This past summer, my best friend gave me a Chicken Soup for the Soul book entitled O Canada. Not only it's an awesome gift because first of all, I love reading Chicken Soup for the Soul books, but also I get to know a little more of the Canadian culture. I'm currently reading it and so far, I learn that people don't know everything about Canada. Canadians don't live in igloos. Not all Canadians know how to play hockey.
If you're one of those people who lacks of knowledge about Canadians, here's a thing you should at least know. Canada is a multicultural country, and people here share and enjoy various cultures and experiences that merge to become one whole new identity-Canadians. Teamwork and support is one value Canadians treasure, and it is included in this proud sport, ice hockey.
This evening, I volunteered with SHARE Family and Community Services to help out with donations. At the same time, there was a hockey match between the Tri Cities team (Coquitlam, Port Coquitlam, and Port Moody) and the Victoria team (I think it's the name, I saw the first name on the front of the opposing team's jerseys). Before the match began, I helped manage a booth outside with donations while people came by to pick up freshly-cooked patties in hamburgers. The stalls were located a few feet away from the Poirer Sports Complex. The air was frosty cold and the night sky was curtained by a blanket of fog. It was a good thing I had my waterproof ski jacket on even though it made me look like an obese penguin.
Half an hour or so before the match, four girls from the Tri-Cities team came by with a box of SHARE bear dolls. They helped us selling them for those who didn't have a teddy bear to toss during the match. We had these teddy bear to be sold for the food bank which SHARE was in charge of. I was touched and surprised by how generous they were to come by to help us to encourage more people to donate. As the number of passers-by dropped down to zero, I helped the SHARE worker, Jake to move the things in the booth back into his truck and went into the ice rink. At the same time, the weather was impressed with joy spread by the donations given by the people that rain slowly subsided.
Not only was I happy to watch my first ever ice hockey match, but I was also reminded by it as a big part of Canadian culture. Ice hockey is a big talk around me ever since I first heard the word Canucks. "It's like soccer." Jake told me. I thought I was supposed to sit at the table and to help people who are curious of SHARE. But instead, I was facing at the ice rink below me and my eyes were immediately glued to the flat, round, black disc. It was sliding all over the ice surface. I watched as the two teams aimed their hockey sticks at the disc. They were like wolves, chasing after their preys. They went crashing against each other and the transparent walls, pushing opponents out of their ways to reach for their bait. Some were even about to tear each other's guts out until the referee stopped them before a fight began to build up.
The atmosphere rose into a mixture of anticipation and intensity like walking on a tightrope. It wasn't only the bitter cold of the arena that made all eyes focus on the match, the hope for the home team to win a goal was turned into prayers for most of the spectators. It was the third round that caused the tightrope to become a platform. I was texting my mother while suddenly a noisy crescendo of cheering broke the silence. I automatically looked up from my phone and stared at the ice ring. Jake who sat beside me let out a loud "Whoo!". Sure enough, the Tri-Cities team scored one point. Finally, a number other than zero! Seriously, before this, none of the teams scored a point!
The white field was then coloured with a storm of teddy bears flying from the seats. It was surprisingly heartwarming. The teddy bears that were tossed to the ice were to be donated to charity; now that's a fun way to a cause. "I don't know why they do that but the teddy bears that are thrown onto the ice get dirty easily." Jake said. A question rang in my head::Could this be a Canadian tradition?" I don't seem to have heard or seen or read Canadians throwing teddy bears in a big match between Canucks and an opposing team. But anyway, I think this is a practice they do to celebrate the team's victory even with just one goal.
I wished I could stay back to watch the rest of the game, but I went back at around 8pm to catch up the season finale of The Amazing Race season 26. Even though I only got to watch half of the event, I realized that I had experienced a real hockey match, something Canadians are proud to call themselves Canadians. I've read a couple of hockey stories from the Chicken Soup for the Soul book tonight and therefore, to conclude this day, I'm happy that I'm here to indulge in the land of poutine, maple leaves, and hockey matches.
Friday, 19 December 2014
Saturday, 9 August 2014
Rooster Alarm (new memoir chapter about my trip to Sibu, Sarawak-August 2014)
Author's Note:Hey,everyone! I'm SOOOO terribly sorry for not continuing the memoir. I know it has been weeks and I'm just so caught up with my flights to Kuala Lumpur and Sibu, plus I've been going out with my friends, former teachers, and church saints almost every day. I mean, hey, I'm here back in Malaysia and I need to see as many people as possible! But now that I've logged in to my blog, I decided to write a new memoir chapter to keep my responsibilities as a writer alive. Once again, I'm sorry for leaving my memoir blog hanging and thank you for reading my other two blogs these past few weeks. Hope you enjoy reading this new piece!
Rooster Alarm
Towards the Sunset, Beneath the Snow
Written By: Michele Hii
Rooster Alarm
Towards the Sunset, Beneath the Snow
Written By: Michele Hii
“COOKADOOOOO!!!” the sound of a familiarly annoying bird shock
me from my peaceful sleep. The last thing I remember was Grandma entering in my
room to switch off the air conditioner. It was 3am and her slippers that
brushed against the tile floor alerted me from Slumberland. So much for a typical Asian mind for being cheap. And then a freaking
rooster from next door woke me up two hours later. In my head, I was begging
God to give me at least another two hours of sleep so that I can be refreshed
from my still-happening jet lag. I arrived back in Malaysia a few weeks ago and
I was still as sleepy as ever. I'm not surprised at that.
