*-[Heritage]`+
I'm so glad I'm Chinese. No, not Asian, just Chinese. Being Asian in Perth is just accepting what people think of me- a stereotype. A homogeneous blending of yellow people, one no different from the other, uncouth and uncivilised. On the contrary, being Chinese is part of what God made me and I like the heritage. It's difficult to remember how it is like to be Chinese in a western culture- I'm being pushed and pulled to change in so many ways. I've forgotten what it's like to walk in the streets of old, and my heart breaks to think of the places that have taught me childhood and youth. I remeber the strict dictators of my primary school, the polka dotted skirt I endured, the bus rides in the school bus each morning, with the childish water bottles that came in 3 different colors hung around me unashamedly. Eventually that morphed into the normal plastic bottles we see everyday and it was only when I came to perth (and even then only thanks to Norris) that I have the honor of placing a silver XYQ bottle on my desk every morning. (It keeps me awake during lectures.)
I remember my old house so well again- it's as if something inside of me has suddenly woken up to my past, that rare glimpse of how things used to be, and I want to keep this moment forever. The smell of the primary school canteen- how I cringe at that ugly word. I hated the word 'tuckshop' as well.. even as a child I groped for something better to say, and when I came to Australia, found that the overrated 'cafeteria' and industrial sounding 'refectory' were only too polished and smooth to express my culture (not to mention my idea of food). I admit that in some ways we are people who tend to do things that we cringe at. Such as spitting in lifts, bargaining in a loud very uncouth voice and picking noses in the hawker centre with one leg on the chair. Not being guilty of any of these (and as most of my readers are also angels) I've often tried to hide, either in my own mind, or to other's impressions, the thought that my culture is one that engages in... such novel activity. Perhaps that explains why I was told along with Rachel in Singapore that I was 'Ang Moh girl' (another cringable word), and perhaps that is why I snubbed the poor man who poked a steak in my face and asked me "What done you want?" (I'm sure most of you know this story by now) Nevertheless I've found that what I was trying to hide has a sense of nostalgic beauty in it. The chestnut seller on the street. The trishaw man. The Sri Nada (Liren! Liren!) barber. The prawn mee hawker in a white translucent singlet and pot belly. Kopitiam boy (ZX). The auntie in the clothes shop that sold brands from the Qin Dynasty. The Butcher in the wet markets. The florist in the next stall who turned up her nose at him. All of this has turned sepia in my mind. I no longer remember in its entirety the true experience of being 8 in a tyrant of a school, nor do I remember clearly the hated trips to the wet markets. Oh what I would give to remember... I really want to go back to the time when I was 8...
I remember the bookshop in my primary school. I know the 'lao ban' was Mr. Lim, and that he never did quite charge us what was due. I remember the badly written primary school essays. I remember Mrs. Jane Tann in Pri. 4 who related the joys of pressing pimples to us. I remember most of all Mrs Stella Lee and Yang lao shi... Scatterbrained Mrs Lee, who used to pray for each one of us as we ran past her thinking her a tyrant during PE. Yang Lao Shi, whom the boys made cry... Even stationery comes to mind. The pencil cases. The brands. The erasers. The notepaper. Me and Samsam (okae, Samantha Lee to the AHS pple) used to split everything we bought 50/50. She was the only person I knew the chinese name of. Xin Lin. And I still remember how to write it. The promotion to the use of pen in primary 4. And all the cringable, unthinkable things come back to me now and I love them. I love my childhood (or, with the school system, one would say lack thereof). I would, if I could, watch the children come running out of school to their parent's cars. First question needs no guess: What's for dinner?? And later at home all the ku zhong of a young heart would pour out. An innocent heart knows no shame in tears. Homework piling, teachers scowling, petty arguments with friends... But when I think about it sitting outside a primary school remniscing is a bad thing... Things have changed, I've grown up... All that I want to make sure I remember is Ying Shui Si Yuan. Forget not from whence you came.
There were times in that same place I cannot forget. Across the road I played badminton. The manga buying sprees with Rach and Lyd.(Yes, it was star bookshop. I got Ranma there!) Rach, do you remember the day you stopped (near the time I left) and bought a type of chinese candy, pink and white and soft? I'll never forget that day. Perhaps because the time drew nearer for me to leave, but also because there were 3 of us together doing what we loved. Even after a year my heart is still mulling over these things, the loss of my life there still grieving. I wonder why.
I'll be missing you still, I'll be missing what was before, but I need to remind myself that life must move forward. Nevertheless I can't help but take the time to remember, because if I don't, I forget from whence I came. And that place is beautiful.
