It All Started With A Paper

          Whenever I meet new people, they get interested once I reveal that I love to write. I'm hit by these two questions "Since when you start writing?" or "How long have you write?". I give the one and same answer, "I started writing when I was nine." To my surprise, they don't ask me how I approach to writing. Sometimes, I roam around my room to look for inspiration whenever I get stuck with a poem or a story. I also allow lines flow on paper in the blink of an eye. But what people don't know about me is that I get inspiration from a paper. A line paper torn from a St.James Primary School notebook.

          I was sitting in a third grade (Primary 3) classroom. I slumped on my chair, surrounded by students who chatter with delight and excitement. Boredom and isolation danced in my head. Suddenly, an idea clicked like a switch that flicked open automatically. I immediately pulled out my school notebook and tore a page. A favourite Barbie movie flashed in my head, and in seconds, my pen glided gracefully in the lines like an ice skater. I also had this method of folding the paper into a small square-shaped booklet before writing down a story. It's kind of like a mini book form, but I got confused once I read through them, trying to figure out which was the next part. I thanked the Lord for providing free periods and substitute teachers because I could continue with my stories of Barbie movies. I copied every scene and as many lines of each character as possible.

         Before school started on January 2003, I returned from a family trip to Singapore with a couple of sticker collections. The Finding Nemo and Brother Bear stickers gave me an idea of creating graphic novels which I called "sticker booklets". I added a sticker that was related to a scene of the story.

        In 2004, a couple of friends made me realized that I write. It was 10 minutes before the teacher entered in the classroom. I was busy writing a Barbie story, while suddenly Sheila craned her neck from the front. Her black ponytail shadowed over my paper that blocked the fluorescent light above me. "What are you doing?" she asked curiously. I paused and looked up, "I'm...writing a story." The next thing I knew, Sheila's dark brown eyes were sparkling. "No way! Can I read it?" I was a little surprised, for I had never show someone my writing before. I didn't realized that I passed my unfinished booklet to her without reluctance. A smile spread on her delicate face. "Oh wow! This is awesome!" Sheila exclaimed with widened eyes, "Kara! You've got to check this out! Michele writes this story!" Our other friend, Kara, approached to my desk with a whirl of interest drawn over her light brown eyes. I saw a smile on her Caucasian countenance that caused my heart to leap in excitement. "Wow! That's neat!" she commented. "Hey! Have you heard of Oliver Twist?" Sheila chipped in, "Maybe someday you can write an Oliver Twist story for me!" I nodded in reply. Oliver Twist was one of my favourite classics, and I immediately recalled on the novel I had read a few days ago. I can't remember how the progress went, but Sheila was delighted when she read my Oliver Twist booklet.

      That was when I realized I should write my own stories in a book. A notebook, to be exact. Once I arrived home from school, I dashed upstairs to the bedroom where I shared with my younger sister, Megan. I rummaged through my shelves and cabinet without having the thought of being yelled by my mother for making a mess. Finally, I found a transparent package of blue and white exercise books deep inside the cabinet. It was like finding a lost treasure hidden in the Caribbean. The first thing that came to my mind was Disney's Brother Bear. I began my series of stories with a spin-off of that film.  It was entitled "Animal Tale" and I remember switching the setting from the ice-caped North America to the cool-misted Mount Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia. I can't exactly remember how my own first story went, but I had fun playing with the characters and the plot to make it into my own product.

      During my secondary school years, I found myself writing stories which were inspired from Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, an Australian cartoon series called Blinky Bill, three Barbie movies, and a number of Hong Kong drama shows. Speaking of Hong Kong shows, I have no idea why I watched those at such young ages. Of course I couldn't understand Cantonese so I watched the episodes with Malay subtitles. I guess the reason why I was inspired by those kind of TV shows back then was because I was hooked by the mixture of suspense and romance in the plots. I also spent my pocket money buying new notebooks for upcoming stories which drove my mother crazy, but it was worth it.