Sibu, Sarawak was the place where my parents were
born. I remember coming here every Chinese New Year. But after I moved to
British Columbia in August 2011, I only managed to go back once every two
years. I was a little ball of sunshine who was excited of living with my
grandparents for the traditional Chinese holiday. I even didn’t mind of a coop
of roosters to wake me up at 6am and to greet my grandparents with a fresh
morning grin. But at this moment, I was really annoyed at that bunch of wacky creatures.
I finally got out of bed at 7:30am and after I got dressed, I noticed that my grandpa and aunt Emily were gone. The only person who lingered around the kitchen was my grandma. I watched for a few seconds as her small, bony figure walked gingerly and her short black curls stayed in place motionlessly as if she had applied hair gel on. "Ah, Michele! Ni Qi Sheng Le! (You're finally awake)" she greeted with a smile. It was a pity that she couldn't speak English, and so was my grandpa. I couldn't speak fluent Mandarin. So we had this minor language barrier standing in between.
"Lai! Chi Zao Chan! (Come! Eat your breakfast!)" my grandma said as she pointed one finger at a bowl of white thin noodles. A big pot of chicken soup was on the stove. It had been two or three years since I had this traditional Foo Chow dish. I walked to the corner of the kitchen and poured a ladleful of the yellowish-orange soup into my bowl. Even though Grandma suffered from Alzheimer's, she still continue on with her usual chores and all the cooking. She carried a curious, innocent attitude. And sometimes she gets on my nerves, but she's still an irreplaceable member of the family.
Speaking of nerves, she had to repeatedly asking the same questions. I find it adorable, but she wouldn't stop asking until my patience meter went boiling with lava. Still, I didn't show my short-tempered disguise. She just couldn't help it. I knew that she hadn't seen me for a long time and so she wanted to spend time with me. It's just that I had plans on my own and I had some old friends to catch up. I would spill my upcoming hangouts to my grandma so that I can remind her that I won't be staying at home for meals, but she would ask me two or three times on what would I be doing in the next few hours. One time, I reminded her that I would be going out for my last lunch of my stay with a friend of my mother's. Grandma hesitantly asked me again a few moments later and she even cooked extras for lunch. It was noon and Auntie Jenny still hadn't showed up. Grandma suggested that I should eat lunch at home instead and cancel the lunch date. Of course I wouldn't want to do that because it was my last day and I couldn't just drop one last opportunity to see my long-time-no-see family friend! That moment made me feel like I was in prison. I wanted to get out of there. Auntie Jenny came to my rescue fifteen minutes later. Her thick black eye-shadowed eyes were covered by a pair of black shades. Her ruby lipsticked smile reminded me of a goddess. I was relieved when I got into her Landcruiser. It was like collapsing onto a cloud in safe haven.
That last afternoon took my mind off my silent fury with my grandma. I smiled when I was all ears with Auntie Jenny's entertaining stories. Her dark brown eyes sparkled with a tint of excitement when she told me about her son who made her a birthday card. His last sentence caught my heart which was, "I'll be a person who fear God". In my head, I pictured her shedding tears of joy after she read the card and her tall and handsome Daniel smiled beside her. She was blessed to have such a child who had strong faith! Despite the heavy traffic on a typical Friday afternoon, we had lunch at a cafe called Junction. Auntie Jenny was like a food psychic. She gave good recommendation on the best food in town, especially the lamb chop dish we had that day. My soul was satisfied as boluses of the chewed lamb chop traveled through my oesophagus and to my stomach, like honey lemon tea that cured a sore throat.
And did I mention that she introduced to the best Kam Pua noodles ever? It was two days ago when we first reunited. She took me to this famous coffee shop (you should know that I'm not good with Chinese names, especially shops). The iced Milo that I ordered helped to cool my dry throat in that viciously hot weather. And then, a big bowl of noodle soup and two plates of Kam Pua noodles were presented before me. I was like "Am I gonna eat all this??" Auntie Jenny shared me a small bowl of her noodle soup while I joyously ate the two freshly-cooked yellow noodles with crispy brown chopped onions and perfectly-drizzled seasoning. My conscience was warning me not to overeat due to my vow of being on a diet, but I didn't care. I was there in Sibu eating dishes of my childhood, and that's that.
One thing that surprised me was her first impression about me. Before we met in person, I got her phone number from my younger sister Megan. As I called her, I could imagine her wearing a thrilled face. Her voice was as jovial as a lark. And then, as I first got into her car, she commented that I "have a great voice". At first, I thought she was playing around. I never thought myself as a person with a loud, clear voice. In my whole life, I describe myself as a person who is a major loser in verbal communication. I would give a bad first impression to anyone I meet, including with my incredibly introvert personality. But to Auntie Jenny, she saw me in a whole different light, like finding missing pieces of a puzzle. "When you first called me, you have this authority-like voice. It's like you can give speeches to children's camps." she said. I was like...did she go to a club before this because I don't think I can be a motivational speaker! Yet through her promising smile, I realized that she wasn't joking at all.
The Landcruiser stopped at a corner of Methodist Secondary School as Auntie Jenny was to pick up her daughter Natasha. Snap! I haven't seen her two kids in years! Auntie Jenny pointed at one of the girls who was camouflaged in a crowd of students. They were all wearing the same school uniform (white shirts and light blue pinafores) so I couldn't tell which was the princess she was pointing. Finally, out of the blue, a six-plus-feet-tall girl with a high ponytail swinging from the back of her head strutted to the car. Her face was still the same, but she looked so mature.
After that, we stopped over at her place to rest for a short while. The conversation continues when she asked me the program I major in college. As I answered "Creative Writing", her mouth dropped open.
