I loaded my MP3 player with my favorite songs before I left for Singapore. I thought I'd be homesick for Chicago in my time away and music would be a comfort.
The MP3 player has Chris Isaak (of course), Bare Naked Ladies, John Mayer, Howie Day, Harry Connick Jr., an assortment of Christmas carols, and, I'm ashamed to admit, country music.
But, plugged into my MP3 player, wandering the streets of Singapore, the songs sound somehow wrong. The music doesn't match the images I see. This I believe is called, in musical terms, "dissonance."
For example, it seems highly uncomfortable to think of chestnuts roasting by an open fire when it's ninety-degrees outside, humid, and I'm sweating this morning's coffee.
Chris Isaak's haunting tones about love-lost seem trivial against that lines on the face of an elderly woman as she sits by the elevator, her mind filled with memories and regrets only she knows.
The wordplay of Bare Naked Ladies is lost in the sea of Singlish, a brand of Singaporean English that mixes English with the local dialects. With its own vocabulary, isims, and terminology, it is a language that confounds anyone who wasn't brought up in this country.
I've listened to my MP3 player rarely since I've been back. Instead, I'm listening for the soundtrack of this land, and so far, I've come up with this:
It's the sizzle of the wok and the clatter of plastic bowls and plates at a local hawker center, a collection of food stalls that are peppered across the island, each with varying levels of hygiene. It's the shapeless buzz of too many people in a place too small, all trying to get somewhere, all at once. It's the pre-recorded semi-British female voice on the Mass Rapid Transit train, informing me that I've arrived at my stop and to "please watch the gap" on the train platform.
It's also a cacophony of languages: English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Hokkien, Hakka, Teochew, Malay, Tamil, Hindi. It's the fluid mix of perfect English with a Chinese term, or Malay exclamation. It's the words that have no translation. Like the word "shiok" for example, a local term of Malay origins used to describe great pleasure, sometimes about food, sometimes about shopping, and sometimes about sex. Is there an English equivalent? Hardly.
It's the telling of family stories, sometimes highly amusing, sometimes greatly tragic (Amy Tan has nothing on my dramatic family). It's the pointed sigh of my mother, wordless yet instantly guilt inducing. It's the awkward laugh of my father when he doesn't know what to say or what to do. It's the lyrical tones of my brother-in-law as he calls to the fussy baby, assuring her that he's her dad and that he loves her. It's the cry of the two-month-old when she wants to be held. It's the giggle of the three-year-old because he thinks you're silly. It's the cackle of the seven year-old when he cheats at Risk. It's the quiet of the afternoon as my sister and I reflect on what God has done for our family, in spite of ourselves.
Like the music on my MP3 player, I carry this soundtrack with me wherever I go. These are the sounds of Singapore. In this land, I am dissonance--never fully foreign, yet never fully local.
December 29, 2006
December 22, 2006
In Case I Forgot...
The seven-year-old would like to remind me that in addition to being unmarried, I am also not a mother...
Lessons From A Three-year-old
Labels:
Life
The Three-year-old has no problem wandering aimlessly around the animated zoo.
We are playing a computer game. Or rather, he is playing and I am watching, trying not to be a backseat computer game player and yell out directions from where I am.
The game is called Putput Saves The Zoo Animals. Putput, the cartoon car hero of the game, has been tasked with finding the lost baby animals and returning them to their parents. These six missing baby animals are all over the zoo, which is made up of three different wildlife environments. There's the desert, the jungle, and the arctic. Once all six animals are rescued, the zoo can have its grand opening, and Putput presumably becomes the hero who saves the day.
Which brings us back to the Three-year-old. He seems to have no problem with all of this. When faced with the choice of saving the baby tiger or going back to another screen, he chooses going back.
Meanwhile, I, the city-dwelling, multi-tasking, ten-things-on-my-to-do-list adult am having a coronary in the back. The baby tiger is right there! Why are we going backwards?
