay for his ticket first, showing you his empty wallet (See? I never bluff you!) as proof, although you could be sure you would never see your money again.

My favourite story of his stinginess was the time when the both of them went out for lunch at a local kopitiam.

My friend had ordered his favourite chicken rice and taken a seat at the table when he saw his Scrooge friend (let's call him KS for now) arguing with the chicken rice stall owner. The owner was shaking his head and throwing his hands up in disbelief, and KS walked to join my friend at the round plastic table.

"Eh, why the uncle angry at you lah?" asked my curious friend.

"I don't want to tell you, afterwards you call me stingy," said KS defensively.

"Eh, no lah," he coaxed. "Tell me lah, I won't call you stingy. I promise."

After much reluctance and gentle insistence KS finally relented and said "I asked the uncle if I have the parts of the chicken that nobody wants - the neck ah, the butt ah - to go with my rice, can cheaper ah?!"

To which my friend burst out laughing and exclaimed, "Wah, KS, stingy lah you!"

"Oi, you promised!"

************************************************

Hands up if the above picture is familiar to your household.  I know some family who have arguments over this. They feel it is wasteful if you squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle - one should always start from the bottom, and milk whatever is in the bottom to the top, folding the bottom upwards once all possible available toothpaste has been massaged out from that section. Otherwise, you're being irresponsible, both financially, and towards the Earth.

It makes sense, I guess. Now if only you wouldn't be so smug and self-righteous about it, Captain Planet.

My new favourite trick is the one that Karen learnt from her Mum. All the ladies (and some well-groomed men *erhem* Not me. *cough* Really. *awkward whistle*) know how expensive facial cleansing products can be. But did you know that once you have squeezed the tube to within an inch of its life (you know, when it gives out the last blob of facial cleansing goodness and then lets out a dying gasp, deflating the tube?), and you thought that it had been a good and faithful servant and had nothing left to give?

Well, apparently, you can flog a dead horse.

If you cut that tube in half, you will find at least another week's worth of product within the tube which you can scoop out with your fingers, and then feel the double thrill of not only having a clean refreshed face but also the satisfaction of having gotten your money's worth out of this overpriced tube. Take that, beauty product company!

***************************************************

There is a fine line between stinginess and sensibility.

Growing up, I know that my world view with regards to money was one modeled after my parents - be stingy with yourself, and be generous to others (in this case, us children).

Mum and Dad would hardly see the value in buying new clothes for themselves, that new car would have to wait, they'd never been on a holiday in years.

Having come from fairly humble beginnings, they brought into their new middle-class existence what I will call the 'scarcity mentality', not so much with negative connotations, but with survivalist instincts.

We were never spoiled as children, but we were never wanting. Two things were valuable and you could throw money at - food (I was the poster boy for childhood obesity) and education (school and books, some of which I ate).

Everything else - clothes, accessories, new furniture, toys, movies, fast food restaurant trips - were rare luxuries.

Our parents always had one eye on our future.

All three of us have reaped the benefits of their foresight and future planning. I would like to believe that we would do the same for our own children one day as well.

Here's the question though - at what point are we being sensible, or just being miserly?'

I mean, I carry the traits of my upbringing with me - money splashed on food would be done without raising an eyebrow, and yet, before I met Karen, I was driving a beat-up but serviceable 15 year old Honda Civic, wearing my shoes until they literally fell apart, and my work shirts were so old a friend at work had to tell me to go buy a new one.

Everyone and their grandmother had smartphones while I was still tinkering with my monochromatic Nokia 8510. Somehow I tended to wear this self-sacrifice as a badge of honour, often unnecessarily, and I see it in some of my friends too.

You could have all the money in the world, and still live like a pauper, if you know what I mean.

Karen has shown me that we could live well - within our means, of course - and I think my life has been richer because of that. We have strived to make our home a welcome refuge for friends and family, we have taken mind-broadening vacations together, we invest in things that enrich our lives and fill us.

I think my new paradigm is this - 'Love your neighbour as you love yourself'. I believe that this commandment is two-fold - Love your neighbours - be kind to them, be generous, offer forgiveness and love - as you love yourself - be kind to yourself, forgive yourself and be generous to yourself too.

I believe that we only give cheerfully out of fullness. It doesn't necessarily mean that we have to be rich, but it does mean that we give out of a place of happiness and contentment. No one should have to give out of a place of emptiness and reluctance, of obligation.  That really has to start by us being generous with ourselves.

So, taking my own advice, we are now living in a mansion with attached helipad, bathe in champagne-filled bathtubs, and have two yachts to ship friends to our private island.

Hahaha, just kidding! Only one of the yachts is functioning, the other one is in the dockyard having repairs at the moment.