"No wonder you have a great voice!" she exclaimed.
"Uh...I don't think so." I hesitated.
"No, really! You can be a writer AND a speaker!" she argued in a friendly way, "You see, you have such a rare gift! Not many people have this kind of talent! Like I say, you can give speeches to a lot of children."
I don't think I can smell beer around her or anywhere in this house.
Our conversation deepened when we ate her homemade kiwi Jell-O. Spoiler alert: her Jell-O was amazing!
"So why do you want to major in this program?" she asked.
"Because I love to write, and I want to share inspirational stories to other people." I replied, "Just like this book." I had taken out my favourite book which was called Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for Writers and put it on the dining table. I handed her my book and she examined the white cover, fascinated.
"You know, my daughter needs to learn from you. She needs to improve her English." she said, "So I was wondering whether you can introduce her to some books like this."
It got me excited because I'd always wanted to recommend something to other people. Natasha came downstairs, just in time for me to talk. She sat opposite me at the table with one kiwi Jell-O on a fork in her hand.
"Natasha," I started, "Do you like to read books?"
"No." she said. Straight forward.
"Then I think you should start reading Chicken Soup for the Soul. This book series will help you to improve your English, I promise you!"
Natasha looked a little reluctant. But I smiled and held my book facing her.
"This is my favourite book. It has a lot of inspirational stories from all sorts of people." And then, I read the last few paragraphs of my favourite story from the book called "It's a Poem" by Raymond P. Weaver. I first summarized the story to Natasha and Auntie Jenny, about how Raymond himself encountered a dying patient who has the heart to regain her poetry skills and she inspired Raymond to finish his novel. As I read the part when Raymond helped the patient to submit her last poem and it had won a poetry contest, I realized that there is always "someone who will inspire me to write until my dying day". I also asked for a piece of paper and a pen to write down several Chicken Soup for the Soul titles for Natasha (and Auntie Jenny) to read. Teen-related titles for Natasha (Chicken Soup for the Soul: Just For Teenagers, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teens Talk) and spiritual or faith-related titles for Auntie Jenny (Chicken Soup for the Soul: Miracles Happen, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels Among Us). After I wrote down the titles, I felt privileged for speaking to someone about something I love to share.
Visiting my grandparents and my old family friend wasn't the only reasons why I returned to Sibu. Three years ago, I studied in the bustling city of Subang Jaya in Kuala Lumpur. I lived in a house for girls who went to the same church, and I shared a room with a girl named Jasmine. Let's just say we both had some misunderstanding with certain things while living together. We hardly talked for a few months which got me upset because I had a feeling that she still hated me. But after moments of distraction from further studies and blending with saints from the other side of earth, Jasmine and I talked and forgave each other.
We managed to meet up on a Thursday during my stay in Sibu. She was really happy to see me. Her gentle-face mother drove us to a famous dim sum restaurant for breakfast. I was glad that we sat in an air-conditioned room because the weather was just way too hot, like the sun was being a little too hot-tempered. That morning was a blast. I ate so much that my stomach was exhaling hard to hold for a little more space. I grinned like a Chesire cat when Jasmine received a key chain and some Reese chocolates I bought from Vancouver gratefully. There's nothing even better than reuniting with old friends.
I kind of regret myself for not extending my stay, because I didn't know that there are still people who I haven't met for so long and I only manage to reunite with them once. Jasmine invited me over for a church meeting at her house during my last night. I had brought a big, rectangular container filled with Hari Raya snacks (Eid) and my grandparents couldn't finish them all. So I decided to bring it to the meeting. And here's the interesting thing I saw once I entered into Jasmine's house. The front wall of the living room was blocked by two big cupboards of stuffed dolls! They had this big collection of Hello Kitty dolls and other kinds of dolls which I can't remember now. It was like a museum exhibition! Anyway, Jasmine and I talked about our lives in college and browsed through some hymns. Half an hour later, a group of church saints arrived at her house and one of them caught my attention. A family of three entered through the door with strikingly familiar faces.
"You look familiar!" I said out loud.
The mother looked at me for a few seconds and exclaimed, "Michele?"
"Yes!" And then I realize that they used to go to my church back in Kota Kinabalu.
It has been years since I saw her, her husband, and their beautiful grown-up daughter! I didn't know they had moved to Sibu!
That night, the church sister and I enjoy the meeting and then talked on how great that we finally met again. Even though it was a short meeting, I loved sitting at the dining table with them, eating the snacks and enjoying each other's company. And yes, the Hara Raya snacks I brought were almost finished!
I was out of the house most of the time that I hadn't had more time to spend with my grandparents, and apparently aunt Emily. However, I guess God managed to squeeze in a little bit of my time to hang out with them. One morning, my snore was interrupted by a short series of knocks on my door. I could instantly hear aunt Emily calling my name. I remembered that I was to go to the market with Grandpa. Oh geez...why it has to be so early? It's only 6:49am! I guess "Sarawakians" are early birds.
Grandpa's Toyota Crown was parked at a public parking lot. His eyes were firmly fixed on the road and concentration was reflected through his round, metal-framed spectacles. His old yellowish-white lucky number still ran like a machine, and the seats were surprisingly comfy. We went to this gigantic open-air building called the Central Market, and I must say, it's been a while since I had been to a market. A number of stalls were arranged in complicated rows like a maze and the paths were so narrow that I had to walk sideways. It brought me back to my childhood when the sellers yelled for bargain. An unforgettable moment that I had to jot down was when I saw a stall selling cages of life chickens! Real-life, head-swiveling, curious chickens! Some of them were wrapped in bundles of newspapers and tied in ropes so that they won't move their wings...or bodies. This is just cruel...and awkward at the same time! I wonder whether a customer who buys a life chicken will either slay it to death or to keep it for egg-hatching for money.
