I alluded in my earlier post, “Fishball noodles” to how Dad’s and Mum’s experiences shaped many of my own choices in life. My last post touched on how I was exposed to face dysmorphia (!) from a very young age. I’ve always attributed my relentless drive in my earlier years to both of these factors.

Every child wants to feel special. And if you’re told your face is too round and nose too flat, you find other ways to feel special about yourself. For me, that was excelling in school. From Primary One onwards, I made it a personal mission to top the class every year. 100 marks was the uncompromisable goal for each test on each subject, 99 was barely acceptable, and anything below was considered a disaster. I remember once when I was in Primary Two, I scored 98 for a test. 98! I was devastated. During recess, I felt compelled to call Mum to apologize for my failure. I was tiny then and couldn’t reach the pay phone so pulled a chair from somewhere, climbed onto it, and dialed home. As I woefully relayed to Mum how I had disappointed her by being two points short, fat hot tears rolled down my (round) cheeks, uncontrollably. Mum was bemused. She couldn’t understand why I was so upset. That was the moment it dawned on me, that I asked of myself far more than my parents asked of me. And that’s to become the norm for most of my life.

As I shared, Mum and Dad didn’t finish primary school. They went to Chinese schools as many at that time did, before the government decided to abolish Chinese education and implement English as the first language – in all schools and for business. Which compounded the problem for them. The little education they received had even less use in the new English speaking world.. I saw how cruel that was, for them. When I was eight or nine, I accompanied Mum to a bank and she was asked to fill in her name in English on a form. She didn’t know the difference between capital and small letters and did it wrongly, repeatedly, because she couldn’t understand the bank teller’s instructions – in English. The teller shouted at her in exasperation. Mum was embarrassed. I was furious. No one had the right to treat my mum thus. That day, I swore to myself that I would make something of my life then change my parents’, so no one would ever be rude to them again.

Underlying that resolution is of course the belief that with social status comes respect. Rightly or wrongly, that was how I saw the world. Or at least my own world, up close. How people – neighbors, our own family members – would talk differently to Rich Uncle than to Dad. It hurt me, deeply, each time. And my little mind made the connection between the social status – in Singapore, that’s largely driven by wealth – and respect one enjoys.

In some inexplicable way, I turned this fury and hurt into one long relentless drive, every day, every month, every year. A single minded pursuit of academic excellence, and after that, career achievements. An all-consuming call of duty, entirely self-imposed.

I’ve mellowed in the last few years. So says my husband. Maybe it’s age, maybe motherhood. Or maybe because my parents’ lives have improved so much the fury and hurt I felt as a child is no longer there. As I write that, the tug in my heart says it’s not true. It’ll always be there I guess, but I know it no longer drives me.

So twenty-something and twenty-something-who-rides (there are two twenty-somethings in the office!), if you think I’m a slave driver, take heart – I’m not half the girl I used to be.

I saw an article the other day on plastic surgery.

I have a very “Chinese” face. Meaning round, with fleshy cheeks and an almost non-existent nose bridge. An English friend of mine in Oxford used to call me Moon Face – fondly, as I chose to believe. With age, I’ve lost volume in my cheeks. Imagine my face as a round pizza dough. Press with your palms the two sides where my cheeks are gently towards the nose. That’s how my face is today. (Cannot imagine?  There’s my fb profile pic to help https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100011337186796

Don’t mind the strategically placed hand, it’s meant to convey thoughtfulness.)

There’s one thing you need to know about us Chinese – we will ask you how much your house costs, why you’re not having a second child, and why your nose is so flat. At least that’s what my family members do, the older generation that is. From a very young age, this is what I gathered of my face:

– It is too round
– My nose is too flat
– My forehead is too broad
– My upper lip is shorter than my lower lip

Dad, bless him, managed to turn everything into an advantage:

– Round faces signify good fortune. So says Chinese face reading!
– Flat but full noses foretells wealth. Li Kashing has a similar nose!
– Broad foreheads signal intelligence. Look at Lee Kuan Yew!
– Shorter upper lips connote eloquence. His daughter is proof! (Excuse his circular reference..)

I don’t blame my relatives for exposing me to face dysmorphia. I’m convinced that they mean no harm, though I recognize the harm it can do to someone with a less positive disposition. It’s a bluntness that is uniquely Chinese, which juxtaposes itself very interestingly with the other great Chinese characteristic – beating around the bush. I think this is how we go: if we want to know something, we go straight for it, but if we want something, we go in circles, in the hope that the other party figures it out and offers it instead. Do you agree??