No, the flipside of being too generous to yourself is of course, selfishness and extravagance. Being self-centered without the capacity for consideration for people around you just makes you an asshole. Vulgar, but accurate.

I think Ashton Kutcher said it best in his recent Teen Choice Award's acceptance speech - "The sexiest thing in the entire world is being really smart, and being thoughtful and being generous. Everything else is crap, I promise you."

So yeah, be smart, be thoughtful, and be generous - both to yourself and others - and give from a healthy place.

So, How Many Kids Do You Want?

Oh, the interrogation never ends!

First, when you're single, it's - 'Eh, when you gonna get a girlfriend lah?'

And then when you're finally with someone - 'Eh, so when you going to get married lah?' (aka 'When your turn ah?' at all the weddings you've ever attended)

And then when you're married, it's - 'Eh, so when are you going to have children lah? First one coming yet or not?'

And then when the first one arrives - 'Eh, when the second one coming lah? The first one needs someone to play with, you know!'

And then when you've had your seventh one - 'Eh, horny bugger, you need a vasectomy is it? I know someone!'

Aarrrgh!

*******************************

One of the wonderful conversations you get embroiled in as a couple is the question 'So, how many kids do you want?'

Even as primary schoolchildren, there was this meme spreading around school which made complete sense to our seven-year-old minds - if you clenched both your fists, and counted the bits of flesh sticking out of the side of your palm, the ones on your right hand would represent the number of sons you'd have while the ones on your left hand would represent the number of daughters.

In my case, a girl, and one and a half boys

It is as if you could control that aspect of things - as if, if you'd only wish hard enough and put a number down, that's exactly what you're going to get.

The reality is so much more different than that - falling pregnant in this day and age isn't as easy as the movies portray it to be (ie. first sexual encounter = pregnant), and we all know what happens on the other side of the spectrum (ie. he was our happy unexpected little 'accident').

People want a certain number of kids for a variety of reasons - some want two or three because they were the only child in their family, and always thought how nice it would be to have a brother or a sister.

Some people want only one or two for practical financial reasons - kids cost money. Some want three, because that will fit into the back seat of a sedan nicely. Other couples want, and I quote - 'as many as she can produce' - *cue look of horror on poor wifey's face* because they came from large loving families themselves and wanted the same experience for their yet-to-be-born children.

I had a good think today about this question today, and my view is this - the number of children I have will be a reflection of my faith in humanity, my faith in the future of this world and my faith that we are leaving them a worthwhile inheritance and not a mess to clean up.

Currently, that number stands at twelve. *cue look of horror on Karen's face* .
                                                 let's get a pet goldfish instead.
                                                 two.

A Decade Without My Dad

Yesterday marked the ten year anniversary when we said goodbye to my Pa.

We laid him to rest a decade to the day yesterday, and my biggest fear is that I will forget. A fear that I will forget what growing up with him being in a wheelchair for 15 years meant to us, a fear that I will forget how much he loved us, a fear that I will even forget what he looked like.

That is why I write. I write to remember, to allow my words to bring forwards the outlines of his face again, to remember what it meant to be raised by this remarkable man, in his fullness and frailty, remembering him both with fondness, and with tears. These are some notes I wrote a few years ago, and I share them with you today.

'Oh Dear.'

The brain is an amazing organ. It controls our emotions, thoughts, sensations and actions. It reminds us of things, helps us learn, smile, laugh and cry. Strangely enough, the brain has no pain receptors, which means that you could actually stick pins and needles into the brain itself and you will not perceive pain. This is how open brain surgery can be performed while the patient is still alert and awake on the table.

It is, however, sitting in a very confined space - it floats in cerebrospinal fluid and the skull enveloping it is rigid, which makes it a great protector, but unrelenting in its permission of space.

The skull, being obdurate, will cause whatever build-up of fluid to be transmitted to the brain, and it has very little choice but to be squashed, and to be pushed out through the only exit there is - the little hole at the bottom of the skull where the spinal cord exits.

My Dad's brain must have been herniating through that single orifice that August evening when he was in bed doing his routine push-up exercises when he collapsed onto the bed and into a coma.

My brother, who was watching TV in the adjoining living room at the time had rushed to his side, hearing Pa crash into the bed. According to him, the last two words that Pa said before collapsing into the coma from which he would never wake was -

'Oh dear.'

I wonder if Pa's life flashed before him in those last moments. All his childhood memories, his ambitions, dreams, hopes and fears coursing through his minds in those last few seconds before oblivion. His triumphs, his tragedies, his laughter, his tears, all of life's experiences encapsulated into two words - the two words that describes the deer-in-headlights feeling of how life throws you a curveball just when you think that you've got it all figured out.

'Oh, dear.'

**************************************

I See You

The double doors of the ICU opened before us, and the hum and beeps of machines working to salvage the dying greeted us. We turned left, and seeing my Dad for the first time since the collapse took me aback, and I had to choke back my tears.

