The Birthday and Me

I think showers are my most inspirational moments. I think they deserve a category- the after-shower entries.

Today in my shower, I thought about one thing chiefly- my approaching anniversary as Me. “24 years- one year shy of a Quarter-century” the headline of the newspaper article (if they wrote one), would read.  It would then detail the number of things I’d be planning to achieve in this phenomenal year before I clock in as a 25ver. The clipping isn’t very long, but it’ll include the already-milestones in my life: i.e. travelled alone for 3 days on a train in the outback, managed a group of puking adolescent village girls on their virgin trip to the city, seen the Taj, fund-raised 13k etc. etc.

How should one approach the topic of one’s birthday? I am usually the kind of person who’ll say to a friend, ‘Birthdays are overrated, anyways’. … And then I will secretly still think about my birthday anyways, and think about the people who’ll greet me, gift me, remember but for some reason don’t call on me, the people who’ll forget, the people whom I want to celebrate with me . I do, and lucky for me, usually I am made to feel gratefully royal for a day.

There was this once I got a 12am international call from my siblings who sang Happy – Birthday word by word (interchangeably dear them). Another time I received flowers from Mum (again distance didn’t deter her), there was the surprise ‘Fedex’ delivery from thoughtful friends, another time- someone walked up a steel hill in Nepal for two hours with my pre-ordered 500 rupee cake ($10), and local friends gathered and partied with me. I sound a little boastful, sorry. Not everyone gets a handmade card from  their sister every year!

This year, I’m spending it at home, after four years of blowing candlesaway from my folks. There is a special feeling of familiarity and comfort this year. No worrying about other people, because I know my Mum will remember, my family will sing a song for me, my god-family has extended a dinner invitation to their home for me.

Birthdays are about the small little things. For some people, its a little ritual. I know Deborah and her sweet parents go to the same ice-cream parlour every year and has the same ‘Earthquake’, even though ‘the food is no longer as good’. I know for some people, its a reason to party- to let their hair down and margarita the night away. I know for others, it’s special because of an early morning breakfast- a little special something made in honor of the day, that little warm feeling that makes you feel loved and good to brave the day ahead. The most beautiful birthdays share one key ingredient- one thoughtful moment on someone’s part to make the birthday fella smile. One thoughtful deed, that is all it takes.

So no, like I told you, I secretly don’t think birthdays are overrated. They’re there for a happy reason.

Filed under: after-shower-post

Saturday Ingredients

The luxury of an early Saturday, with nothing laid out ahead of it. The trick, to start early- as early as you would a work day, and then coax yourself in believing its your secret Monday.

After my early morning driving lesson and a quick work appointment, I was free in town at 10.40am. It might still be morning, but Orchard was already packing up the weekend crowds. I was beside myself. What to do? What to throw into a Saturday to make it worth its while? What can I eat or taste on a Saturday in Orchard that will make my weekend sweeter? What can I occupy my time with downtown- a movie, a magazine browse and brunch, a quick coffee with a spontaneous friend? I was getting desperate. Nothing came to mind. Nothing sufficiently satisfying came to mind. I had the luxury of time ahead of me, and the only thing I could think of- was how I wouldn’t do the time justice.

The desperation broke finally, when I resigned myself to the weekend work I had planned for myself, and that no time is better than leisurely time spent at home. On the way home, I stopped at a bakery and bought an apple pie. Apple pies are a new favourite of mine, especially with those golden brown criss-crosses. On the train home, I nodded off- and reached my stop, with the happiness of knowing that my naptime, unlike on a work day, will be possible today. The last stop before home, a trip to the second hand book shop. Get a really really cheap weekend novel. Something trashy. I’ve been reading too much literature. In the end I chose Mark Haddon. Not really trashy. But will be entertaining.

Now I’m home. On my back against the arm of the sofa, the laptop on my tummy. A book, lunch waiting, a movie. And of course the weekend work. Here’s to a good one.

Filed under: smilies, working world

the battles that start at home

So I’ve been working at this place for 2 months. A non profit organisation working for HIV/AIDS care, education and advocacy. Everyday, I learn more about how people feel about HIV/AIDS. The impression is that its everywhere- all of Africa and your concert-making Bono- so hugely-in-your-face a disease and yet to flip the underside of its infamosity- how much do people really know or care to know about it? What if someone you knew got it?

We’re in the car, I’m my usual stir-the-pot self, Dad is his usual reticent self.

“So you know that Candlelight thing I attended the other day…?”

