I was getting ready for bed, when I saw them. Unmistakably, undeniably, there. Dancing above my scalp, taunting me, mocking me. I had to act, to go on the offensive. How dare they!

Out came my trusted weapon of choice. The mission was complicated by the fact that I was half blind at that point but I was focused and determined, contact lenses or not. Peering into the mirror, and trying my very best to avoid collateral damage, I exterminated them, one by one.

My white hairs!

I know, I shouldn’t pluck them. There’s the immediate collateral damage – you inevitably pull a few of the black ones out too – and the longer term one. I was informed by various sources that plucking one white hair hastens the whitening of the black ones around it. I’m usually pretty long term in my approach but when it comes to my hair, instant gratification is the name of the game.

I’m nearing the mid point of my time on Earth. Assuming I’m given 80. Ok, fine. I’m almost 40. There, I’ve said it.. I never thought I would be 40. 40 is my mum, my aunts, my teachers. 40 is not me. But here I am, on the cusp…

Husband, bless him, would tell me I could pass as 30 – on a good day. Otherwise, 32. Son says mama looks like 29. He’s my darling for a reason. I can feel you rolling your eyes, but cut this auntie (to-be) some slack!

Youth, or the loss of it, is a key component of my petrification. I dread the day when I look into the mirror and know that that McQueen doesn’t belong to my body anymore. Or those Stella McCartney metallic brogues are somehow out of sync with the rest of me. When I’ll want to cover my knees not because midi/maxi skirts are in fashion but to hide those telltale folds (knees and elbows are the worst betrayers of your age so grease them up religiously). When I actually prefer those Dolce & Gabbana lace sneakers over the Saint Laurent Tributes gathering dust in my shoe cupboard. Don’t worry, I won’t wait until someone tells me I’m mutton dressing up as lamb. Not because it’s my calling in life to fit into moulds created by others, but because I have exacting expectations of myself. So when the day comes, I shall accept it with dignity, and tears.

The larger component though, is Time. The passage of Time. The loss of Time. Everyone of us has a finite amount of time, though some have more than others. But none of us knows how much exactly. Which makes planning a somewhat useless exercise. I can say I’ll do this and that when I’m 50. But how do I know I have 50? All I know is with each passing year, I have less. When my time is up, would I have achieved what I set out to? Would I have become the person I aspired to be? Would I have loved all those I love the way I wanted to? Would I have seen and experienced as much of what Life has to offer as I dreamt of?

This obsession (fear) drives me to a large degree. It explains why I refuse to just show up at work, put in 9 to 5, and then go home. I want to find out how much I can achieve in one lifetime.

It explains why I’m learning Japanese now, and will pick up Spanish next. Plus why I’m writing this blog. I am curious how much I can learn in the time I’m given.

It explains why I make it a mission to take Dad to see the world at least once a year (Mum, alas, doesn’t like to travel). Which reminds me – I haven’t planned this year’s…

It also explains why I don’t tend to bear grudges and indulge negativity. There’s way too little time for that. When Husband wanted to give entrepreneurism a shot, I was all for it. It meant I had to be the main breadwinner for a while, but that cannot compare to the value, and magic, of chasing the rainbow.

Ironically, given the way I inject a sense of urgency into everything, my lifespan will probably be significantly shortened. But hey, I’ll never know that for sure. I’ll know though if I haven’t tried to make the most of the precious and finite time I had. It’s a regret I never want to have.

I was in Australia for work earlier in the week and started thinking about a piece on our founding father, Mr Lee Kuan Yew, one of two men I admire greatly, as discussed in my earlier post, “Admiration”. This week marks the first anniversary of his passing.

I returned home to a country immersed in all sorts of memorial activities, and engaged in a debate triggered by Dr Lee Wei Ling, his daughter. Dr Lee objects to this veneration of her father, which she sees as hero worship. There are many responses to her position. I see her love of her country, and her father.

I greatly enjoyed Dr Lee’s book, A Hakka Woman’s Singapore Stories, from which I obtained glimpses of her life. She traveled extensively with her father, and shares many of his views. One of these is a rejection of personality cults. They witnessed and understood the destructive impact of this from Mao Zedong’s China. Dr Lee doesn’t want Singapore to fall into the same trap, to become a nation held ransom by one man, in life and death. She wants Singaporeans to move on, to focus on working for the well being of Singapore. Therein lies her love for her country.