It is a surreal experience seeing your loved ones with multiple tubes and wires sticking out of them, immobilised to the hospital bed. There are machines that help with the breathing, others that monitor the heart rate and blood pressure and oxygen saturations. The intravenous lines hydrate them and give them life-saving medications while other tubes drain their bladders.

All things seek to reassure you that the patient - be it your father, your mother, your brother, your wife, your friend, your son, your daughter - is still alive. All the mystery of life reduced to the mathematics of numbers.

We stood silently by his side.

The first thing that I noticed were the headphones attached to his ears. There was nothing in my medical training which identified the headphones to fit in with the rest of the picture, so my eyes traced them all the way to an MP3 player.

"We're playing some of his favourite songs," my brother read my mind. "They say that it could be helpful as they can sometimes still hear things when they are comatose." I afforded a weak smile, and prayed that he was right.

The next thing I noticed was Pa's half shaven head, where the neurosurgeon had to drill a hole in his head for the emergency decompression. The scars were still fresh, and the hair on the other side of his head was unkempt, giving Pa a semi-Frankensteinian appearance.

We stayed with him that night, and read to him from Psalms 23 while we held his unresponsive hands and prayed.

That was when his eyelids started to flicker.

At first we thought we were imagining things, but they were definitely flickering. Mum's face lit up with excitement as she called for the nurses to come and take a look at this. They walked up to Pa absently and then ambled away dismissively.

We were filled with joy, on the other hand, and began excitedly to talk to Pa again. His eyelids seemed to flicker appropriately in response, and I know that he heard us when we told him how much we loved him and thanked him for the love that he had shown to us throughout the years.

I told him about how I was getting on in medical school in Australia, and we talked about many different things that night, although Pa could only engage in the conversation through the voice of his eyelids.

Before we left that night, I had a moment alone with Pa. I leaned over to kiss him, and thanked him again for his love and sacrifice for us throughout the years. It was then when my common sense kicked in, and I knew that even if Pa did recover from this massive cerebral incident,  he would probably be in a vegetative state all his life.

So I leaned forward and whispered into his ear that he was free to leave us as he had fully accomplished his role as our father and Mum's husband. I said goodbye to my father then, and invited him to the light, promising that we would meet him there again someday.

******************************************

My Father's Chair

It was soon time to leave, and I was packing to go back to Melbourne. We were all spent physically and emotionally, and there was no room to enjoy Malaysia like I normally would.

I stood with my suitcase in the living room and started tossing my clothes into the vacuous Hush Puppies luggage. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the curtain that separated the little enclave where Pa had slept every night.

The purple plastic rack that held all his clothes was still brimming with shirts my father wore not three weeks ago. Work pants that were several sizes too big and hung loosely around his ample belly sat quietly on the top shelf of the makeshift rack. Next to them were the large woolly socks that used to keep his lifeless feet warm at night, which upon reflection, he must have put on out of habit more than necessity. I'm sure that his feet would have rejoiced at the touch of cold, if only to remember what cold felt like.

Through an opening sat the now empty wheelchair, motionless; the wheeled prison now without its captive, who had finally broken free. The wheelchair was symbolic of Pa, our very reminder that he was there with us.

No longer.

I walked up to the wheelchair, and gently lowered myself into it. I felt the armrests that had been duct-taped countless times, tracing the spokes of the wheels and the cold steel rims, and feeling the rubber wheel on my hands as I pushed it forwards. The wheelchair squeaked against the marble floor with purpose, and my heart broke at the familiar sound.

I did a single lap of honour around the living room in memory of Pa, and finally closed my eyes and rested in the spirit of my father one last time.

*************************************

If I could tell Pa one thing today, is that we are all doing okay. Our worlds have been very different without him in it - we still miss his humour, his wisdom and his quiet strength.

I hope he can still look upon us today - his sons still feeling their way through this world and trying their hardest to be good honest men; his daughter, the apple of his eye, standing bravely up to whatever the world throws at her; his wife, my Mum, showing immense strength and grace as she continues to valiantly live a life without him - and be proud.

May you rest in peace, Pa, knowing that your time on earth was a meaningful one. We live on as your legacy, and carry with us the understanding of what it really means to live life to the full no matter what it may bring. 

Exas-parent-ion.

Picture from brandoneu.blogspot.com

I remember sitting down to dinner one night in Malaysia next to this Chinese family. There were two kids there - a self-assured fifteen-year-old boy, his nine-or-ten-year-old sister, their parents and their Auntie.

I was trying to mind my own business and focus on my kangkung belacan but I couldn't help overhearing the feisty conversation going on at the next table.

"Eh, got any girl you like in class ah?" the (I'm certain she's unmarried) Auntie probed.