[Memories]
I'm so glad I'm Chinese. No, not Asian, just Chinese. Being Asian in Perth is just accepting what people think of me- a stereotype. A homogeneous blending of yellow people, one no different from the other, uncouth and uncivilised. On the contrary, being Chinese is part of what God made me and I like the heritage. It's difficult to remember how it is like to be Chinese in a western culture- I'm being pushed and pulled to change in so many ways. I've forgotten what it's like to walk in the streets of old, and my heart breaks to think of the places that have taught me childhood and youth. I remeber the strict dictators of my primary school, the polka dotted skirt I endured, the bus rides in the school bus each morning, with the childish water bottles that came in 3 different colors hung around me unashamedly. Eventually that morphed into the normal plastic bottles we see everyday and it was only when I came to perth (and even then only thanks to Norris) that I have the honor of placing a silver XYQ bottle on my desk every morning. (It keeps me awake during lectures.)
I remember my old house so well again- it's as if something inside of me has suddenly woken up to my past, that rare glimpse of how things used to be, and I want to keep this moment forever. The smell of the primary school canteen- how I cringe at that ugly word. I hated the word 'tuckshop' as well.. even as a child I groped for something better to say, and when I came to Australia, found that the overrated 'cafeteria' and industrial sounding 'refectory' were only too polished and smooth to express my culture (not to mention my idea of food). I admit that in some ways we are people who tend to do things that we cringe at. Such as spitting in lifts, bargaining in a loud very uncouth voice and picking noses in the hawker centre with one leg on the chair. Not being guilty of any of these (and as most of my readers are also angels) I've often tried to hide, either in my own mind, or to other's impressions, the thought that my culture is one that engages in... such novel activity. Perhaps that explains why I was told along with Rachel in Singapore that I was 'Ang Moh girl' (another cringable word), and perhaps that is why I snubbed the poor man who poked a steak in my face and asked me "What done you want?" (I'm sure most of you know this story by now) Nevertheless I've found that what I was trying to hide has a sense of nostalgic beauty in it. The chestnut seller on the street. The trishaw man. The Sri Nada (Liren! Liren!) barber. The prawn mee hawker in a white translucent singlet and pot belly. Kopitiam boy (ZX). The auntie in the clothes shop that sold brands from the Qin Dynasty. The Butcher in the wet markets. The florist in the next stall who turned up her nose at him. All of this has turned sepia in my mind. I no longer remember in its entirety the true experience of being 8 in a tyrant of a school, nor do I remember clearly the hated trips to the wet markets. Oh what I would give to remember... I really want to go back to the time when I was 8...
I remember the bookshop in my primary school. I know the 'lao ban' was Mr. Lim, and that he never did quite charge us what was due. I remember the badly written primary school essays. I remember Mrs. Jane Tann in Pri. 4 who related the joys of pressing pimples to us. I remember most of all Mrs Stella Lee and Yang lao shi... Scatterbrained Mrs Lee, who used to pray for each one of us as we ran past her thinking her a tyrant during PE. Yang Lao Shi, whom the boys made cry... Even stationery comes to mind. The pencil cases. The brands. The erasers. The notepaper. Me and Samsam (okae, Samantha Lee to the AHS pple) used to split everything we bought 50/50. She was the only person I knew the chinese name of. Xin Lin. And I still remember how to write it. The promotion to the use of pen in primary 4. And all the cringable, unthinkable things come back to me now and I love them. I love my childhood (or, with the school system, one would say lack thereof). I would, if I could, watch the children come running out of school to their parent's cars. First question needs no guess: What's for dinner?? And later at home all the ku zhong of a young heart would pour out. An innocent heart knows no shame in tears. Homework piling, teachers scowling, petty arguments with friends... But when I think about it sitting outside a primary school remniscing is a bad thing... Things have changed, I've grown up... All that I want to make sure I remember is Ying Shui Si Yuan. Forget not from whence you came.
There were times in that same place I cannot forget. Across the road I played badminton. The manga buying sprees with Rach and Lyd.(Yes, it was star bookshop. I got Ranma there!) Rach, do you remember the day you stopped (near the time I left) and bought a type of chinese candy, pink and white and soft? I'll never forget that day. Perhaps because the time drew nearer for me to leave, but also because there were 3 of us together doing what we loved. Even after a year my heart is still mulling over these things, the loss of my life there still grieving. I wonder why.
I'll be missing you still, I'll be missing what was before, but I need to remind myself that life must move forward. Nevertheless I can't help but take the time to remember, because if I don't, I forget from whence I came. And that place is beautiful.
[Memories]
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