Before the church meeting at Jasmine's, Grandma suggested that we should go for a walk since we just ate dinner. I immediately declined because I stubbornly disciplined myself to focus on my novel series. But she sat on my bed and asked me again whether I wanted to go with her. I could feel her eyes pleading even though I didn't look straight in her eyes. You know, just for getting some fresh air. I eventually decided to leave the story behind and put on my black Converse.
"Ni You Mei You Zhou Guo Zhe Tio Lu Ma? (Have you been to this road before?) " Grandma asked.
"Mei You (No)." I replied.
She led me around the neighbourhood. I never knew that there was more besides the grandparents' house that I had been to ever since I was a kid. The houses were pretty much the same:double-storey terrace houses. Some of them were mansions, which I thought they were probably owned by some crazy rich Foochow merchants. Grandma was scanning around to see where her sister-in-law's house was. I was surprised that she still remembered what did it looked like. She finally stopped at a double-storey house where a row of colourful flowers planted in pots and arranged outside the fence. The gates were opened and Grandma called for her sister-in-law. I guess she didn't really forget everything after all. I mean, look at her! She was like a hound, knowing her directions! Shortly, the rest of the sister-in-law's family came out and greeted me with friendly smiles. Guess the stroll wasn't such a bad idea after all.
I guess living in a village was actually a precious experience. The natural alarm of the rooster, Grandma hand-washing the laundry and her traditional Chinese cooking of chicken soup...I wished I could apologize for not standing by to watch or to help her out. I was busy focusing on myself and my plans to meet up with long lost friends. If only I could wish for a plane ticket next year, I could ask for the route to Sibu where Grandma's homemade chicken dishes were waiting for me on the dining table.
That last afternoon took my mind off my silent fury with my grandma. I smiled when I was all ears with Auntie Jenny's entertaining stories. Her dark brown eyes sparkled with a tint of excitement when she told me about her son who made her a birthday card. His last sentence caught my heart which was, "I'll be a person who fear God". In my head, I pictured her shedding tears of joy after she read the card and her tall and handsome Daniel smiled beside her. She was blessed to have such a child who had strong faith! Despite the heavy traffic on a typical Friday afternoon, we had lunch at a cafe called Junction. Auntie Jenny was like a food psychic. She gave good recommendation on the best food in town, especially the lamb chop dish we had that day. My soul was satisfied as boluses of the chewed lamb chop traveled through my oesophagus and to my stomach, like honey lemon tea that cured a sore throat.
And did I mention that she introduced to the best Kam Pua noodles ever? It was two days ago when we first reunited. She took me to this famous coffee shop (you should know that I'm not good with Chinese names, especially shops). The iced Milo that I ordered helped to cool my dry throat in that viciously hot weather. And then, a big bowl of noodle soup and two plates of Kam Pua noodles were presented before me. I was like "Am I gonna eat all this??" Auntie Jenny shared me a small bowl of her noodle soup while I joyously ate the two freshly-cooked yellow noodles with crispy brown chopped onions and perfectly-drizzled seasoning. My conscience was warning me not to overeat due to my vow of being on a diet, but I didn't care. I was there in Sibu eating dishes of my childhood, and that's that.
One thing that surprised me was her first impression about me. Before we met in person, I got her phone number from my younger sister Megan. As I called her, I could imagine her wearing a thrilled face. Her voice was as jovial as a lark. And then, as I first got into her car, she commented that I "have a great voice". At first, I thought she was playing around. I never thought myself as a person with a loud, clear voice. In my whole life, I describe myself as a person who is a major loser in verbal communication. I would give a bad first impression to anyone I meet, including with my incredibly introvert personality. But to Auntie Jenny, she saw me in a whole different light, like finding missing pieces of a puzzle. "When you first called me, you have this authority-like voice. It's like you can give speeches to children's camps." she said. I was like...did she go to a club before this because I don't think I can be a motivational speaker! Yet through her promising smile, I realized that she wasn't joking at all.
The Landcruiser stopped at a corner of Methodist Secondary School as Auntie Jenny was to pick up her daughter Natasha. Snap! I haven't seen her two kids in years! Auntie Jenny pointed at one of the girls who was camouflaged in a crowd of students. They were all wearing the same school uniform (white shirts and light blue pinafores) so I couldn't tell which was the princess she was pointing. Finally, out of the blue, a six-plus-feet-tall girl with a high ponytail swinging from the back of her head strutted to the car. Her face was still the same, but she looked so mature.
After that, we stopped over at her place to rest for a short while. The conversation continues when she asked me the program I major in college. As I answered "Creative Writing", her mouth dropped open.
"No wonder you have a great voice!" she exclaimed.
"Uh...I don't think so." I hesitated.
"No, really! You can be a writer AND a speaker!" she argued in a friendly way, "You see, you have such a rare gift! Not many people have this kind of talent! Like I say, you can give speeches to a lot of children."
I don't think I can smell beer around her or anywhere in this house.
Our conversation deepened when we ate her homemade kiwi Jell-O. Spoiler alert: her Jell-O was amazing!
"So why do you want to major in this program?" she asked.
"Because I love to write, and I want to share inspirational stories to other people." I replied, "Just like this book." I had taken out my favourite book which was called Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for Writers and put it on the dining table. I handed her my book and she examined the white cover, fascinated.