"No lah, I'm still fifteen only, Auntie. No girl yet," proclaimed the boy.

"What about this girl V-?" asked the Auntie.

"Aiyah, I don't like her. She's not my type - stuck up."

"Her family very rich one, you know," the Auntie started, after a considered silence. "Her father, ah -"

This seemed to incense the boy.

"I don't care if she's rich or not. If I don't like her, I don't like her lah."

"No, listen, you have to think about these things early," she persisted. "Her father's got a good business, big house, nice car - you should give her a chance. Go after her."

"I'm too young to be thinking about these things," his voice started to raise. "And anyway, if I chase a girl, it should be because I love her, not because she is rich."

"Aiyah, young man, what do you know? What is love - love won't put food on the table one, you know?" she sneers in disgust. "Love, hmph."

 "You want so much, you go and marry her lah!" he says in exasperation, shocking her into a sullen silence.

At this point, I wanted to stand up and give this fifteen year old a standing ovation, pat him on his back and high-five him in front of his Auntie's face.

********************************

Let's face it - your parents will always be your parents. The road of parenting is strewn with good, and sometimes, mistaken intentions. In their eyes, you will always be their child, and they will always know, and want, what's best for their children.

One extreme of this is arranged marriages - in Sri Lanka, a friend tells me that 30% of marriages are still arranged marriages - people are matched according to careers, highest education qualifications, caste, family background with looks and interests coming a paltry second place.

He barely met his wife before the dowry was paid (a higher one because he was a doctor) and before he knew it, he was married to this almost complete stranger. Two people who have never met before, now needed to chart out a new road ahead together based on what the parents thought was best for them.

The first year of marriage was spent just finding out about his wife - understanding and accommodating her quirks and habits, her likes and dislikes, what she values. He has found it a little bemusing (in his traditional mindset) to discover that this modern, independent girl was not going to be told by her husband what to do, and he has had to do a lot of the compromising.  

Don't get me wrong, a lot of these marriages seem to work out, or at least they are still together after many years. Obligation, perhaps, or maybe there was some wisdom in the parent's choices, after all who knows us better than they do?

*********************************

What Do You Want From Me?!

When we were fourteen or fifteen and foraying into this new hormone-hazed area of relationships - suddenly we find ourselves attracted to guys or girls, spending numerous hours sprawled out over phone conversations, believing in every love song we've ever sung, conjuring up our Prince Charmings and Princess Jasmines. (I blame Walt Disney solely for my delusions of perfect romantic relationships).

We try and tell our parents excitedly about this new guy or girl we have a crush on, and expect a similar excitement from them - to share in this newfound secret joy in our lives, our new reasons to be living. Instead, we are greeted with dead-eyed "Fat haw ah? Took shi!" (What's all this love nonsense? Go back to your books!)

And so we deaden our hearts, study hard and make it to university - and then suddenly our parents do a 180 degree turn and ask "Eh, why you so long still got no girlfriend yet?" which, with year after year of persistent singleness, leads to the inevitable worried question - "Eh, you gay is it?"

No, Mum and Dad, I have been scarred by your pragmatic suggestions that I should not entertain any romantic notions in my head growing up, and now, finally, I am rewarded by you questioning my sexuality.

What do you want from me?!!!

*********************************

In all fairness, we were dependent on our parents for a lot of our choices growing up - we had no say of which milk formula we drank, what brand of diapers we wore, which kindergarten and school we went to, which tuition classes and extracurricular activity we were signed up for - all these things were decided in our best interests.

It is during our formative years, however - our teenage and young adult years - when we come to develop and test opinions of our own, that we take exception to them trying to interfere in a very personal part of our lives - our love lives. Often it is a clash of their mature pragmatism and our youthful romanticism that grates us the most.

They have seen that love is not enough reason to be married, that financial stresses can sometimes overwhelm even the most dewy-eyed romantics, that family background shapes a person, and a university education means a certain level of discipline, diligence and intelligence.

We see it, on the other hand that a person should not be judged by any other measure than who they are, what their hearts are like and whether or not we like them. We know that money can buy a sense of entitlement and arrogance in some people, and that a university qualification alone does not make you wise or interesting.

Take an even deeper issue, like age, race, religion and sexuality and throw it into the mix, and add even more to the confusion. These are often very emotional subjects, with threats of being disowned by our parents if we ever dared to bring home a so-and-so or a such-and such.

And so we get confused by the messages:-

Marry a white guy. Your kids will come out looking so cute, you know!

Don't you dare bring home anyone other than a Chinese guy.

Don't marry a Hakka girl. They are very loud and will hen-peck you.

Don't be unequally yoked. 

I can't date an older guy. I can't stand the thought that he might die before me. 

Younger men are so terribly immature.