Anyway, so I grew up with a somewhat confused view of my face. It’s probably too round but surely the good fortune I’ll have more than compensates? My forehead is very broad but intelligence must count more? And on I went..

I finally found peace with my face in my twenties, when I grasped – finally! – that beauty is not how long my lips are or whether you can draw my face with a ruler or compass. It is far more about who I am and how I am. And now that I’ve found peace, I want to say to the girls out there who hanker after the “ideal” V-shaped face, and photoshop or plastic surgery themselves into such (don’t worry, I’m not going to launch into how inner beauty is more important) – there’s no true beauty in commonality. In a sea of V shaped faces, it is your moon face that makes you special. Embrace it!

What tickled some about my last post seems to be the nugget that I once carried paper bags to work. How unimaginable! Yes, I had to smile too, thinking back.

When I first started work upon graduating from Oxford, I didn’t have any money, obviously. Whilst life had got better with Dad’s business stabilizing, we were not awash in cash. In any case, I would never ask him to fund anything. Not because he wouldn’t want to, but because he would.

I decided at age 16 that I wanted to go to Oxford to read PPE. Philosophy, Politics and Economics. My dream course, combining all the subject matters that I was – and still am – endlessly curious about and interested in. What I could do with it, I didn’t know, and didn’t much care, really. That they were fascinating to me was reason enough. I knew though that I wasn’t going to ask Dad to pay for it. This was a time when the GBP was at SGD 3. School fees plus tuition plus lodging and food would have cost $450,000 over three years. Money we didn’t have. Dad was very anxious when he learnt about the sum, worried that he wouldn’t be able to support my dream. I wasn’t the least bit concerned. I told him I was going to earn myself a scholarship. And if I failed, I would go to a local university. Much as I really really wanted it, I didn’t see not making Oxford as the end of the world – I was convinced that my life was mine to make the best of, and I could do that, Oxford or not. Luckily, I won a full scholarship after all and off I went!

A scholarship didn’t spare Dad from all expenses though. Remember those were the days before skype and FaceTime. The only way we could keep in touch was through good old phone calls. Email was just taking off but Dad didn’t know anything about computers. So Singtel made a bundle from him.. Mum would ask me not to call so often but Dad would insist that the phone bills were not mine to worry about. So religiously, I called every Sunday, and spoke mostly to Dad. It wasn’t just hi and bye. I would regale him with colourful accounts of my life in the City of Dreaming Spires, highlighting only the good and never the bad as daughters, especially Chinese ones, are wont to do for fear of worrying her parents. As I learnt later, the bill came up to about $1000 each month, a huge sum for us. But Dad never said a word…

Naturally, once I graduated, all I wanted to do was to start contributing to the family. Given the balance in my bank account, there was no question of a handbag, let alone a designer one. I was bemused when my twenty-something waltzed into the office on her first day of work with a Ferragamo. Are all Gen Z-ers this lucky, I wondered. Anyway, I had to figure out what to do with my stuff – wallet, keys, documents, etc. Paper bags! As in carrier bags from stores. Esprit ones were a particular favourite. Don’t roll your eyes, twenty-something. Before H&M and Topshop, there was Esprit. The epitome of cool! I remember a colleague, a Frenchman, asking – why do you carry these paper bags around? I no longer remember how I answered him.

He will have no problem with what I carry today, especially as a Frenchman. It’s a Kelly in black on most days, and a Constance in Bordeaux on some. I enjoy them, very much. As much as I enjoyed my Esprit paper bags, almost twenty years ago.

I was told that food is also a very “trending” topic. Naturally, I proceeded to do some research. Guess what, out of the top 5 bloggers in Singapore, 3 write exclusively about food! I know we love food, but this much..?! Anyway, statistics don’t lie so food it is today then. Sorry, fashion and parenting, you’ll have to wait.

Every weekend, and I mean every Saturday and Sunday, the moment I open my eyes, I look forward to having fishball noodles for breakfast. Not just any fishball noodles, but OUR fishball noodles, at OUR coffee shop, in OUR ‘hood.

I like kway teow, dry with chilli (and chilli padi) and extra fishballs. My husband the ang moh prefers the ketchup version. We wash everything – noodles, fishballs, meatballs, mushrooms, bak chor – down with tea. Me, teh o kosong beng. He, Pokka green tea beng. The whole meal costs us around $10, and what satisfaction we derive from it!