        Turning movies and TV shows into words on notebook pages with little twists of characters and plots caused me to lose focus on my studies. Time by time, I filled out countless notebooks with stories that sent  my heart soaring with joy, pride, and freedom. However, once I entered through the college gate, I realized that I had spent so much time copying ideas from media. I learnt the definition of "plagiarism" and that got me worried for wasting time writing stories that were not according to my own ideas.

       Before I transferred to Canada, I was told to clean up my room. I encountered a box of old notebooks while I was dusting my cabinet. They were the vessels that lightened up my childhood. I got all emotional, thinking whether I should get rid of them. It had been so long, and they were not meant to be published. They were squeezed into one stepping stone for me to start using my own imagination and not to be just inspired by the black electronic box in the middle of the living room. Without further thinking, I stuffed all of the old notebooks, scribbled and torn, into a big plastic bag. And the next thing I knew, I placed the bag next to a pile of newspapers and a bunch of other materials at the porch of our house. That day of my flight, I watched with a minor wave of doubt as a worker of the nearest recycle center dumped all of the collections into the truck. There went my stories. My first attempt of writing together with the rest of my trials were about to be transformed into new, common possessions for people.

       Even until now, I regret of throwing one of my precious piece of childhood away. But I am not entirely upset because I have one remaining story that is safe with me. My two "Barbie in Princess and the Pauper" booklets are stored in one of my diaries, and every time I look through them, they remind me to never forget how I start writing and to keep on grabbing my pen or tapping the keyboard of my laptop. An idea is the secret weapon to a story, and a blank paper is the source to a product. So dear paper which I wrote my first ever story, if you have eyes, ears and heart, I just want to say...thank you.

A Bullied One Is A Warrior

      The fourth grade (Primary 4 as we call it in Malaysia) classroom was humid as usual. Heat waves crept through the windows like mist as the sun fiercely radiated the city of Kota Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia. It wasn't the temperature that caused me to be boiling in and out. The kid in front of me attacked me with mean, hurtful words. Mandarin words that I couldn't stand. He wasn't just a typical St.James primary school student. Teachers and students admired him  as an English story-telling champion in several years. Every time he was on stage, he attracted everyone with his big, emotional voice. Some strong quality an English teacher in an Asian school looked for. I didn't know whether anyone noticed this, but deep inside, he was a sneaky demon. When a teacher was no around, he shot darts of malign and hatred at me for no reason. He was also like a leader in a group of boys who joined in the bullying. They enjoyed tearing me into pieces. I showed a blank sight of tears in front of them, but within my heart, I was hollering and whimpering.

       It cluttered in my mind like a syringe. He was there, in front of my desk. He was surrounded with a couple of his mates, teasing me on how different and stupid I was. What did I do wrong? I was completely confused, but I wore a stoic mask over my physical face. They didn't see that I was foaming in my mouth, trying to calm the effervescing bubbles in my reddened heart down. Suddenly, their snickering reached my breaking point. I snatched my pink mechanical pencil from my desk and stabbed at one of his eyes. It happened in the blink of an eye. Time froze. I didn't actually stabbed the pointy lead at his eyeball, just at the lower lash line around his eye. I paused like a statue, realizing at what I just did. He covered his injury with both hands clasped tightly. A wave of silence filled the room. I swore everyone in the classroom was staring at me with mouths hung open. Luckily, the final bell rang. I packed my things with shivering hands and dashed out of the room like a rocket. I had never been so afraid in my life.

       I had my lips sealed from my family. I didn't have the courage to tell anyone about the incident. I wished I could stay home the next day, or switch schools so that the boy won't chase after me. I pleaded God that everything that happened that day could be erased from his mind, and my own mind too, but it wasn't possible.