If you marry a Muslim guy, I will lose you forever. I won't be able to eat pork, and I love it too much.

I'm okay with people being in same-sex relationships. Except for my own children. There are no gays, and there will never be gays, in our family. 

Like it or not, we do seek our family's approval when it comes to choosing a partner, and we often carry these messages around with us, either consciously or subconsciously.

Fortunately, at the end of the day, when we finally make our decisions about our life partners (after some disastrous early relationships, which are normal), we will find that there are the things that really matter, and things that don't, to us.

Do we feel cared for, respected, loved, protected, understood? Do we share the same values and beliefs, or if we don't, are our lives enriched by the differences? Are they someone we can talk to, share our problems and multiply our joy with? Can we put up with their habits and weaknesses? Do we believe and love the person enough to have the grace and strength to give and take?

And then the other things - the opinions of people, including our well-meaning parents, will start to quieten into the background as we gain more and more clarity about who we love, and what we want from our partners.

Farewell, Po Po.

I managed to catch Departures - this wonderful 2008 Japanese film that I can safely say probably deserved the Academy Award win for the Best Foreign Language Film of that year.

The movie follows Daigo Kobayashi, a professional cellist in Tokyo, who loses his job when his orchestra disbands, and is forced to return to his hometown where, out of desperation, he takes up the job of being a mortician.

The movie offers a poignant look at how we handle the dead among us, and is told with a lot of tenderness and good humour - a beautifully human story.

It reminded me a lot about the recent trip back to Malaysia to visit my grandmother for the last time.

*******************************************

'It's sad that it takes an occasion like this to reunite the family members, you know,' says my yi cheong (Mum's brother-in-law), as he lists out my cousins and uncles and aunties travelling from all around the region to pay their last respects to my grandmother.

My grandmother had lived to the grand old age of 91, her last years marked by her deteriorating mental state and her weakening control over all her bodily functions.

"It's curious you know, we all come full circle," said my yi cheong philosophically - "We start off as babies, wetting and soiling ourselves, needing someone to look after us, we grow up, and then towards the end of our lives, we end up like babies again."

There was not much time to rest, my brother and I landed in Kuala Lumpur on a Friday morning and took the two and a half hour drive up to Ipoh that evening with my sister to meet my Mum who was already up there.

It was three days of mourning - we had already missed Thursday night's set of rituals, and arrived in time to freshen up and don the mourning clothes for tonight's set of rituals - just a simple pure white T-shirt and a dark pair of jeans, with a thin strip of white and red crepe paper wrapped around our waist to bring us luck and ward away the evil spirits.

We made it to our kow foo's (Mum's brother) house where grandma's casket was kept, and we walked over to the head of the casket, which was opened for the viewing. Po po looked peacefully asleep, her wrinkled features attired in what looked like a princesses' headgear, all dressed for the afterlife. We whispered our thank yous and good-byes and joined our relatives for the ceremonies that night.

********************************************

The funeral was a Taoist one, I believe, and it was the first of its kind I have ever attended. The other funerals I have been to, including my father's one a decade ago now, have been Christian affairs -
the wake, the eulogies, the hymn singing, the burial.

Where the Christian funerals were a remembrance of the person's life and the anticipation of seeing the person in the life-after-death, the Taoist one was a fascinating ritual performed to ensure a smooth transition of the deceased person's soul from this earthly realm to the nether realms.

The whole ceremony is led by a couple of monks, dressed to the nines in their yellow robes and black headgear. They are the leaders of the ceremony, and indeed, the old guards of the tradition, who led us every step of the way during the funeral proceedings.

The street was blocked off with a fluorescent-lit canopy the span of two houses, which covered tables and chairs that had distant relatives sitting around watching the ceremony. Only the immediate family members, the direct descendants of po po's line were involved in the proceedings.

As always, there is eating at every Chinese event - be it a birthday, a wedding, or a funeral, and the noisy chatter of the distant relatives talking over food was in stark contrast to the mournful library silence observed by all of us in the white shirts.

Living in multicultural Malaysia meant that the neighbours had to be understanding through the three days of noisy ceremonies. The immediate neighbours had strips of red cloth tied to their gates to ward off the bad luck and spirits associated with the dead.

To Joss Or Not To Joss?

One of the very real issues we had to deal with as Chinese Christians is this - do we hold the joss sticks or not? Here we were caught between our culture and our religious beliefs - the joss sticks are sweet-smelling incense sticks lit during these religious ceremonies to pay homage to the ancestors or idols. We have always been taught in our traditional Christian circles that holding the joss stick was not acceptable, perhaps because it equated to worshipping our ancestors, and only God was to be worshipped.

I had my own opinion about it already, and I am glad that my brother took the lead and agreed with what I believed - we would all hold the joss sticks.