"You know, my daughter needs to learn from you. She needs to improve her English." she said, "So I was wondering whether you can introduce her to some books like this."
It got me excited because I'd always wanted to recommend something to other people. Natasha came downstairs, just in time for me to talk. She sat opposite me at the table with one kiwi Jell-O on a fork in her hand.
"Natasha," I started, "Do you like to read books?"
"No." she said. Straight forward.
"Then I think you should start reading Chicken Soup for the Soul. This book series will help you to improve your English, I promise you!"
Natasha looked a little reluctant. But I smiled and held my book facing her.
"This is my favourite book. It has a lot of inspirational stories from all sorts of people." And then, I read the last few paragraphs of my favourite story from the book called "It's a Poem" by Raymond P. Weaver. I first summarized the story to Natasha and Auntie Jenny, about how Raymond himself encountered a dying patient who has the heart to regain her poetry skills and she inspired Raymond to finish his novel. As I read the part when Raymond helped the patient to submit her last poem and it had won a poetry contest, I realized that there is always "someone who will inspire me to write until my dying day". I also asked for a piece of paper and a pen to write down several Chicken Soup for the Soul titles for Natasha (and Auntie Jenny) to read. Teen-related titles for Natasha (Chicken Soup for the Soul: Just For Teenagers, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teens Talk) and spiritual or faith-related titles for Auntie Jenny (Chicken Soup for the Soul: Miracles Happen, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Angels Among Us). After I wrote down the titles, I felt privileged for speaking to someone about something I love to share.
Visiting my grandparents and my old family friend wasn't the only reasons why I returned to Sibu. Three years ago, I studied in the bustling city of Subang Jaya in Kuala Lumpur. I lived in a house for girls who went to the same church, and I shared a room with a girl named Jasmine. Let's just say we both had some misunderstanding with certain things while living together. We hardly talked for a few months which got me upset because I had a feeling that she still hated me. But after moments of distraction from further studies and blending with saints from the other side of earth, Jasmine and I talked and forgave each other.
We managed to meet up on a Thursday during my stay in Sibu. She was really happy to see me. Her gentle-face mother drove us to a famous dim sum restaurant for breakfast. I was glad that we sat in an air-conditioned room because the weather was just way too hot, like the sun was being a little too hot-tempered. That morning was a blast. I ate so much that my stomach was exhaling hard to hold for a little more space. I grinned like a Chesire cat when Jasmine received a key chain and some Reese chocolates I bought from Vancouver gratefully. There's nothing even better than reuniting with old friends.
I kind of regret myself for not extending my stay, because I didn't know that there are still people who I haven't met for so long and I only manage to reunite with them once. Jasmine invited me over for a church meeting at her house during my last night. I had brought a big, rectangular container filled with Hari Raya snacks (Eid) and my grandparents couldn't finish them all. So I decided to bring it to the meeting. And here's the interesting thing I saw once I entered into Jasmine's house. The front wall of the living room was blocked by two big cupboards of stuffed dolls! They had this big collection of Hello Kitty dolls and other kinds of dolls which I can't remember now. It was like a museum exhibition! Anyway, Jasmine and I talked about our lives in college and browsed through some hymns. Half an hour later, a group of church saints arrived at her house and one of them caught my attention. A family of three entered through the door with strikingly familiar faces.
"You look familiar!" I said out loud.
The mother looked at me for a few seconds and exclaimed, "Michele?"
"Yes!" And then I realize that they used to go to my church back in Kota Kinabalu.
It has been years since I saw her, her husband, and their beautiful grown-up daughter! I didn't know they had moved to Sibu!
That night, the church sister and I enjoy the meeting and then talked on how great that we finally met again. Even though it was a short meeting, I loved sitting at the dining table with them, eating the snacks and enjoying each other's company. And yes, the Hara Raya snacks I brought were almost finished!
I was out of the house most of the time that I hadn't had more time to spend with my grandparents, and apparently aunt Emily. However, I guess God managed to squeeze in a little bit of my time to hang out with them. One morning, my snore was interrupted by a short series of knocks on my door. I could instantly hear aunt Emily calling my name. I remembered that I was to go to the market with Grandpa. Oh geez...why it has to be so early? It's only 6:49am! I guess "Sarawakians" are early birds.
Grandpa's Toyota Crown was parked at a public parking lot. His eyes were firmly fixed on the road and concentration was reflected through his round, metal-framed spectacles. His old yellowish-white lucky number still ran like a machine, and the seats were surprisingly comfy. We went to this gigantic open-air building called the Central Market, and I must say, it's been a while since I had been to a market. A number of stalls were arranged in complicated rows like a maze and the paths were so narrow that I had to walk sideways. It brought me back to my childhood when the sellers yelled for bargain. An unforgettable moment that I had to jot down was when I saw a stall selling cages of life chickens! Real-life, head-swiveling, curious chickens! Some of them were wrapped in bundles of newspapers and tied in ropes so that they won't move their wings...or bodies. This is just cruel...and awkward at the same time! I wonder whether a customer who buys a life chicken will either slay it to death or to keep it for egg-hatching for money.
Before the church meeting at Jasmine's, Grandma suggested that we should go for a walk since we just ate dinner. I immediately declined because I stubbornly disciplined myself to focus on my novel series. But she sat on my bed and asked me again whether I wanted to go with her. I could feel her eyes pleading even though I didn't look straight in her eyes. You know, just for getting some fresh air. I eventually decided to leave the story behind and put on my black Converse.
