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.