We had travelled thousands of miles home to pay our last respects to po po, and if holding the joss sticks was a symbolic sign of respect to her, we were going to do it.

One of our great habits as traditional Christians is to label things - this is right, this is wrong. This is clean, this is unclean. We do things or do not do things because we have been told that something is acceptable or unacceptable, and I believe that our actions should only be attributed to the meaning we give to it. That day we held the joss sticks not because we worship our ancestors, but to pay respects to our grandmother. And as for spirits, well, we believe that the One who is in us is greater than the one that is in the world, do we not?

The Rituals

And so we held a lit solitary stick each, as one of the two monks (they would take turns) chanted their way rhythmically through pages and pages of well wishes for po po's soul in her traditional dialect. He would occasionally pause to clang two different sets of hand cymbals or open up a hand fan (strangely enough, it was a green fan and it carried the Carlsberg logo on it) while never breaking his sing-song cadence.

He would lead us in the occasional bows of respect to po po interspersed throughout the forty five minute uninterrupted chanting, and every once in awhile lead the procession around her coffin. We would take a ten to fifteen minute break after each session, and we had to do it four times, well approaching midnight.

In all honesty, I am all for tradition, but nearing midnight, I was starting to get a little tired and impatient. Not only were we physically tired (my brother had sneaked off to sleep in the car after the first two sessions) but not being able to understand the proceedings was what was starting to get to me in the end. It was like watching a five hour long foreign movie without subtitles. For po po's sake, we persevered.

The Fascinating Finish
There was an exciting end to the night, though. There is a great Taoist tradition of making sure that the departed is well provided for in the underworld - they do this by burning yum si zhi (money used as currency in the afterlife) and other things - houses, man and maidservants, cars (almost always a Mercedes Benz) and even modern day things like Plasma TVs, iPhones and Playstations (considering that you do have an eternity's worth of spare time to kill).

There is such an industry surrounding the dead, as much as the living.

And so we brought all these paper effigies to a nearby grassy plot, and proceeded to light them on fire, wishing po po all the comforts in the afterlife. What was symbolic for me was the ashes of the burnt paper money and material goods rising into the pitch black night from the healthy bonfire we had built. There is a finality about that act, as if her soul rose with the ashes to another world.

We ended up going home at a little past midnight, and showered and rested up as we had an early start the next morning.

Burying Po Po

We got up at about 7 a.m. the next morning, bleary-eyed and got into our mourning costumes again. We grabbed some breakfast at a nearby local hawker centre before returning to my kow foo's house for the rest of the proceedings.

The monks were back, and led us in another session of chanting and bowing to pay our respects. Mercifully, we only had to do it once, this time, before another set of events took place. We took turns to pay our ultimate final respects to po po - first her direct descendants (her sons and their families), and then her indirect descendants (her daughters and their families), and then everyone else (her cousins, family friends) took turns to take our last three bows before po po.

Everyone had to turn our backs while the funeral house were loading the hearse. I am not sure about the actual reasoning behind this, but I would like to believe that it is symbolic of our final release of po po, that we left the past in the past, and looked in a different direction.

We then began the funeral march - a slow, mournful ten minute walk behind the hearse, before we got onto a rented bus which would bring us to po po's final resting place - the cemetery where my kung kung (maternal grandfather) was buried.

Come Home To Roost

And so in the serenity of the rolling green hills of Ipoh surrounding us, we laid our po po in the ground. The monks stood over the head of her grave and performed a few more rituals, the most memorable one of which he took a live rooster (bound by its feet), held it over the coffin, and proceeded to chant and pluck a few feathers from its neck and spread it over the coffin. Apparently they used to make a small nick in the neck and drop a few drops of blood of the rooster on the coffin. Thankfully, we have moved away from that tradition.

 

The monk then tossed the bewildered rooster over the distance of the coffin for my kow foo to catch, which he did successfully. I was told later that they used to do it without binding the rooster's feet together, which not only made the catch more complex, but relatives would run around trying to catch the scampering fowl if the catch was unsuccessful.

We all said our goodbyes to po po as the workers begun to toss the soil over her coffin. There was a bucket filled with water and flower petals for us to wash away the bad luck associated with all these proceedings. We were given lucky pink packets to keep in our pockets as well, and food in clear plastic bags to take away.

We then went back to Chemor, the small town in Ipoh where my Mum and her siblings were raised, and had a nice lunch to bring an end to the whole proceedings. It was good to be able to share the meal with the family, and transition from a sombre occasion remembering the departed, to one celebrating her legacy - her children, grandchildren, relatives and friends gathering afresh over a nice meal.

*********************************************

It was a brief trip home, but an important one. Po po was our last remaining grandparent, and she had watched us grow up through the years, and graced my wedding in Malaysia last year. We all carry a bit of po po in all our selves - her quietness, her gentle nature, her love for food, her kindness, her generosity.