She fears too, that such veneration could create the impression in subsequent generations that LKY was motivated by his desire for fame, or creation of a dynasty. She wants posterity to remember her father for the type of leader he was, one who placed his call of duty ahead of personal glory. In this is her love for her father.

Her first fear, a personality cult taking hold, I’m inclined to think is unlikely. Demographics is against it. We are living in the Facebook world, shaped by the millennials and post-millennials. In which attention spans are short, and getting shorter. Where there are ten thousand distractions per second. It’s a small wonder that sufficient momentum could be gathered for these memorial activities. As much as it was a miracle, acknowledged by Dr Lee herself, that an otherwise generally apathetic lot like us Singaporeans could be capable of the collective outpouring of emotions this time last year.

I still remember vividly how Husband, Son, Bro and me queued, alongside many others, for hours under the blazing sun to pay our last respects. I remain very proud of Husband, the ang moh, who didn’t have to, but wanted to, because he understood. Understood LKY’s contributions to the country he now lives in, and my gratitude. Even prouder of Son, who was then aged only six, but did not fuss a second about the heat and wait, because he too, seemed to have understood the significance of the event.

That was a very unique moment in our history, which I doubt could ever be repeated. Demographics aside, our political landscape has changed. Giants of history, a la LKY, will be much harder to come by. I think our desire for remembrance is on balance, a good thing, and to be enjoyed whilst it lasts. As apathy and the mentality of entitlement are, in my mind, more likely to ride the tides of time, than the formation of a personality cult.

As for Dr Lee’s second fear, that subsequent generations come to view her father in the wrong way, I’m inclined to think history is the fairest arbiter, and history will be on his side. Mao could control 1.3 billion people, but he could not control how history would judge him. Thus, his immense contributions would always be measured against his equally immense mistakes. Likewise, Deng Xiaoping’s efforts to dismantle personality cults would always be seen as one of his greatest contributions to his country. And one of LKY’s greatest was to ensure that Singapore could run on smoothly without him, well before his passing. This, history could never interpret as the pursuit of his own cult.

I hope Dr Lee finds some comfort in these perspectives. I am often touched by her devotion to her parents, which is evident in her book, and columns. She, in my mind, embodies LKY’s achievement as a father, beyond his many achievements as our founding father.

What I left unsaid in my previous post was the unequal playing field in the corporate world – or indeed any world – between a man and a woman. The things I have to think about, like whether I can break the glass ceiling teetering on my stilettos, a man will never have to. The only ceiling he has to think about is the one at home.

Let’s face it. If you are tough as a man, you are a leader. If you’re tough as a woman, you’re a b****.

If you’re soft as a man, you are understanding. If you’re soft as a woman, you’re indecisive.

If you’re a demanding man, you have high standards. If you’re a demanding woman, you have low EQ.

If you go out drinking all night with your colleagues, you’re networking. If you do the same as a woman, you’re asking for it. Gossips, that is.

If a man travels often, that’s because he’s ambitious. If a woman does, she’s too ambitious. Poor husband and kids!

I recently found out, whilst following Hillary Clinton’s campaign, that there’s a term for this. It’s called the double bind. A double bind means that there are two commands to obey, but anything you do to fulfill one violates the other. The requirements of a good leader and a good man are similar, but the requirements of a good leader and a good woman tend to be mutually exclusive. A good leader must be tough, but a good woman must not. A good woman must be self-deprecating, but a good leader must not be. And so on. I call it double standards.

Why is this? I guess the simple answer is that men have dominated all the major fields – political, corporate, culinary, even fashion – for so long that the rules, spoken or otherwise, are built by them, for them. Once women started playing in these same fields, society somehow decided that not only do we have to abide by those rules, we have to be held to a different standard. Thus, we have to be tough to get things done, but not too tough as to be hard (read: unfeminine). We have to be sociable, and expand our network, but make sure we get home in time to be the great wives and mothers we are too, with not a single strand of hair out of place. We have to be decisive, but not so decisive as to dent the egos of our err.. male colleagues, as that would make us a Dragon Lady! Ooooh, God forbid!