        Nothing got better the next day. As the Mandarin teacher entered through the door, the first thing she did was that she called me to come over to her desk. My heart flipped like a pancake from a pan. I quickly blinked my eyes to prevent from tears coming out as I walked innocently to the big wooden table at the front. She looked at me with her brown eyes glazed with a layer of  concern and anger, "Is it true that you stabbed at him with a mechanical pencil?" I nodded slowly. All I did was nodding and staring at the hardened cement floor. She didn't give me any punishment, but a warning that cling to me like a koala bear on a tree branch, "The lead in mechanical pencils are poisonous. It's dangerous to use them against other people. Hen wei xian de. You have to be careful next time, am I clear?" I nodded for one last time before she allowed me to go back to my seat. (I translate this from Chinese to English, and I add in the phrase in italics to prove that it's originally spoken in Chinese.) I took a glimpse of the boy who sat at the row behind mine. He had a dark bruise on the lower part of his eye. There wasn't serious damage. He gave me this icy glare that killed me mentally; it signaled me to urge myself to run before he raised a sharp weapon from his back to slash my face. I felt stupid for not telling the teacher that his abusive words caused me to react in such a way, but I was the one who caused a bigger effect on him, and that made me feel like a criminal. A 10-year-old, not-so-innocent, criminal. I wished I could just faint so that I could be sent to a mental hospital, and made my parents worried like hell because they didn't seemed to care about my previous endless complaints of being bullied.

       He recovered a few days later, and he still had a playful, evil grin. He harassed me with more words of sin, and I stayed silent for the entire year. He was then followed by more boys who enjoyed making me feel bad during my last two years of elementary school. Every time I tried to explain to my parents or any other adults I thought I could trust, they just won't care much. "Just ignore them." my mom simply replied. But that didn't work at all. Even when I switched seats, nothing got better!

      Not only I got bullied by those mean boys, but I also got verbally abused by teachers too. Back when I was in second grade (Primary 2), I was taught by this horrifyingly-strict teacher who criticized my work in Mandarin class. I don't know, I guess she looked down on students who are weak in Chinese. I encountered her once again when I entered fifth grade (Primary 5) ; she was like Ursula who wanted to murder me with a potion of death. She complained on how messy my handwriting was and my weak progress in completing homework. Wow, so much for boosting a little girl's confidence. I wasn't the only one who got trapped under that shrill voice of hers. A friend in that class, Abigail struggled hard as much as I did in improving her Mandarin and completing her assignments. However, the teacher was not impressed. I had no idea why she was always angry at the two of us. I even felt sorry for Abigail who was being called stubborn and the so-called story of her mother being good friends with the teacher or something. "Your mother is way better than you, Abigail! You should be ashamed of yourself!" the teacher retorted. Man! That's harsh!

         You think my elementary school years were tough? Well, you should see how my freshman year in secondary school ended up into. I was still the silent, timid, antisocial girl everybody knew. Once I was enrolled into the stage of puberty, I told myself that secondary school was all about a new beginning. I would make new friends, be respected, and change myself. Unfortunately, things were not what I expected. I was involved in a group of Muslims and Kadazans (an ethnic group of indigenous in Sabah), and they were not who I called "true friends". From a corner of the school parking lot, I spotted a few of them, and they went on giggling and snickering and whispering. Their eyes were on me, and they gossiped to one another. They were probably talking about how fast I walked, or perhaps how fat I looked. What's the matter with that? I walked fast, so what? That doesn't looked ladylike to you? Fine! But I could felt that they kept making fun of me behind my back. All the time.

         There was this boy back in eighth grade (we called it Form 2) who was like the Joker of the classroom. His target was me. He made faces at me and called me names, attracting others, no..the entire class to pick on me. The teachers didn't notice this. They secretly put on their halos, showing their pure innocence in front of the adults. And shortly, I saw devil horns poking out of their heads. They made me reach my breaking point as well, but I didn't react. They just can't stop calling me a loser, a jerk, or a loner. And the worst part was, they randomly matched  me with a guy I barely even knew in the class. Twice. Well, I ignored that. That entire year, I faced their mean oral assaults. That boy played around, blocking me from going to my seat after every recess. What's so funny about that? Stop messing up with me! I wished I could have the guts to tell a teacher, but I was bubbled up in a shield of terror.