We were glad we made the journey home, to be able to spend time with relatives, and thank the our kow foo and his family, and my yi cheong and his family for having looked after grandma all these years, especially affording her dignity in the difficult final few years of her life.

There is so much tradition in honouring the dead, and sometimes it is drawn out over several days for the express purpose of forcing us - the living - to take pause from our constant busyness, to remember those who have gone before us, to take stock of our own lives and to remember that our time here is ultimately finite, and to choose the legacy we want to leave behind.

How To Be A Gentleman.

So, you want to be a gentleman, you say? Well done, old sport! Let's get right down to it, shall we?

For this exercise, you will need:

1. A top hat.

2. A walking stick, preferably black. Not that your legs need it right, old chap. Just a little something to swing as you walk. Lends a bit of class, don't you know.

3. A monocle.

4. A handlebar moustache. Preferably bleached white, if you are not yet of the suitable age.

5. A tuxedo with coat tails.

Put it all together, and if you are doing it right you should look a little something like this:

Yippee! I'm a mother father gentleman!

 or this:

I'm gonna kill him with my
umbrella-ella-ella-ella.

Okay, so that wasn't the point of this post at all, although you could do all of the above if you wanted to (and build some houses on Regent Street and Park Lane, or, try and kill Batman). 

I am glad that we have arrived at a day and age where women have gained more equality and independence in most developing or developed societies. Although there is still much to be done, I'd like to believe we have come a long way in a few short decades, thanks to the advent of feminism, and well, common sense. 

I have seen one case of extreme feminism, however. I had offered to pay for a girl's coffee the first time I met her. She took offense at my buying her a coffee, and asked me aggressively 'Why? You think I can't pay for my own coffee, issit?'

Whoa, slow down there, Destiny's Child. I'm just paying for your coffee. I later found out that she had dated a lot of men, who were, let's just say, scrubs, to use another African-American term. Men who leeched off her, where she was chauffeuring them everywhere and paying for their meals.

In saying that, however, I'd like to believe that there is still a place in society for the gentleman, the man who would still treat ladies with valor and extend some common courtesy to them. So here's a few pointers to how to behave in a gentlemanly fashion:-

1. Open the door for her and let her walk through first. Seriously, it's not that hard. I think walking through doors without being considerate of your lady friend is poor form. Especially if you swing the door close behind you as she is walking through it. The date ends right there.

2. Pull the chair out for her at the restaurant. But not from beneath her as she tries to sit down. (I'm looking at you, Psy).

I personally don't think that this is necessary in our day and age somehow. Like really, awkward even. If I were a girl, and a guy pulled out a chair for me, I would smile to myself and think 'Oh, what a... serial killer.'  

3. Pay for her meal. Okay, I know that a lot of guys (and girls, as shown from the example before) have a lot of different opinions about this. 

Maybe you want to do it because it's the first few dates and you want to impress her. Maybe you want to go Dutch because you think that's fair. Maybe you want her to pay for you because you don't want a second date. Make your own minds up about this one. I just think some girls appreciate the gesture of a guy picking up the tab for the meal. 

4. Drink your tea with your pinky sticking out when you hold your cup. Preferably without a teabag dangling from the finger. 

5. Walk into the path of oncoming traffic for her. I learnt this one from a girl I used to like back in my university days in Malaysia. She said that one of the great examples she has seen of a guy being a gentleman was a boy who would gently hold her by the arm, always standing on the side between her and oncoming vehicles as they crossed the road. It made her feel safe and cared for.

Oh, sure I have been knocked down a few times in the process, but hey, it was worth it.

6. Make sure she gets into her house safely if you are sending her home. This one I learnt from my friend in college. I used to drop my dates back at their houses after a great night out and speed off into the night, without even a backward glance. Not a good look. Wait for her to get into the house first.

Or better still, follow her into her house. 

(Now, now, everyone knows that real gentlemen don't follow ladies into their homes.

They wait for the parents to leave first.)

All right, old chap. You should have everything you need to win her heart, or get off to a stirring start at least.  Good luck now! 

I Don't Give A Fish.

Thirteen years old, and we had just moved up into high school. I was always the good Christian boy, quick to please and eager to make friends. One of the friends I remember from those days was SH.

SH was the kind of guy who always made you laugh - portly, eyes that always spoke of mischief, and a ready motor mouth that elevated him to class clown status quickly.

I remember we wrote a hilarious play of Gulliver's Travels, which we were doing for English Literature that year, and we had the class rolling about in their seats, holding their sides, trying to contain their laughter. Ah, fun times.

We were great friends during those times. Sitting in the canteen one day, I heard him exclaim "Kah-ni-nah! Man, I can't believe that she only gave us two days to finish that homework, man!"