In fact, the Three-year-old has no problem going right back to where he started. The reason? There's a cartoon snack store where he can purchase cartoon cheese puffs. In fact, he likes these so much he keeps going back to that store. Even when the baby giraffe is within seconds of being rescued.
I'm the only one that seems to have any issues at all. Shouldn't journeys go forward? When faced with the choice of completing a task or having fun, shouldn't we always complete the task before we go for some fun? Why all the pointless singing and dancing?
But the Three-year-old doesn't really care about all this. He knows that the baby animals will eventually be found. There isn't really a time limit on this task. There's nothing set in stone that we have to go forward, backwards, or anywhere at all. For now, he'll just go where the party is. Or rather, where the cheese puffs are.
Perhaps that is why the Three-year-old is eternally happy. He seems to understand what is important. His rules for living are simple. Keep mommy and daddy close by. Get candy from Grandma. Make eyes at the new aunt from American who gives him undivided attention. Dragons must stay on the inside of the castle, ogres on the outside. Your castle may have a crocodile (presumably for the mote), but may not have a shark. We may shoot you, but you do not necessarily have to die when we do. And a good Batman costume should always come with a mask.
There's something to be learnt from the little one. My days are filled with the compulsion to move endlessly forward, considering anything that stops me a hindrance that must be overcome. There's little time for song and dance, and certainly no room at all for small luxuries. All the baby animals must be saved! And they must be saved now! In the meantime, I've ignored the world around me. Arctic, jungle, and desert have all melded into blur. God's wonders have become hazy and indistinct.
Perhaps it's time to institute rules of living from the Three-year-old.
Wander aimlessly for awhile. Keep loved ones close by. Be extra nice to those who want to give me undivided attention. Let the good guys into the castle, keep the bad guys out. Just because I get shot down doesn't necessarily mean I have to be down for the count. Don't be so afraid of going backwards for a little bit. Enjoy cheese puffs.
And, of course, when purchasing a Batman costume, always look for one with a mask.
We are playing a computer game. Or rather, he is playing and I am watching, trying not to be a backseat computer game player and yell out directions from where I am.
The game is called Putput Saves The Zoo Animals. Putput, the cartoon car hero of the game, has been tasked with finding the lost baby animals and returning them to their parents. These six missing baby animals are all over the zoo, which is made up of three different wildlife environments. There's the desert, the jungle, and the arctic. Once all six animals are rescued, the zoo can have its grand opening, and Putput presumably becomes the hero who saves the day.
Which brings us back to the Three-year-old. He seems to have no problem with all of this. When faced with the choice of saving the baby tiger or going back to another screen, he chooses going back.
Meanwhile, I, the city-dwelling, multi-tasking, ten-things-on-my-to-do-list adult am having a coronary in the back. The baby tiger is right there! Why are we going backwards?
In fact, the Three-year-old has no problem going right back to where he started. The reason? There's a cartoon snack store where he can purchase cartoon cheese puffs. In fact, he likes these so much he keeps going back to that store. Even when the baby giraffe is within seconds of being rescued.
I'm the only one that seems to have any issues at all. Shouldn't journeys go forward? When faced with the choice of completing a task or having fun, shouldn't we always complete the task before we go for some fun? Why all the pointless singing and dancing?
But the Three-year-old doesn't really care about all this. He knows that the baby animals will eventually be found. There isn't really a time limit on this task. There's nothing set in stone that we have to go forward, backwards, or anywhere at all. For now, he'll just go where the party is. Or rather, where the cheese puffs are.
Perhaps that is why the Three-year-old is eternally happy. He seems to understand what is important. His rules for living are simple. Keep mommy and daddy close by. Get candy from Grandma. Make eyes at the new aunt from American who gives him undivided attention. Dragons must stay on the inside of the castle, ogres on the outside. Your castle may have a crocodile (presumably for the mote), but may not have a shark. We may shoot you, but you do not necessarily have to die when we do. And a good Batman costume should always come with a mask.