I’ve long given up trying to understand these rules and standards. Or playing by them. According to the article, the most difficult aspect of the double bind is that it is invisible. In other words, people are not even conscious of it. It seems to me then that we will be better served by introducing our own rules to the game. Here are some of mine.

McQueen or the Queen? That’s our poison to pick. Jimmy Choo or Bata? So long as we can walk in them.

Drinking to network? No, thank you. We’d rather network with our husbands and kids. But lunches? Sure, and surely they are no less effective.

Travels? As much as needed, yes. Poor wife and mother? Let the husbands and kids be the judges, no?

What about the trickier bits? You know, to be tough AND adorable, decisive YET gentle, demanding WITH high EQ? I say sure, if they are so important, let’s ask these of everyone. Men and women. That must be the fairest approach?

Cannot do? Well then judge us solely on how well we do the job we are hired to do. Not how we look whilst doing it. Or whether we brought our maternal instincts or inner SYT to work, because really, these are reserved for our kids and partners. What do you say?

It’s Friday and as I was pondering over what to wear, I recalled with great fondness how Equally Fierce once advised me, with the best of intentions, that I ought to reconsider my dressing, after I was promoted to a global role.

Come to think of it, I’ve only ever dressed “appropriately” in the first few years at my first job. I put that down to a huge desire to blend into what was a conservative corporate environment, and to conform to the stereotype of a “professional/serious/intelligent young woman”. Hence, sensible suits. Pant suits a la Angela Merkel and skirt suits a la the Queen! Ok, collect your jaws from the floor. That phase didn’t last very long.

Now, please don’t get me wrong. I don’t show up in the office in leather (Christine Lagarde, admirably, did – leather pants AND jacket), shorts (I’m not into the Singaporean “uniform” of shorts and T-shirts) or midriff baring tops and cut-out dresses (I did get the memo that The Firm is not Hollywood). What I do is embrace fashion. That means I am attuned to fashion trends, and will build into my wardrobe elements that work for me (note: I’m not a fashion victim). Florals? Check. Prints? I love Mary Katrantzou. Culottes? Sure. Pleats? So long as they don’t add bulk. Short skirts? Depends on your definition of short, but don’t worry, no minis. Metallic brogues? Why not, on casual Fridays. Otherwise, it’s killer heels. Four inches, no less. Median is probably five.

Of course, there are pitfalls. People on first meeting me tend to assume I’m very junior, maybe even ditzy (stereotypes, remember?). I recall attending meetings with a former male subordinate and the assumption would invariably be that he was my boss – until I opened my mouth. I must confess to enjoying, just a teeny bit, the surprised look on those faces. I can’t help it if people judge this book by its glossy cover, but I can at least have some fun out of it, no?

At times I do wonder if I ought to play the game a bit better. You know, go back to the suits, and embrace sensible footwear. I have not found the conviction though. I mean, I can see how Alexander McQueen or Roland Mouret can be a constraint if I’m trying to get the most out of a buffet, but getting the most of my team? I can certainly appreciate how Bata and Geox would perform far better than Jimmy Choo or Sergio Rossi if I’m running after a bus, but running a business? Everything I ought to give to my job – my time, my brain cells, my energy – I give 110% (though my boss may disagree..!). This final bit, my fashionista wannabe identity, I’d like to keep for myself. I hope this won’t affect my chances at breaking the glass ceiling, but time will tell.

Most of you will know Peter Pan, the character. Some of you know Peter Pan, my friend. He with the vast toy collection and a deep love for Lego, who would send me pictures when he completes a set. He’s also a Star Wars fan, and very generously gifted a Darth Vader mask to Son, a fellow aficionado. In return, Son played The Imperial March, theme song of the series on the piano, which I recorded as a present last Christmas. An unlikely friendship in the making, despite almost four decades between them.

Peter Pan has a medical condition that means he could leave this world any moment. It was diagnosed a few years ago and he has stopped working since. It is very easy to, but I am determined never to view him through this light, and not to allow himself to do so, as much as possible. But if you know him, you’ll know he has his own will!