       With all these that happened, I planned to commit suicide. I pictured myself pointing a kitchen knife towards my chest or hanging myself on one of my mom's scarves. I even blamed God for not protecting me from those horrible people. One day, God told me to halt. He reminded me of a verse in the Bible, but I couldn't remember the actual sentence. I was told that committing suicide is a sin. A very dangerous. sinful action. He also made me realized that all those bullying would fade away sooner that I thought. I wondered how the nightmare of my life would last. No one supported me; no one made me smile. I continued to do what I enjoy doing, but not many people came to embolden me.

God promised me that all of these would come to an end. After countless prayers and tears of silence, it happened. When ninth grade (Form 3) arrived, I was surrounded by a new circle of friends. And yes, they were what I called "true friends". New friends that I dreamed of. We had experiences of feeling pain and trying to overcoming obstacles, but we supported each other and stayed strong. I realized that I was not alone. There were people out there who shared the same pain as I did, and they successfully pulled my frown upside down.

Demi Lovato sings, "I'm a warrior, I got thicker skin, I'm stronger than I'll ever be in my armour, it's made of steel, you can't get in, and you can never hurt me again." My dear wonderful friends from ninth grade to eleventh grade are always by my side, even when I'm far apart from home today. Because of them, I am healed. Because of them, I learn to chase after my dream of doing the things I want to do. The little satans somehow hook in my nostalgic mind, but here's what I have to say: you have hurt me, but I stand tall. You may not realize what you've done to me, but I'll never forgive you until you know what you did.

Behind The Rain Is A Light of God

Brief note: I was thinking of sharing this as a testimony for the saints, but I think it would be better if I share this here to refresh my memory. I might edit this to turn it into a Personal Narrative piece (just for fun) but..I'll see how it goes.Before I came to Canada, I was a half-year student at Taylors' College (in Kuala Lumpur) for the Canadian Pre-University program. Canadian Pre-U (CPU) is kind of like a preparation/transition for Malaysian students to get accessible grades to enter Canadian universities, unfortunately it's only recognizable in Ontario. Anyway, living in my first college life at Taylors for six months was definitely an experience, including when I was with the church sisters in Subang Jaya (the town I lived). I lived in one of the row of houses just opposite the CPU building, and it was rented for church girls. We went to church together and we did spiritual, holy things like reading the bible and Christian books. Of course, we hung out as well but not too often because of our college work.

One of the things we CPU students needed to complete in order to graduate was to do 10 hours of community service. Once I heard about it, I was freaking out. How was I suppose to do that? I had assignments to do and exams to prepare, plus I hadn't done anything like that before. Jesus knew what I was going through, and he sneaked in a miracle for me.

It was a heavy rainstorm. The dark cotton puffs above shed storms of tears down the earth.I rushed to campus with an umbrella in one hand and presentation materials in a bag in my other hand. I tried not to groan too much because of my wet sandals and soaked jeans which was drenched by the rain. There was poor drainage, so there was a sheet of water flooded the roads. I nearly slipped on the shiny tile floor of the CPU building. Luckily, I made it to the classroom on time. A classmate and I had to do a presentation on AIDS in the Individuals and Families In A Diverse Society course (a kind of complicated social science subject).  I settled on a chair in the freezing air-conditioned room before bringing my pen drive to the lecturer's laptop. While doing it, I silently wondered whether the rainstorm would cause more harm to the urban city of Subang Jaya. This thought slipped when I realized that it was my turn to speak. I was shivering, and it was not due to the frosty-like temperature. It was my speech. I remembered saying a line that made the entire class laughed like I was an idiot from an alienated world, and it was about AIDS in sex is caused by gay men (yes, call me stupid). I had no idea where I got that information from.

The class ended as soon as our presentation was over. I made my way back to my temporary crib and groaned even more when the bottom of my jeans sagged heavier than before. Thanks a lot, Mother Nature.


The home phone in the living room rang that made me jumped. I left my early dinner of Swiss roll on a glass table and took the call. I couldn't quite understand what the person on the line was talking about, for I was rusty in Mandarin. Thanks to translation from one of the roommates, I received bad news from the nearest church. It turned out that the roof was leaking and stacks of Christian books which were stored in the attic of the church were soaked with naughty rainwater. The guardian (we usually call him/her a "serving one") on the phone was looking for volunteers to help out with carrying and moving the books away from the soon-to-be-ruined attic. I decided to help out, and most of us sisters in the house agreed to drop by.