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not pretending to be a heartland girl (or actually at my age, heartland auntie, but please, don’t..). Well, I am a heartland, ok, woman. I mean, I grew up in the heartland but ours is the Singapore story, at a personal level. From the age of nothing to 8, I lived in a kampung house in Lorong Napiri. I still remember the pattering on the zinc roof whenever it rained. All four of us, Dad, Mum, Bro and me, slept in one bedroom, and one that was right next to Ah Gong’s (my paternal grandfather) pig sty. The stench, oh the stench… Mum could never get through the day without dousing her nose with endless amounts of Axe medicated oil.. Then urbanization came knocking and along with many others at that time, we moved to a HDB flat, as I started Primary 1. Ah Gong held out for as long as he could, which baffled me. Why wouldn’t he want to move into these tall shiny concrete buildings? What a nice change that would be. No more pigs!

Dad, like Mum, didn’t finish primary school. His and Mum’s experiences would shape many of my own choices in life but that’s another story for another day. For much of Dad’s adulthood, he worked for his elder brother, my Rich Uncle. He didn’t make much and life was not easy. I remember Mum often being in a bad mood over finances – exacerbated in the earlier years by the omnipresent stench of those pigs, no doubt. She had had to pawn the jewelry Ah Ma gave her when things were tight, and then redeem them back when things got better. But Dad had aspirations. When I was in my early teens, he decided to make more of his life by striking out on his own. He never spoke about it, but it must have been a terrifying experience, to give up a meagre but nonetheless stable income for the uncertainty of being his own employer. I’m immensely proud of Dad, for having that courage to pursue his dream, for making the most of the hand that Life has dealt him.

With his hard work, our life improved and we moved to a condo just as I started working. And eventually, a landed property that Dad and I bought together, after I had accrued some savings a few years into my first job. The classic Singapore Dream, no?

Life is very different now. I live in our own house close to my parents. But whenever it rains as I lie in bed, I can still hear the pattering on the zinc roof. I’ve graduated to eating wagyu, truffles and foie gras. While I used to carry paper bags (!) to work, I carry Hermes handbags now. Not because I’ve married into wealth, but because I work as hard as my parents have inspired me to. No matter the changes, I’ll never forget where I came from. And I’ll never forgo my fishball noodles. Never.

Another cherished friend of mine – though I don’t see enough of him now that he is the Father of Snowy and Happy – left me an encouraging comment on my previous post “What the Blog?”, to stay true to myself. I assured him I always will. I am not intending a career switch from managing assets to gathering “eyeballs”, as he so elegantly put it. Besides, I’ve never learnt how not to speak my mind, which has landed me in trouble, so often, at work. And I respect words too much to use them for the sole purpose of seeking attention. The truth is, I do have a wide range of interests. I love Confucius, as I do Chanel. I enjoy Lionel Shriver as much as I enjoy Jimmy Choos. Hermes to me is not just the mythological god but also the mythical orange boxes. And I am as fascinated by the Clintons as the Kardashians. What do they tell us about American society today, do you think?

I have not watched a single episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians but I know a lot about them. It is impossible not to! They are everywhere. I am amazed that they can dominate even mainstream media just by, it seems (I remind you again that I’ve not watched a single episode), not doing very much at all? Except taking selfies? Or publishing a “book” – of selfies?

Can a picture of an amply endowed derrière really be far more interesting than words painstakingly strung together to tell a beautiful story, or express an absorbing thought? I know I shouldn’t ask my twenty-something..

I don’t think I can write a piece on Kim K’s derrière anytime soon. Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not really an area of expertise, nor passion. So pick a topic, twenty-something. Dresses, shoes or bags? In the battle of my words versus Kim K’s butt, it’ll probably be a KO every time, but you have my word – I’ll work my own off to make it to round 10, or die trying.

I was advised by two reliable sources, experts in their respective fields really, on what I ought to be writing for this blog if I want to attract a larger following. One is a twenty-something I work with, so an expert on Gen Y-ers (or is it Gen Z-ers? I get confused..). The other is a journalist, a cherished friend whom I’ve known forever and an early adopter of this whole internet social media stuff. Me? I’m a dinosaur. Or was. I had never felt the need to share, let alone share with the www – whole wide world. Something has changed obviously in recent times. Probably age. I’ve always taken pride in my memory power. Just ask the above mentioned twenty-something. At times I feel like her secretary, reminding her of what I wrote or said just two weeks prior. But even the best memory weakens with age, no? If I don’t start recording all these stories about the people I love, and the thoughts I have on the most random but nonetheless fascinating things in life, will I still remember them after another decade of relentless assault by Time?