I joined The Firm almost ten years ago, when I could still pass as a SYT – ok, just about..! For some reasons, it was not sweetness that I projected. As I found out years later, I could easily come across, initially that is, as aloof, “atas” and err.. intimidating. Peter Pan was not the least bit put off though. On my first day, he approached me at my desk – the first person to do so – and offered me a biscuit. I ought to provide some background at this juncture. I was hired by The Firm to set up a new business unit in Asia Pacific so there was no team to start my new job into. My then boss was based in Europe. So it was me and me. I wasn’t bothered, as I had been in a serviced office for eight months prior as my previous employer figured out their game plan for Asia. Me and me in a sea of people was a vast improvement on me and four walls. Maybe I had been working alone for too long, I hadn’t expected that someone would bounce up to me to offer a biscuit on my first day. He also informed me somewhat gleefully that he had read my CV, and that we had attended the same junior college. It was a warm and unique gesture of welcome, as only he could do, and an abiding memory.

Peter Pan has his quirks as you would expect from er, Peter Pan. He wears a bow tie! He doesn’t eat vegetables. He permed his salt and pepper hair! He loves fashion. And his parents. I’m often touched by how devoted he is to his parents. Waking up multiple times at night to accompany his father to the toilet to make sure he wouldn’t fall, when his father wasn’t well. Taking his mother to vacations, and the doctor’s, with equal commitment. I don’t know a more filial son.

Our friendship was built over many lunches over many years, usually with Equally Fierce and Little Sparrow. Equally Fierce occupies a senior position in The Firm too. She often says I’m fierce, but everyone would rise in a chorus to remind her she’s equally fierce, so there you go! Little Sparrow has flown to London. I’ve always advocated to her that new experiences are an integral part of the adventure that is Life, so I’m glad she’s decided to swap raintrees for oak trees. Oh, happy birthday, Little Sparrow!

Lunch is now just the three of us, mostly. I look forward to each one. I know it hasn’t been easy on Peter Pan, living with the constant threat of life being taken away from him, without warning. Not being able to take simple things like swimming and running for granted. Listening to his friends’ clumsy attempts at comforting and supporting, never quite succeeding. Finding peace with one’s mortality is probably the most difficult journey one has to take, and take alone. No matter how  hard others try, the empathy can never be complete. I know there are times when he despairs, and wonders why God has played such a cruel joke on him. But mostly, he has been brave. Very. And lunch with him is fun. Always.

Peter Pan, if you’re reading this, know that lunch with you is a highlight I’ll never want to miss. Who else will share with me the regret that is Maggie Cheung? Who will remind me that Takashimaya or Robinson or Metro is having a sale, and offer to replenish my cosmetics arsenal for me? Every time I see you, I see your searing humour, your outrageous political incorrectness, your unmatchable gossips, your devotion, your generosity, your friendship, you. Not your condition. You.

We love you. But you know that already. So, when’s our next lunch?

I came back from a work trip in Tokyo to a nation abuzz with news of the “personal indiscretions” of one of our Members of Parliament. Photos of the MP and his alleged lover who apparently is also married, were splashed all over the papers.

I was told by my friend, Peter Pan (his toy collection more than rivals my fashion one..), who is a lot more well informed about these things than I am, that much of the sympathy was reserved for the lady’s husband, whereas the man’s wife hardly got a mention. Peter Pan asked – “any views, Ms Blogger?”

I think the answer – or at least mine – is a simple albeit unpleasant one. A female adulterer is perceived as far worse than a male one, and thus her husband deserves far more sympathy than his wife. For the same crime. There is no logic to this of course. Our society has subconsciously attributed different weight/culpability to the same behavior depending on whether it is conducted by a man or woman. I can only surmise that sexism has something to do with this.

My sympathy goes to the children – on both sides. To see their parents’ photos splashed in the papers, unwilling participants of their parents’ drama and of what should have stayed strictly their drama. But unfortunately, one of them was a politician. There was speculation that it was her husband who broke the news. I don’t know if this is true but if so, then I’m inclined to think it was a mistake. Can the pain he suffers ever justify the pain he inadvertently unleashes on the kids, including his own?

Brings to mind Princess Diana. Years ago, she went on television to air her grievances over Prince Charles’ affair with then Camilla Parker Bowles. She famously said there were three of them in her marriage, and it was a bit crowded. A lot of ink was spilled on why she did what she did. Some thought she was brave (fighting against the establishment!), others, calculative (preemptive strike against the royal family!). My heart went out to Princes William and Harry. How would they feel?