We sprinted under the splattering fountain, overcoming its droplets that attacked against our skin like bullets. We went down the sidewalk, past the long row of cafes while avoided from getting distracted by the food, turn right to an opposite block, and at the foot of a flight of stairs. A semicircle of saints crowded there, waiting for a few muscular brothers to climb down with small piles of books in hands. It was like building an anthill. We took turns carrying books passed by the brothers and stacked them in the wide-spaced trunk of a truck.  I had no idea how many books we had to carry. There were saints who volunteered to drive the troubled books down to a building which we called a "training center". It was where we saints were to consecrate ourselves and our lives to God and to be separated from the world, to be perfected for God's second coming.The training center was the only place for us to store the books for a while until the next day.

 I volunteered to go up the stairs to the third floor where the small church was situated. Some sisters sat around the floor, tearing out large pieces of newspapers and wrapping remaining books with them. I recognized some serving-ones and helped them out with the process. I could feel adrenaline rushing in, even through the auras of each sister who fumbled and steadied their hands on the combination of wet and dry books written by the legendary brother Watchman Nee and brother Witness Lee. We were worried that the rain would get stronger and more books in the attic would be spoiled. It was like destroying God's words. However, our mouths were silvered with encouraging, hopeful lines of prayer. The Lord soon strengthened us with his light. A tiny spark of luminescence glowed inside of me, emboldening me.

There were several dozens of stacks left and a sign of luck was shown through the fading rain from the windows. One of the serving-ones suggested that  we should go for a break. I followed a group of sisters to the nearby food court. My heart lifted once I felt the severe drizzle. There was hope that the little flood around the area would diminish the next morning. We were greeted by the buzzing atmosphere of the famous food court in Subang Jaya. The rows of bright fluorescent lamps above shone down the nearly-packed restaurant. Hawkers wore their usual loud voices to attract customers. Night owls, especially men, fixed their eyes on a television screen at the top center while watched football matches live. We sat at a perfect empty table and ordered our desired Malaysian dishes. Thanked the Lord for recharging us with the food, we were ready to go back to work.

The clock struck 11pm, and my eyelids were at their limit. They were drooping so quickly that I hardly could keep myself awake for a little bit longer. One of my roommates noticed and decided to walk me home. Before I left, I scanned around with relief as the number of book piles began to decrease. I was sure that they would be done by midnight. And they did.

 I was pretty sure that Satan was behind all this. He tried to ruin God's speaking by ruining the precious works from our fellow brothers, but he was missing something. God was there to help us. He never gave up on saving the books by encouraging us to transfer the books to the training center as a safe place for the night. Ha! Take that, Satan! We even learnt the power of teamwork among us, reminding us that we were one with God. No..we ARE one with God! Oneness was the key to the expression of God. And another good thing about this incident was that I had performed six hours of community service! By a snap of a finger! Well, for the remaining four hours I had to find something else to do community service, but I had figured it out. That late night, as I slipped into the bottom of the double-storey bed with a smile on my face, I felt blessed that God had solved my problem.

It All Comes From Her Career

Should I write a personal narrative about my family? Or just a simple blog post? Oh, well, I'm getting started anyway.

It's fascinating to hear that the main personality of each of us comes from our mother. One dinner, she shared with us on how our main strength/ interest was created while we were in her womb.

She started her business at Popular Tuition Center when I was in her womb. She didn't had a good number of teachers that time, so she had to teach a few classes besides her three (or is it four) helpful teachers. She taught primary school students English (Singapore level) and I guess her teachings got soaked into my developing, tiny brain in all those weeks. Her early days of teaching English was the reason why I'm good in the language (not really actually, I always make grammar mistakes =P). As for Manuel, Mom faces her most stressful years yet. I believe when my brother was nestling in her tummy, she tried hard to find more teachers and manage more things to make her business better. But then I wonder how does Manuel get the talent of playing the piano?