There's something to be learnt from the little one. My days are filled with the compulsion to move endlessly forward, considering anything that stops me a hindrance that must be overcome. There's little time for song and dance, and certainly no room at all for small luxuries. All the baby animals must be saved! And they must be saved now! In the meantime, I've ignored the world around me. Arctic, jungle, and desert have all melded into blur. God's wonders have become hazy and indistinct.
Perhaps it's time to institute rules of living from the Three-year-old.
Wander aimlessly for awhile. Keep loved ones close by. Be extra nice to those who want to give me undivided attention. Let the good guys into the castle, keep the bad guys out. Just because I get shot down doesn't necessarily mean I have to be down for the count. Don't be so afraid of going backwards for a little bit. Enjoy cheese puffs.
And, of course, when purchasing a Batman costume, always look for one with a mask.
December 18, 2006
Single In A Foreign Land
Labels:
Love
The seven-year-old nephew wants to know why I'm not married.
"Good question," I reply, "Let's all ask God together, shall we?"
He's ever the subtle, tactful boy, so he adds, "How old are you, Yeye (means Auntie) Janice?"
"I'm seven years younger than your mommy," I tell him, "So if your mommy is thirty-six, then..."
He tries to do the math, but then gives up. Counting backwards is kinda tough when you're only seven.
"You should get married soon," he declares, "Otherwise you will be as old as mommy, and then you will be all alone."
"That's why," I say, because I'm the cool aunt from America, "The next time you meet a nice young man, you should say, Are you single? Because my Yeye Janice is single."
He thinks for a moment, then points to his father, who's holding the 2-month old, "A nice young man!"
True.
"But your daddy is already married," I remind him. To which my sister adds, "Yes, to mommy."
The Seven-year-old ponders, "A nice young man, not married, and not carrying a baby."
What can I say? The kid is a fast learner.
"What if he is already married?" he asks.
I like that. Thinking ahead.
"Well, then you say, 'Thank you very much. Next please!"
He nods. He likes that idea.
Yeah, I know. I'm using a seven-year-old to pimp for me. Go straight to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
On the other hand, I am teaching him invaluable life skills, such as: how to be part of the solution, how to ask intelligent questions to get the information you need, and how to say no.
Besides, us single people have to battle the awkward question everywhere we go. Grandparents (ours and those of others) ask it, parents ask it, aunts and uncles ask it, little children off the street ask it, "Why are you not married?"
And so, instead of cowering in fear each time the question gets asked, or deflecting, or feeling wave of shame and inadequacy, let's give some of the responsibility back to the one who asked the question.
Because if you are going to raise the question, you should be prepared to be part of the answer.
"Good question," I reply, "Let's all ask God together, shall we?"
He's ever the subtle, tactful boy, so he adds, "How old are you, Yeye (means Auntie) Janice?"
"I'm seven years younger than your mommy," I tell him, "So if your mommy is thirty-six, then..."
He tries to do the math, but then gives up. Counting backwards is kinda tough when you're only seven.
"You should get married soon," he declares, "Otherwise you will be as old as mommy, and then you will be all alone."
"That's why," I say, because I'm the cool aunt from America, "The next time you meet a nice young man, you should say, Are you single? Because my Yeye Janice is single."
He thinks for a moment, then points to his father, who's holding the 2-month old, "A nice young man!"
True.
"But your daddy is already married," I remind him. To which my sister adds, "Yes, to mommy."
The Seven-year-old ponders, "A nice young man, not married, and not carrying a baby."
What can I say? The kid is a fast learner.
"What if he is already married?" he asks.
I like that. Thinking ahead.
"Well, then you say, 'Thank you very much. Next please!"
He nods. He likes that idea.
Yeah, I know. I'm using a seven-year-old to pimp for me. Go straight to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
On the other hand, I am teaching him invaluable life skills, such as: how to be part of the solution, how to ask intelligent questions to get the information you need, and how to say no.