A marital bond may not last, but the parental one lasts forever. The desire to destroy or hurt the partner you no longer love or who no longer loves you must, in my mind, be subsumed to your duty to your kids, to protect them from your own basic instincts for revenge. And this applies to both men and women.

The issue of drugs came up this morning as the team was gearing up to welcome yet another day of hard but fulfilling work (!). I read something about the legalization of weed the other day in The Economist so the topic has been on and off my mind.

I lost Eldest Cousin to drugs, two years ago. Another cousin is losing his life to drugs, having spent the bulk of his adult years thus far in prison due to addiction problems. Eldest Cousin was a very handsome man. Whilst I was the puzzle of the family with my flat nose and wide forehead, he was the pride. He had everything going for him – he was tall and dark, with big doe eyes, and a high nose set against a chiseled face. He was also very bright and extremely charming. Everything going for him until he became acquainted with drugs, that is. I don’t know how it started, all I know was that he fell into some bad company in his youth and never got out of it. His life was hijacked before it even properly began.

Ah Ma loved Eldest Cousin deeply. Ah Ma loved everyone, but she worried most about Eldest Cousin, and Second Aunt, who is epileptic. As she was dying, Ah Ma asked of Mum – the strongest emotionally of her children – to take care of Second Aunt, and keep an eye out for Eldest Cousin. Mum being Mum, she took Ah Ma’s last wishes to heart. And Dad being Dad, he gave Mum his full support. And so, Eldest Cousin came to live with us in our HDB flat which was at a different part of the island, the hope being that the physical distance from his friends would help, and Mum could literally keep an eye on him. Dad hired Eldest Cousin to work in his factory, to keep him occupied and out of trouble. It was a difficult decision for Dad to take Eldest Cousin in, given the very real and ever present risk that he would lead Bro astray.. But his kindness and generosity prevailed.

Eldest Cousin did well for a while, but soon, he managed to get into the wrong company within our housing estate. It became impossible to control him. I no longer remember the details, but one day, Dad came home fuming. Eldest Cousin had thrown a tantrum at the factory and made a mess of it before storming off. Dad gave up on him, and eventually, Mum too. They both felt that they had done all they could and there was nothing more that could be done for him. His own parents gave up too. He broke their hearts. For the next two decades, Eldest Cousin faded out of our lives. I would receive news every now and then about his drug-related prison stints. Every piece of news that indicated that he might have turned over a new leaf – a job, getting married – was greeted with cheer and hope, but invariably, it turned into disappointment and despair. The last time I saw Eldest Cousin was at his wedding. I could no longer see the handsome man I remembered, behind the missing front teeth and hardened face.

And then the news came. I assumed it was an OD. We were told it was asphyxiation on his own vomit – he passed out the wrong way after drinking and taking pills. Before he was cremated, Eldest Uncle broke down. He asked Ah Ma to do something he felt he failed at – take care of Eldest Cousin, when they were reunited in the other world. Eldest Cousin’s ashes were spread into the sea. He is finally free.

Given my philosophy of life, I will always think that every person is responsible for his or her own life, ultimately. Because this is the only way to become stronger – blame others, and you will never help yourself. Eldest Cousin was given many chances for a fresh start, but he didn’t take them, not one of them. I don’t think however, that self-responsibility absolves society from the duty to protect the weak and the vulnerable. Drugs can never be eradicated, I’m afraid. Where there is demand, there is supply. Protection comes from education, so that kids from a young age understand the dangers of drugs and hopefully stay away from them if ever offered. It comes from forgiveness and support, so that people who made mistakes have a more than average chance of finding their feet again. One of the reasons Eldest Cousin kept falling into the same cycle was that he found it hard to reintegrate into society and seeking solace from his old circle seemed easier. Protection comes also from stemming the supply. Many have opined that Singapore is too harsh on drugs-related offences. I don’t think there can ever be a justification for making money out of destroying people’s lives. And if you have seen the sorrow in Eldest Uncle’s eyes, you will agree with me. Not everyone can be protected, I agree. Eldest Cousin may well be the best example of that. But in my mind, we as a society have to try to protect as many as we can.