Megan's part fascinates me the most. Mom's business boomed with success as she accepted a good big number of students and staff. She was immersed into the habit of counting stashes of bucks, and this caused Megan in her body to be enthusiastic in flipping money. (Remind you of a once-famous-Disney-Channel-show? The boy with the mind of a salesman with the last name, Baxter.) Speaking of money, Megan currently has a part-time job at a Pho restaurant (Pho is a Vietnamese noodle house).  She is definitely into working to earn her own money and to buy the things she want. Big spender. Shopaholic. Money dreamer. If you open her closet, piles of clothes with a hint of good fashion sense will dazzle before your eyes. Now she has her own savings in her bank account, I have a strong feeling that she will earn until the right amount to apply for college.

As for Maureen, I forgot what it was, but Mom's business was pretty good too when Maureen was in her pregnancy. (I'll get back to it as soon as I can) And lastly, Mona was like the most talkative girl in the family, for Mom was in charge of "Speech and Drama" classes organized by Trinity Guildhall. No wonder she talks and brags until her sentences make no sense at all.

We are given strengths and gifts from her 18 years of running Popular Tuition Center. It still exists now, but I don't know how it goes so far.

Girls' Brigade (formerly Pride in the Girls' Brigade) revised version of memoir chapter

Brief Introduction: This chapter is basically about several significant times back in the Girls Brigade. Girls’ Brigade is an international organization which is like a combination of Sunday school and girls’ scout. I have joined the Girls’ Brigade back in Sabah, Malaysia for eight years. The organization has taught me discipline, teamwork, and faith to serve God. At first, I have trouble with remembering every single detail of the events, but with reference from my diaries and photos, I have refreshed my memories to write the scenes through imagery. In this chapter, I’ve covered a few events from the years 2005 to 2008, and at the end, readers will get to know that 2008 is my last year in the Girls’ Brigade. The reason why I choose to write about this topic is because I realize that it had been years since I seen the faces of the officers and girls back in the company and I regret for not contacting them ever since. A few weeks ago, I was so happy that I finally found a few familiar faces on Facebook and added them as friends. I tagged them in the draft of this memoir chapter and they were reminded on how fun it was back then. The times we had together as a large group. I also would like to share my experiences in the Girls’ Brigade with readers like you so that you can relate this chapter to your own life as well.

           A typical Sunday revealed on the 2008 calendar. I wore that sapphire-colored uniform with a small collection of silk badges that were sewn on both medium sleeves and a flowing skirt that reached to my kneecaps. The uniform was brightened up with a simple dark blue belt and a carmine red tie with a small Girls’ Brigade crest pin at the middle. The crest was made up of a white cross that symbolized Christ’s church, a gold crown on top that represented Christ as the king, a flaming torch above it that signified Christ’s living spirit, an oil lamp below the cross that signified light, and a background of blue and red circle to represent God’s blood and love. An oval-shaped dark blue cap covered my head with another crest pin on \it. We girls must wear pearly white short socks and canvas shoes to represent purity. 

            You had got to be kidding me! I rubbed my eyes, hoping that I was only dreaming. But as I lifted my eyelids, my name at the top of the notebook page was still there. “Looks like you’re chosen to become the leader of the squad!” my sister Megan squealed in delight. What was with that smile? You had no idea how scared I was in becoming a leader! In eight years of my life in the Girls Brigade, I had never been in front of a line before. I wished I could grab a correction tape and replace my name with another member of the squad, but it was too late.Everyone gathered at the empty parking lot which was situated next to Shern En Methodist Church. The forever-summer-heat bounced against my skin that pierced through like needles.