"Ni You Mei You Zhou Guo Zhe Tio Lu Ma? (Have you been to this road before?) " Grandma asked.
"Mei You (No)." I replied.
She led me around the neighbourhood. I never knew that there was more besides the grandparents' house that I had been to ever since I was a kid. The houses were pretty much the same:double-storey terrace houses. Some of them were mansions, which I thought they were probably owned by some crazy rich Foochow merchants. Grandma was scanning around to see where her sister-in-law's house was. I was surprised that she still remembered what did it looked like. She finally stopped at a double-storey house where a row of colourful flowers planted in pots and arranged outside the fence. The gates were opened and Grandma called for her sister-in-law. I guess she didn't really forget everything after all. I mean, look at her! She was like a hound, knowing her directions! Shortly, the rest of the sister-in-law's family came out and greeted me with friendly smiles. Guess the stroll wasn't such a bad idea after all.
I guess living in a village was actually a precious experience. The natural alarm of the rooster, Grandma hand-washing the laundry and her traditional Chinese cooking of chicken soup...I wished I could apologize for not standing by to watch or to help her out. I was busy focusing on myself and my plans to meet up with long lost friends. If only I could wish for a plane ticket next year, I could ask for the route to Sibu where Grandma's homemade chicken dishes were waiting for me on the dining table.
Sunday, 15 June 2014
Stitches
I guess this is caused by aging, because I can't figure out my fondest memory with my dad. My cloudy brain is playing on me, but I have this vivid memory that I can't shake it off.
I was a primary school kid, probably when I was 8 or 9 years old. My mother's family had this tradition of gathering together in our summer home called Salim. Every Chinese New Year, my family and I returned to my parents' hometown in Sibu, Sarawak, Malaysia. That time of year always got me bursting with excitement that I couldn't wait to kick my school's butt off for a week or so. I got so tired of those mean Chinese boys calling me names and shooting me with arrows of hatred and discouragement. I remembered boarding a plane with a big smile on my small face.
Like my cousins, I was looking forward to a night when we get to play with firecrackers. Surprisingly, it was not illegal for the neighbourhoods in Sibu to be electrified by a storm of rainbow sparks. I loved that lively atmosphere when almost all balconies of houses were overtook by boxes of little balls that exploded and popped like soda or countless bundles of bamboo sticks with a flame lit on the tips that melted down like heated ice cream. There were some brave families who bought big tubes of explosive content to make fireworks. Real ones. The safety rule was to run far away from the fizzing fire before the tubes shot sparks in the air and boomed into huge aerial flowers. To my horror, the rule was broken...that night.
I couldn't remember how many were frolicking at the entrance of the mansion, but we were having a blast. All I saw were bright, sharp twirlings of bamboo sticks with fizzing sparks on each top. When the sparks reached to the bottom of the sticks, we had to drop them down to the road so that the spark could be extinguished. Dad volunteered to release fireworks with a few uncles. I peeked from a small cluster of orange stars that fizzed in front of me. The group walked to a distance from us and arranged bundles of firework equipment in a circle. With one whip of a fire match, an uncle lit on top of the material bunch and there was a loud whistle...followed by a silence. It wasn't an ordinary silence. I couldn't quite see what happened because the darkness of the night blinded my vision.
And the next thing I remembered, I was sitting on a bench of the porch. My mom told me that Dad was injured. Chills crawled to my spine as I held my breath. My eyes locked straight ahead as two uncles helped my dad to sit on the bench opposite my mother and I. I felt like watching a live screening of a serial killer scene. His head was covered in crimson fluid. I wanted to scream, but I was too scared to say a word. He was shortly sent to the nearest hospital. My mom took me into the house and straight to a bedroom where my family stayed over for the night. "Go take a shower and get changed, Michele." Mom ordered. "What about Papa?" I asked. My heart was beating wildly as I wanted to dart back to the porch so that I can follow my dad to the hospital. "He'll be fine, don't worry." Mom replied. I hated being a bad girl, so I obeyed her. I even couldn't sleep well that night. The fluorescent lamp outside the room was still bright like an angel's radiance. It shone through the half-closed curtains of the window. All I could think while staring at that light was Dad.
The next day, I was slurping my favourite noodles called Kam Pua. It was a popular Foochow dish and funny that, it was available in hawker stalls of Sibu. At a corner of my eye, Dad approached through the opened doors of the living room. He greeted me with a small smile. As I looked up, the top of his head was in stitches (I couldn't remember the exact number) and was protected by a big bandage. He said that he was okay, his head would be healed in a few weeks..or was it months?
The bloody paint all over his head that night haunted me at times, but I reminded myself that Dad was saved by God. Thank the Lord that he had blessed Dad's life.From that day onward, I tried not to play with firecrackers too much and I've never saw Dad going near to the firework tubes ever since.
I was a primary school kid, probably when I was 8 or 9 years old. My mother's family had this tradition of gathering together in our summer home called Salim. Every Chinese New Year, my family and I returned to my parents' hometown in Sibu, Sarawak, Malaysia. That time of year always got me bursting with excitement that I couldn't wait to kick my school's butt off for a week or so. I got so tired of those mean Chinese boys calling me names and shooting me with arrows of hatred and discouragement. I remembered boarding a plane with a big smile on my small face.
Like my cousins, I was looking forward to a night when we get to play with firecrackers. Surprisingly, it was not illegal for the neighbourhoods in Sibu to be electrified by a storm of rainbow sparks. I loved that lively atmosphere when almost all balconies of houses were overtook by boxes of little balls that exploded and popped like soda or countless bundles of bamboo sticks with a flame lit on the tips that melted down like heated ice cream. There were some brave families who bought big tubes of explosive content to make fireworks. Real ones. The safety rule was to run far away from the fizzing fire before the tubes shot sparks in the air and boomed into huge aerial flowers. To my horror, the rule was broken...that night.
