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）

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.