My name was given to me by the Goddess of Mercy. Well, not literally of course. My aunt went to the temple to pray for a name when Mum was pregnant with me. Dad and Mum were not confident of giving me a good name – whatever a “good name” meant to them – so my aunt thought it a good idea to obtain one from the Goddess, as it would surely mean the name was blessed, and by extension, me too. I’m not entirely sure what that process entailed but two options were offered by the Goddess (more accurately, the assistants at the temple, but please indulge my divine version of events..). One was “Bi Er” – not “beer”, but “bi er” (make sure there’s a clean break between the two syllables). And the other “Pei Ru”. These are in Mandarin. At this juncture, I probably ought to explain the complicated system of naming in Singapore. There are different dialect groups within the Chinese community, and we are Hokkien. My great-grandparents emigrated to Singapore from the Fujian province in China when making a living became impossible. The dialect spoken there is Fujian (in Mandarin), or Hokkien (in well, Hokkien). Pei Ru, in Hokkien, is Puay Ju. The government allows us Chinese to register our names in accordance with our own dialect group. Thus my name, whilst in Mandarin – the dialect chosen by the Chinese Communist Party as the official language when it came to power and has since attained the same status in Singapore – is Pei Ru, it was registered as Puay Ju. Bi Er in Hokkien is Pek Ngor. I know, it’s unpronounceable. Luckily, my parents deemed it too old fashioned and discarded it. And thus, the more fashionably named Puay Ju was born.

Growing up, I was called Ah Ru by everyone in the family, San Por Ru (=Skinny Ru in Hokkien) by Ah Gong. Yes, the shape of my face bore no relation to the rest of my body – I was very skinny as a child. My Chinese teachers called me Pei Ru, English teachers, Puay Ju. At Oxford, two names were one too many for my tutors otherwise preoccupied with far more important matters, so I was simply Puay. When I started work, even that was too much, so I became PJ!

I like my name. My surname is Kang, which means “river”. Puay means “to admire”. Ju is “to bear/accept”. I decided that my parents chose this name with far more thought than just what sounded fashionable. Surely, at some subconscious level, they must have harboured the great aspiration for me to have the humility to admire others’ strengths and generosity to accept their weaknesses. And how befitting that is with the imagery of a river!

Now, that’s the thing with Chinese names – there’s an endless scope for romantising. Each character in the Chinese language carries at least one meaning, often more, so like it or not, your Chinese name means something. Because of that, of all the versions of my name, PJ is my least favourite. I mean, it’s short for parajumpers, Petaling Jaya, and… pyjamas. More importantly, the two letters don’t mean anything. Nothing to admire, or bear. But please, don’t stop calling me PJ. My preferences aside, as the lovelorn Juliet wisely said, “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. Besides, PJ still beats, any day, “Pooh Joo”, “Pway You” and oh, I have to tell you this. Shortly after I came back from Oxford, I took the naming convention I learnt there and called myself Puay Ju Kang. I was on the phone one day and introduced myself as such. The poor guy on the other end of the line was stunned into silence, before regaining his composure with, “huh, Phua Chu Kang?!”

For those of you unfamiliar with Singaporean comedy, this is him:

Source: Toggle

 

So tell me, what’s in your name?

昨晚，舅妈六十大寿庆宴，我最后一次亲了我儿子。我坐在他身旁，看着他喝着混合果汁。我叫他亲我一下，他当没听见。我习惯性地调侃他一下，说-你不愿亲妈妈，妈妈真难过。看见他调适自己, 用喝了果汁后冰冷的嘴唇，往我嘴上一凑。那个感觉，我想我将毕生难忘。回家后，我们三人躺在床上。我又一次问他，是不是已经不再喜欢亲我。他两眼泛着泪光。我说，妈妈真难过。他说，我也难过。我的眼睛湿了。在想，他到底什么时候开始，其实已经不喜欢了。但因为他的母亲，而坚持着。我安静地走入浴室，听见他跟父亲说，I don’t know why I don’t like it anymore. 父亲安慰他，说他在他这个年龄，也不再喜欢。这个父亲，回过头来安慰我，说- it’ll come back. 今早，我对儿子说，你不喜欢妈妈亲你，妈妈以后就不亲了。他说还要妈妈亲，但只是头和脸颊。那就头和脸颊吧。能亲多久，亲多久。

（写于去年四月）