My whole head felt like it was caught on fire, even my cap couldn't cool me down. I stood at the furthest corner of the parking lot with eight other girls queued behind me. The other leaders on my left looked like they could nail their marching steps in just a snap of their fingers. I, on the other hand, could feel my stomach churning with anxiety that I might trip on an imaginary banana peel. A line of officers in light blue uniform shirts, dark skirts and black heels stood at the front right of the parking area. A girl who was selected as a commander yelled out with a voice that sent my brain in alert,  “Leaders of the squads! Forward…march!” I held the little blue notebook in my left hand and marched forward with my right hand flung straight up and down.We stopped three feet away from the commander’s left with a final stomp of our feet. “Turn left!” I raised my voice from the back.  It sounded shaky instead of firm, but I sighed in relief when we shifted our feet to the front. Then, the commander called to the rest of the squads to come forward. It wasn't so bad after all. I performed the rest of the steps in roll call and ticked the names of the members in my squad. When it ended, the captain came to me with the smile of an impressed American Idol judge. She complimented, “Good job, Michele!” 

My mind was clotted by a web of anxiety when I found myself standing in a queue for a church choir audition back in 2005. The captain was standing next to a pianist at a corner. Captain Kiu was like the friendliest, kindest person all young girls in the company adored. Her short curls matched her beautiful motherly countenance. She had the sweet ruby-lipsticked smile and the parcel of positive attitude that emboldened us to attend the Girls Brigade every Sunday afternoon. Every girl was tested with a vocal exercise of singing the eight main notes: do re mi fa so la ti do. To my surprise, I mastered every note smoothly. The choir was to sing a Mandarin song for a church event, and I didn’t realize how much work we had put into. That very day, when we performed on stage, all I could see were grins of satisfaction from the audience. Captain Kiu praised all of us at the end, “You've worked really hard to make this performance

perfect.”

            Drills watered the seed of confidence to grow in me, but unexpected things could happen as well. I was an innocent 14-years-old back in 2007. The dining hall was cooled by the whirling row of ceiling fans above. I hid myself at the furthest table of the room. Salty droplets trickled from my eyes.  An officer approached to me and asked in a worried, gentle tone. “What's wrong?” Stifled between my tears, I replied, “I’m not chosen to be in the drill competition.” I dared not to look at her, for I was too embarrassed to show my reddened face. The officer put her right arm round me and rubbed my shoulder. There went her words of comfort, “Don’t be upset. You’ll have the chance next year.” I never knew how eager I was of wanting to be in such a challenging event. Face it! Who would ever wanted to be grilled under the Malaysian sun with

the uniform wrapped round your body and a pair of white Mickey Mouse gloves that triggered the sweat receptors in your palms while you marched?

The 2008 Sabah Adventure Camp at Sabah Tea Garden was an event I’ll never forget. I lumbered on the dark bamboo floor as I made my way to the selected bedroom. The traditional Malaysian longhouse was dominated by 63 girls and 16 officers. I was surrounded by an extremely long wall of thick split bamboo that extended outwards on my left and a row of wooden doors that led to bedrooms on my right. The roof was made of dried grass.  In the room, three plump mattresses were arranged on a wooden platform with large white mosquito nets hung over each of them like tents. A simple porcelain sink was attached at a corner of the room with a  mirror above it. A fluorescent lamp above the beds lit well enough in the enclosed square.

I placed my frameless spectacles gently on an edge of my bed before I changed into my nightwear. Before I knew it, I sat on it without reminding myself about my alternate eyes. A loud, crispy crack caused my brain to freeze. My heart was torn into pieces as I got off my bed. My spectacles, the only eyewear I had, were smashed into cookie bits.

            Stuck with a blurry vision for the remaining two days, I squinted my eyes at long-sighted distances and asked help from Megan to read faraway words for me. That was the first time I broke a pair of spectacles, and I regretted for not owning contact lenses. However, the rest of the camp pulled the strings of my mouth into a smile. We breathed in the fresh mountain air at an early hour; the sky was a blue-black. I was trapped in this lovely paradise of emerald shrubs. The mixture of various tea scents fused in the crisp atmosphere that made me dream of an exotic, all- flavor cup of beverage. When we arrived at a desired spot of the stony slope, God had summoned a topaz sphere that illuminated hues of garnet and amber. It peeked between the hills like a toddler who played peek-a-boo. Even though I couldn’t see the sunset clearly, I could see the bright ball in awe. It was definitely a sight!