My ears pricked up to the phrase he was using - it was foreign to me, although I had heard him using it a lot recently.

"Eh," I asked him, "What does that phrase mean ah?"

"What phrase?"

"You know, the one that you just said... Kah-ni-what?"

"Oh, Kah-ni-nah. Erm, nothing lah. It's just a, erm, sentence enhancer, you know. It doesn't really mean anything. Just makes things sound nicer. You know, like 'Oh man, today's weather is just like, kah-ni-nah hot man.'"

I took his word for it. I heard him using it a few more times and I thought, hey, sounds good - I'm going to try and incorporate it into my everyday speech. It was a little exciting - sharing that phrase, like we were in a secret society or something.

At first, I had to test the waters - I would use the phrase in front of my friends "Kah-ni-nah! I almost missed the bus today man!" or "Crap! Forgot to bring my textbook again! Kah-ni-nah!" Soon, it was part of my everyday vocabulary, and it was rolling off my tongue like a magician's phrase - Abracadabra! - on the school bus, in front of the teachers, at home...

And so I was sitting on the exercise bike in front of the television at home one evening when I exclaimed, "Oh man, this cycling really hurts my thighs, man! Kah-ni-nah!"

My father, who grew up in the Hokkien-dominant Penang, was within earshot. He had heard me use the phrase a few times at home, and had shown remarkable restraint until this point.

"Eh, stop saying that phrase lah! It means 'Fuck your mother' in Hokkien lah, stupid."

The wave of fear and realisation descended upon my thirteen year old brain like a tsunami, I tell you. You mean, all this while... And, in front of my teachers...

He tricked me!

"Kah-ni-n...." I exclaimed under my breath, almost automatically.

"Oi!" came the reprimand from my already displeased father.

"Erm, I mean, oh dear!"

SH was going to have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow! He was going to get a quick kick up his sentence-enhancing butt!

******************************

Those very close to me will know that one of the only vices that I have is that I swear sometimes. (Although, I do indulge in... okay, maybe make that two vices. Ah, and then there's also the... and the... oh dear.)

Oh, I have friends who could curse to make a sailor blush. I had a friend who use to classify himself in secretarial terms - he proudly boasted that he spoke at a rate of 15 'bwps' or 15 bad words per sentence.

I know of another friend who cusses like a fishmonger, and it is so ingrained into his everyday speak yet he does it so amicably that you never take offence at him if you knew him well. This friend is ironically, a vegetarian. Go figure. No amount of not eating meat is going to save your soul, my friend.

Of course, we were taught at home and at school and at Sunday School that swearing was a bad thing. Your friends would out you with glee - "Cikgu, dia mencarut!" or "Teacher, he said bad words!" This would result in you getting a tongue lashing or a good ol'-fashioned beating or demerit points.

Bleeding little snitches.

In Sunday School you weren't allowed to use God's name in vain, so "Oh my God!" became "Oh my gosh!" or "Oh my goodness!" Even then, a teacher once pointed out - You're not even allowed to say "Oh my goodness!" because there is no goodness in you. Only God is good. (Here you go, kids! Enjoy your guilt-ridden childhood!)

I just think sometimes that swearing is a natural reaction, an exclamation at a situation or an exasperation that cannot be encapsulated in any other way save for that one economical word or phrase that expresses it all.

There's all this fear of judgement and being outed by our friends, however, and till this day, we try to suppress it as much as we can, as is evident in our kid-friendly variation of our swear words, such as:

Shit - Sheesh, Shoot, Shucks, Crap, Crud, Poop

What the hell! - What the heck!, What the heaven!, What on earth!

Fuck - Fudge, Fish, Eff, Fer*toot!*, Freak/Frig, Four-letter word (Although it was a little cumbersome, like "Go four-letter word yourself lah, idiot!)

Bastard - Basket (pronounced "Baaaassket!")

Bloody - Blooming, Bleeding

Damn - Dang, Darn

Ass - Donkey, Butt, Bum

Son of a bitch! - Son of a gun!, Sun on the beach!

The intentions were always the same, but somehow softened by these euphemisms, ie. "Sheesh! He is so dang annoying! I just wish I could throw a bleeding shoe through that fishing wall at that baaaassket!" sounds a lot friendlier than its actual counterpart.

So yeah, I have it from good sources that my father used to employ sentence enhancers quite liberally in his younger days. That was until us kids came along. Then the swearing got even worse!

Hahaha! No, he decided to cut it out completely, although it would escape once in a while when he wasn't careful.

Until that wonderful fateful day when I have to finally put on the mantle of a responsible father, please don't be surprised if you hear me using the occasional choice sentence enhancer (ie. swearing my fishing head off like a foul-mouthed sun on the beach), okay?

It just means I've grown really comfortable with you.