Dad: Hmm.

Me: Its an event they hold, to honor the lost (to AIDS), the ‘victims’ to the virus-

Dad: (cuts me) Honor? Why use the word honor? What good did this people do to deserve our need to honor them? In fact, to put it in a bad way, some of them deserve it.. For someone who has a basic command of English, it is difficult that you choose to use this word to express the event. Perhaps you can say, to remember them, it is unfortunate that they died to AIDS, yes – but honor is something you use for people who have given service! Their death is hardly honorable!

Me: I merely lifted the official international descript! And certainly not everyone deserves it! I suppose they chose the word honor, because that is simply what we do for the dead- no death is unworthy, all deaths are the same- te loss of a human life. We don’t judge deaths. Also, I feel that used the word because we want people to remember at the end of the day, that dying to AIDS is not a natural death, its not a failure of any part of the body, its a virus. A malicious virus. Its a scourge, so we honor the loss to an epidemic, a worldwide tragedy.

Dad: (still chuffed) Well, I understand that word perfectly well. It’s just not the most appropriate word to use.

Me: So ANYWAY, during that event…. (I try to steer the conversation back on track).

We continue this conversation over the dinner table, over shared dishes and side glances to the idot box.

Me: So, you don’t really like my job, do you?

Dad: Not really. I just feel uncomfortable that you’re working with so many funny people…

Me: You’re afraid I’m going to turn gay too? Turn lesbian?

Dad: No.

Me: So you’re afraid I won’t meet any eligible people- is that it?

Dad: No. Although thats true, its unlikely you’ll have an affair there…

Me: (maintaining my usual straight-face) So what?

Dad: You’re working in the fringes of society. Its grey. It’s not what we normally face, around Singapore.

Me: Yes, I appreciate it. If anything, I think it only adds value. I like working in the fringes of society.

Dad: What were they like, initially, to you?

Me: Reserved. They kept to themselves. Not any more than people in another office would. But now everyone is great. The ice has broken.

Dad: So you only end up helping gay people?

Me: No. But if so, why not? If they’re gay, and they’re positive- they’ll be doubly discriminated against.

Dad: Shouldn’t concern you.  I don’t have anything against them. Yes, I think they’re hilarious- from speech to behavior, I think they’re great entertainers. But that’s it. I have nothing against them.

Me: Okay…

Perhaps Dad is indicating to that ’space’ we as Singaporeans are encouraged to give to homosexuality in civic society. Yet discussed under such circumstances, I am forced to rethink a previously acceptable stance, is this live-and-let-live mentality, adequate? While one might quietly tolerate, there will always be latent negative energy dredged out by the majority when they think of this minority. They are uncomfortable.

I quote my Dad not to show how supposedly narrow-minded he is. I really appreciated that he shared his views. Had I been in another less contentious job, this conversation would never have seen daylight. Yet my Dad represents a class of conservatism, a middling population I suspect Singapore will outgrow. The future is pretty optimistic when we are talking about gay or AIDS.

But for now, I think the stigma is still apparent. People  just don’t say it out loud. They don’t debate, they just assume blindly, judge narrowly.

Filed under: comment, daily grind

they were getting married. he died, he cried.

If meaningfulness counts in gold, then I am having daily windfalls these days. All the stories I have been seeking in my previously moody adult life- are swiftly arriving, slotting themselves through the letter hole of my previously closed-door life.  The dramas of my un-dramatic life are surfacing, still not my drama sure, borrowed stories yes–but still morphine for the hungryand unsharpened lens of the mind.

These bits and pieces are from the daily dosage of people I am meeting – stories sometimes told first-hand, otherwise relayed by a third party, or at times just plainly hypothesized. Sometimes the stories are painful (I crave), unexpected ( changes my tune), beautiful (when I get the big picture).

I haven’t realized how much I liked stories, until I hear a good one. That is when emotions need no summoning, it is the one narrative that grips your entire day- orchestrates your entire being- dictates your sighs and clogs up your heart- those are the stories. I am privy to them now.

All of which I am reading as a sign from our maker. “Here are your stories. This is life. It’s not monotonous. It’s sheer hard luck. Make yours happen.” Stories are my morphine- they make me tingle in my toes, and bring chills to my back. Pure drama rejects method of description. It doesn’t discriminate against the unstylish, everyone has at least one good one.  I am now the festival –goer with an all-shows pass. Full access, to this balcony of life.

Filed under: conversations, daily grind, heartaches, working world