I couldn't remember how many were frolicking at the entrance of the mansion, but we were having a blast. All I saw were bright, sharp twirlings of bamboo sticks with fizzing sparks on each top. When the sparks reached to the bottom of the sticks, we had to drop them down to the road so that the spark could be extinguished. Dad volunteered to release fireworks with a few uncles. I peeked from a small cluster of orange stars that fizzed in front of me. The group walked to a distance from us and arranged bundles of firework equipment in a circle. With one whip of a fire match, an uncle lit on top of the material bunch and there was a loud whistle...followed by a silence. It wasn't an ordinary silence. I couldn't quite see what happened because the darkness of the night blinded my vision.
And the next thing I remembered, I was sitting on a bench of the porch. My mom told me that Dad was injured. Chills crawled to my spine as I held my breath. My eyes locked straight ahead as two uncles helped my dad to sit on the bench opposite my mother and I. I felt like watching a live screening of a serial killer scene. His head was covered in crimson fluid. I wanted to scream, but I was too scared to say a word. He was shortly sent to the nearest hospital. My mom took me into the house and straight to a bedroom where my family stayed over for the night. "Go take a shower and get changed, Michele." Mom ordered. "What about Papa?" I asked. My heart was beating wildly as I wanted to dart back to the porch so that I can follow my dad to the hospital. "He'll be fine, don't worry." Mom replied. I hated being a bad girl, so I obeyed her. I even couldn't sleep well that night. The fluorescent lamp outside the room was still bright like an angel's radiance. It shone through the half-closed curtains of the window. All I could think while staring at that light was Dad.
The next day, I was slurping my favourite noodles called Kam Pua. It was a popular Foochow dish and funny that, it was available in hawker stalls of Sibu. At a corner of my eye, Dad approached through the opened doors of the living room. He greeted me with a small smile. As I looked up, the top of his head was in stitches (I couldn't remember the exact number) and was protected by a big bandage. He said that he was okay, his head would be healed in a few weeks..or was it months?
The bloody paint all over his head that night haunted me at times, but I reminded myself that Dad was saved by God. Thank the Lord that he had blessed Dad's life.From that day onward, I tried not to play with firecrackers too much and I've never saw Dad going near to the firework tubes ever since.
Saturday, 10 May 2014
Staying Till Evening
It's funny that I have one or two flashbub memories of my days in kindergarten, like the time when I swallowed a hard round candy and I choked hard while walking down the stairs with a line of kids. I panicked a little, but I squeezed my throat to push the candy up to my mouth. I think no one noticed it.
One thing that stuck in my head is when I stayed back in Tze Yu Kindergarten school for the first time. I was 5 or 6 years old and I was surprised when my Mom got off her white car one afternoon. I thought I was to get into the car while suddenly one of my teachers caught me by my right shoulder. My mom handed her a bag of clothes. Question marks floated in my head and I didn't pay attention to the adults talking, for I was too psyched to get back home. Mom then told me to get out of the car and follow the teacher back into the school.
Tears trickled from my eyes. I watched helplessly as Mom drove off. The teacher in a red and white uniform shirt and a matching skirt led me to the classroom where lunch was served. A number of kids were already in their casual clothes; they were sitting at desks like trained dogs. The teacher gently told me to change into the clothes Mom brought for me. Still hiccuping, I took the bag from the teacher's hands and went to nearest washroom.
I continually cried, even during lunch time and nap time. I remember that I didn't finish the food on the blue tray. The veggies and the fish that laid before me made me miss Mom's cooking. I wished I can steal my teacher's Nokia phone and call Mom to pick me up so that I can gobble up her homemade fish fillets and gulp up her chicken soup.
During nap period, I was the only sobbing brat in the gigantic hall. The other kids were already snuggled up in thin, towel-like blankets. My teacher wore a smile as she tucked me in. The mattress was a little hard, but I still couldn't stop thinking of seeing my mother. "Look at your classmates, Michele! They're not crying." she said, gesturing one hand at the kids surrounding me who were sleeping like logs. More like angels. "Close your eyes and your mother will come, okay?" she whispered to my ear. The crying that seemed to last about an hour or so suddenly diminished. I let out a yawn and slowly dozed off. From that day onwards, I began to adapt in the after school schedule of eating lunch and napping.
One thing that stuck in my head is when I stayed back in Tze Yu Kindergarten school for the first time. I was 5 or 6 years old and I was surprised when my Mom got off her white car one afternoon. I thought I was to get into the car while suddenly one of my teachers caught me by my right shoulder. My mom handed her a bag of clothes. Question marks floated in my head and I didn't pay attention to the adults talking, for I was too psyched to get back home. Mom then told me to get out of the car and follow the teacher back into the school.
Tears trickled from my eyes. I watched helplessly as Mom drove off. The teacher in a red and white uniform shirt and a matching skirt led me to the classroom where lunch was served. A number of kids were already in their casual clothes; they were sitting at desks like trained dogs. The teacher gently told me to change into the clothes Mom brought for me. Still hiccuping, I took the bag from the teacher's hands and went to nearest washroom.
I continually cried, even during lunch time and nap time. I remember that I didn't finish the food on the blue tray. The veggies and the fish that laid before me made me miss Mom's cooking. I wished I can steal my teacher's Nokia phone and call Mom to pick me up so that I can gobble up her homemade fish fillets and gulp up her chicken soup.