Besides, us single people have to battle the awkward question everywhere we go. Grandparents (ours and those of others) ask it, parents ask it, aunts and uncles ask it, little children off the street ask it, "Why are you not married?"
And so, instead of cowering in fear each time the question gets asked, or deflecting, or feeling wave of shame and inadequacy, let's give some of the responsibility back to the one who asked the question.
Because if you are going to raise the question, you should be prepared to be part of the answer.
December 17, 2006
Adventures In A Foreign Land
Labels:
Life
After a trip that began in a cab in Chicago, then a plane, then another plane, then another cab, I am finally back in Singapore, the land of my birth. This land is, literally, night and day from Chicago. Singapore is 14 hours ahead of Chicago. So yeah, I am living in your tomorrow.
I am greeted by mom and dad, sister and brother-in-law, two nephews (seven and three) and a brand new, two-month old niece. And I'm struck that everything has changed.
Our little nuclear family of four has doubled into a rowdy bunch of eight. The family I grew up in, once predominantly women (mom, sis and me vs. dad), now has boys, lots of them, jumping on couches, throwing me silly putty, showing me their Lego guns, their spy gear, playing soccer, asking that I play with them.
Dad has found his own kind. After years of girls, there are suddenly boys around. And, like a man that has found the small island of natives that also speak his language, the father of my youth whom we've only known through my mother, the interpreter, now speaks.
"Listen," my sister says, two nights ago when we were all gathered at her home for a family dinner, "They're actually having a conversation."
I turn to look. My awkward, once frightening father, is talking to the seven-year-old, the oldest grandchild. I don't know what they are talking about, but it's an actual conversation. Dad says something, and my nephew replies, my nephew tells him something, Dad replies.
I'm also struck by how nothing has changed. My parents don't look that much older. Which is a great relief. There's nothing more sobering than seeing the years you've been away etched on the faces of your parents. But the signs of aging for my parents are far more subtle--they are moving slower. They need more rest. My father is on high-blood pressure medication.
My mother still talks my ear off. There are years of stories to be told. They come in episodes now, flashes of narration when I least expect it. While I'm brushing my teeth, while I'm trying to find a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. I never know what kind of a story is coming--a benign one about their latest vacation, or a tale about a relative that has died horribly while I've been gone (usually cancer, although sometimes they also mysteriously collapse).
The stories, however, are never chronological, so I can never tell if we are nearing the end of the volume (i.e the episodes of 2005) or if we have more to go. Two days ago, my mother told me a story and at the end of it, I asked, "When was this?" Her reply: 1980. 1980??? I was still in the country in 1980. Apparently we are now re-visiting stories.
And this morning, I realized that the stories may also be repeated. I was just re-told a story that I was told yesterday. Perhaps we will never get through the volumes 2003-2006.
But in the end, I am here. And like my home and my family, I am changed and unchanged. I have been changed by years away from home, forming who I am, deciding what needs to be the same from my family (hospitality, humor, determination), and what must be different (no more shame, no more cynicism, no more criticism). I bring home with me my other home Chicago, my church family, my own stories from 2003 - 2006.
Yet at the core, I am unchanged. I have not left Singapore only to return a strange, pseudo American, unrecognizable to family. I am still me, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend. Funny, sad, ridiculous, insightful. In the words of my sister, "You are you. Only better."
I am still me. Only better.
I am greeted by mom and dad, sister and brother-in-law, two nephews (seven and three) and a brand new, two-month old niece. And I'm struck that everything has changed.
Our little nuclear family of four has doubled into a rowdy bunch of eight. The family I grew up in, once predominantly women (mom, sis and me vs. dad), now has boys, lots of them, jumping on couches, throwing me silly putty, showing me their Lego guns, their spy gear, playing soccer, asking that I play with them.
Dad has found his own kind. After years of girls, there are suddenly boys around. And, like a man that has found the small island of natives that also speak his language, the father of my youth whom we've only known through my mother, the interpreter, now speaks.