I’d like to think there’s also my love for writing. And words. To some, writing is about the pursuit of the beauty of words. They mull over every choice of word, the beauty of their composition the overriding objective. I don’t pursue beauty in the words themselves. I pursue beauty in what the words convey. A thought, a story. To me, words are the servants and the stories and thoughts, the masters. But it is the servant without whom justice to the master can never be done. Until now though, I’ve not done anything about this love, hiding behind the perfect excuse called “busyness”. As I near the halfway mark of life (assuming it ends at 80, not 100..), it feels the right moment to shake any excuses off, and get started.

So what was the advice? The twenty-something suggested lots of pictures, and a focus on fashion, to cater to the short attention span of her generation. Ok… I can do fashion – that is one of my many loves after all – but pictures…? Really? Can I see myself taking shots of OOTD (that is “outfit of the day” for those of you more dinosaurous than me)? She clarified that it doesn’t have to be pictures of myself, but I do have to credit accordingly if I use the pictures of others. Oh dear…

My friend advised the same thing. She declared categorically that there is no market for intellectual blogging. None. Zero. Nada. She suggested parenting as another “trending” topic that will interest people. Parenting? I can do that too, I suppose. I mean, I do have strong views on this (as I do many other topics!).

These well meant advice got me thinking. Would I like more people to read what I write? Yes, for more reasons than one. Should I then write what will get more people to read what I write? I must say that idea doesn’t appeal to me. It just isn’t very me.. But maybe I ought to be smart about it. As advised by my twenty-something, write what will get people interested first, then “sneak in” what I’m interested in. Such wisdom! So yes, I might try fashion and parenting next. But sorry darling, no pictures.

There are two men I greatly admire. Well, three actually, except the third was as flawed as he was great.

The first is our founding father, Lee Kwan Yew.

“I have no regrets. I have spent my life, so much of it, building up this country. There’s nothing more that I need to do. At the end of the day, what have I got? A successful Singapore. What have I given up? My life.”

My eyes never fail to betray me when I read this. The clarity of purpose, the conviction of calling and the courage of pursuit. Till his very last breath. Can there be a more purposeful way to lead one’s life?

Let me discuss the third before the second. The third is Mao Zedong. He who overcame the KMT despite being vastly outnumbered and almost decimated as the Civil War raged on. He who led the Long March to keep what’s left of the communist hope alive. He who proudly proclaimed that the Chinese people have stood up, only to send millions into abject poverty and untold suffering with The Great Leap Forward and The Cultural Revolution. He who knew how to fight but not how to rule, he who understood how to win, but not when to lose. He who created history but failed to grasp how history would judge him. He, whose mistakes were as colossal as his achievements. Who created as much as he destroyed.

His successor avoided his mistakes. Deng Xiaoping took over a broken country at age 72. Broken economically, politically and spiritually. At that age, he could have called it a day and enjoyed what’s left of his life. But he poured himself, for the third time, into lifting his countrymen out of the ravages of failed policies and regimes. He said all he did during the Long March was to “follow”. But his greatest contribution and strength, beyond his economic reforms that lifted millions out of poverty, was NOT to follow, and ensured his successors would not follow, Mao in creating personality cults.

Deng Xiaoping and Lee Kwan Yew had something in common – they were content to deploy their vast talents and indomitable will to serve. They did not need to be worshipped. For this, I admire them, greatly.

最近重看三国，电视剧的三国。对那些让人魂萦梦绕的人物又重新做了一次评估。

刘备最让我钦佩的地方是他的坚持。屡战屡败、屡败屡战。人生，不就应该如此吗？

刘备没诸葛亮，孙权没周瑜鲁肃，恐怕都不行。但曹操只需他自己。文采武略、他兼备。三雄当中，若只论才能，数他第一吧？

周瑜自认旷世之才，但他的傲，让他屡屡败于诸葛亮。真正聪明的人，能这么傲吗？是不是罗贯中在刻画他时，疏忽了？

众多人物中，我最喜欢的还是鲁肃。因为他集忠义、才能、坚韧及谦卑于一身。某和了我对做人的要求。