During nap period, I was the only sobbing brat in the gigantic hall. The other kids were already snuggled up in thin, towel-like blankets. My teacher wore a smile as she tucked me in. The mattress was a little hard, but I still couldn't stop thinking of seeing my mother. "Look at your classmates, Michele! They're not crying." she said, gesturing one hand at the kids surrounding me who were sleeping like logs. More like angels. "Close your eyes and your mother will come, okay?" she whispered to my ear. The crying that seemed to last about an hour or so suddenly diminished. I let out a yawn and slowly dozed off. From that day onwards, I began to adapt in the after school schedule of eating lunch and napping.
Wednesday, 30 April 2014
Chapter 2: Dream or Real?
It is weird that my sister Megan and I have this memory. It looks like a dream, but we can remember it.
I was 5 or 6 years old when it happened. It was a warm Sunday morning. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, chatting. My brother, Manuel, was one year younger than me. 3-years old Megan was with us too. I couldn't remember how the three of us got into Mom's white car. It wasn't actually our car. One of my uncles (or was it my grandfather) had owned this small, manual mobile for many years. It wasn't surprising that it still ran smooth.
The only moment I can recall is when action crashed in. Megan pressed the accelerator with two chubby hands. Manuel was sitting beside me, and I ended up stirring the wheel. You wouldn't believe this, but it's true. Megan and I bring this memory back quite a few times, and we remember the car rolling off the white iron gates, down the steep slope, turned left, and down the hill. I also can picture Mom's shrill scream from the back. I swiveled my head, and a woman with a face as white as an A4 paper waving her arms like spaghetti as she chased after the car. As I think about it, it looks scary. But in my child perspective, I would thought of this as an exciting adventure.
Mom must have left her keys in the ignition that caused us to start the engine and go crazy. Imagine three naughty children (well, two actually, Manuel had no idea that he was involved) drove our only car down the uneven road of the neighbourhood.
Megan and I tell Mom that this memory is real. But she keeps shaking her head, saying that she can't remember anything about it. It might have been a false memory, something a human brain can do to trick a human. But as far as I can picture, I have a feeling that this incident...feels real.
I was 5 or 6 years old when it happened. It was a warm Sunday morning. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, chatting. My brother, Manuel, was one year younger than me. 3-years old Megan was with us too. I couldn't remember how the three of us got into Mom's white car. It wasn't actually our car. One of my uncles (or was it my grandfather) had owned this small, manual mobile for many years. It wasn't surprising that it still ran smooth.
The only moment I can recall is when action crashed in. Megan pressed the accelerator with two chubby hands. Manuel was sitting beside me, and I ended up stirring the wheel. You wouldn't believe this, but it's true. Megan and I bring this memory back quite a few times, and we remember the car rolling off the white iron gates, down the steep slope, turned left, and down the hill. I also can picture Mom's shrill scream from the back. I swiveled my head, and a woman with a face as white as an A4 paper waving her arms like spaghetti as she chased after the car. As I think about it, it looks scary. But in my child perspective, I would thought of this as an exciting adventure.
Mom must have left her keys in the ignition that caused us to start the engine and go crazy. Imagine three naughty children (well, two actually, Manuel had no idea that he was involved) drove our only car down the uneven road of the neighbourhood.
Megan and I tell Mom that this memory is real. But she keeps shaking her head, saying that she can't remember anything about it. It might have been a false memory, something a human brain can do to trick a human. But as far as I can picture, I have a feeling that this incident...feels real.
Monday, 28 April 2014
Before You Scroll Down...
I just want to say thank you for dropping by. My name is Michele Hii and I'm an aspiring writer. I have two blogs on Blogspot.com ("Life of A Writer" and "The Magic Mimosa Plant") and one blog on Wordpress.com that is left hanging (it's called Aspiring Lines and I'll get it active again someday this summer). You might ask me "Whoa, that's a lot of blogs. Why you're creating this fourth blog?" Well, you see, I have this dream of sharing my life with other people. I've taken four creative writing classes in Douglas College in BC, Canada, and my favourites among the classes are Personal Narrative and Memoir Writing. I just love to write about my past experiences and I love experimenting with story structures (linear timeline forms are my favourite), plus poetic phrases. Since I've shared a fair amount of my life stories with colleagues in two semesters, I decided to work on my first memoir. So this blog is all about my memoir. I'll post in-progress chapters here, and I'll find time to edit and rewrite before transforming these stories into a book.
But before we begin, I would like to share a little bit on what my memoir is all about. Towards the Sunset, Beneath the Snow is about a series of memories I can remember from my toddler years to my migration with my family to Canada. It's a basically a journey about how God has arranged all different kinds of people for me to meet, the experiences, for me to suffer and smile, as well as how I discover my passion in writing poetry and stories. I choose this title because I combine a sunset from Malaysia and snow from Canada into one picture to tell my readers that two worlds can connect into one big influence in my life.
List of Chapters
I'll post the chapter list later...
But before we begin, I would like to share a little bit on what my memoir is all about. Towards the Sunset, Beneath the Snow is about a series of memories I can remember from my toddler years to my migration with my family to Canada. It's a basically a journey about how God has arranged all different kinds of people for me to meet, the experiences, for me to suffer and smile, as well as how I discover my passion in writing poetry and stories. I choose this title because I combine a sunset from Malaysia and snow from Canada into one picture to tell my readers that two worlds can connect into one big influence in my life.
List of Chapters
I'll post the chapter list later...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)