"Listen," my sister says, two nights ago when we were all gathered at her home for a family dinner, "They're actually having a conversation."
I turn to look. My awkward, once frightening father, is talking to the seven-year-old, the oldest grandchild. I don't know what they are talking about, but it's an actual conversation. Dad says something, and my nephew replies, my nephew tells him something, Dad replies.
I'm also struck by how nothing has changed. My parents don't look that much older. Which is a great relief. There's nothing more sobering than seeing the years you've been away etched on the faces of your parents. But the signs of aging for my parents are far more subtle--they are moving slower. They need more rest. My father is on high-blood pressure medication.
My mother still talks my ear off. There are years of stories to be told. They come in episodes now, flashes of narration when I least expect it. While I'm brushing my teeth, while I'm trying to find a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. I never know what kind of a story is coming--a benign one about their latest vacation, or a tale about a relative that has died horribly while I've been gone (usually cancer, although sometimes they also mysteriously collapse).
The stories, however, are never chronological, so I can never tell if we are nearing the end of the volume (i.e the episodes of 2005) or if we have more to go. Two days ago, my mother told me a story and at the end of it, I asked, "When was this?" Her reply: 1980. 1980??? I was still in the country in 1980. Apparently we are now re-visiting stories.
And this morning, I realized that the stories may also be repeated. I was just re-told a story that I was told yesterday. Perhaps we will never get through the volumes 2003-2006.
But in the end, I am here. And like my home and my family, I am changed and unchanged. I have been changed by years away from home, forming who I am, deciding what needs to be the same from my family (hospitality, humor, determination), and what must be different (no more shame, no more cynicism, no more criticism). I bring home with me my other home Chicago, my church family, my own stories from 2003 - 2006.
Yet at the core, I am unchanged. I have not left Singapore only to return a strange, pseudo American, unrecognizable to family. I am still me, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend. Funny, sad, ridiculous, insightful. In the words of my sister, "You are you. Only better."
I am still me. Only better.
December 7, 2006
You Know You Live In Chicago When...
Labels:
Life
I've lived here 10 years! Amazing...
Here's Jeff Foxworthy's take on living in Chicago.
If your local Dairy Queen is closed from September through May...you live in Chicago.
If someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there...you live in Chicago.
If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time...you live in Chicago.
If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number...you live in Chicago.
If "vacation" means going anywhere south of I - 80 for the weekend...you live in Chicago.
If you measure distance in hours...you live in Chicago .
If you have switched from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day and back again...you live in Chicago.
If you can drive 75 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching...you live in Chicago.
If you carry jumpers in your car and your wife knows how to use them...you live in Chicago.
If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit...you live in Chicago.
If the speed limit on the highway is 55 mph -- you're going 80 and everybody is passing you...you live in Chicago.
If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow...you live in Chicago.
If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and road construction...you live in Chicago.
If you have more miles on your snow blower than your car...you live in Chicago.
If you find 10 degrees "a little chilly"...you live in Chicago.
Here's Jeff Foxworthy's take on living in Chicago.
If your local Dairy Queen is closed from September through May...you live in Chicago.
If someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there...you live in Chicago.
If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time...you live in Chicago.
If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number...you live in Chicago.
If "vacation" means going anywhere south of I - 80 for the weekend...you live in Chicago.
If you measure distance in hours...you live in Chicago .
If you have switched from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day and back again...you live in Chicago.
If you can drive 75 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching...you live in Chicago.
If you carry jumpers in your car and your wife knows how to use them...you live in Chicago.
If you design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snowsuit...you live in Chicago.
If the speed limit on the highway is 55 mph -- you're going 80 and everybody is passing you...you live in Chicago.
If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow...you live in Chicago.
If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and road construction...you live in Chicago.
If you have more miles on your snow blower than your car...you live in Chicago.
If you find 10 degrees "a little chilly"...you live in Chicago.
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