As luminous rays of sunlight flashed over the overlapped tea fields, we were fueled up with cups of Milo, a popular hot chocolate drink in Malaysia. We then made our way back to the longhouse to get ready for jungle trekking. Compass, water bottle, novel, towel, an extra shirt and a pair of jeans, slippers…my backpack became a package of weights on my shoulders. The whistle blown by an officer alarmed us. We dashed off our dorms and down the bamboo stairs. A forest guide drove us to a forest which was ten minutes away from the accommodation. 

We were in the middle of a muddy, slippery trail. The countless days of rain before the camp must had soaked the earth in playful splotches. A long line of girls trudged and slid down the mud. Luckily, there was a railing of white rope that was tied firmly at each ends of the trail. “Be careful, Mich! I just slipped on a wet spot down here!” my 12-years-old sister called from a few feet away. I gulped in fear as if a cherry seed seeped down my throat. I gripped hold on the rope as I slowly stepped down. Before I knew it, my right foot skidded on a thick patch of brown. I landed on my butt, letting out a painful yelp. This was definitely not what I had in mind.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” a voice spoke in my head. I gave one last tap of the keyboard. A letter was done on the screen of my mother’s laptop. I had planned to do this before the camp. My decreasing number of attendance that year was due to a crucial national exam, and this pulled my Girls’ Brigade enthusiasm down. Thoughts on the future flooded in my head like a waterfall: harder courses in school, upcoming exams, preparation for college. I had an adamant feeling that it was time to say goodbye. It all happened in the blink of an eye. Save. Print. Document ready. I feared that after I send the letter of quitting the Girls Brigade, the girls would hate me. But I believe that no matter where I was, Girls Brigade would always be in my heart. That afternoon, I handed the letter to an officer with a mixed emotion of relief and guilt.  I couldn’t remember what her last words were.

Reunion in Sarawak (final revised version)

 Reunion in Sarawak

July 13 2012

In A Dressing Room

I looked at myself in a big rectangular mirror with light bulbs surrounding the sides, the ones that superstars used to admire their reflection. I finished up with a layer of pale pink lipstick. The complexion on my face became lighter due to the foundation I had applied, and strawberry pink eye shadow decorated my eyelids. I was usually a girl who wore jeans, T-shirts, and black Converse sneakers. But that day, through my reflection, I saw a girl wearing a black button-up-dress with a halter neckline and short sleeves. A pair of cream high heels were worn in my feet; they made me feel like I was floating off the floor. I also had a couple of black and white bangles around my right wrist that clashed against each other every time I raised my hand. A pair of swirly silver clip earrings dangled from my ear lobes. My fingers ran gently on the soft,  smooth silk of my dress. It was like I had become a whole new person. A high class, sophisticated lady.

Smile

The city of Kuching was dominated by the 35 degree Celcius heat of the solar sphere. The noise of blaring honks could be heard from the nearby traffic. Gusts of cool air blasted from air-conditioners that were equipped in the building. My heart pounded in excitement as I walked up the glassy stairs of Jacky Studio. A brightly lit studio greeted me when I arrived at the second floor. A huge family of 56 was in that homely-like room. Girls in dresses and boys in tuxedos. We were all there to be with our grandparents for the week. Grandpa wore a dark blue tuxedo with a pale blue tie. His thin strands of hair revealed a shiny bald head. Grandma wore a golden silk blouse and a jet-black maxi skirt; not even a single white strand was found in her short black curls. There was a gigantic white screen on the right and a cozy-looking living room setting 

behind a brown wallpaper background on the left. A row of photography paraphernalia was arranged at the centre. Among all the familiar faces of my relatives, a photographer in his thirties stood around the camera stands. I couldn’t remember exactly what he was wearing, but he had a toothy grin that surprised me. He had the heart of a 5-year-old, for he pranced jovially like a horse and had an enthusiastic glint in his eyes. 

“Do you know that you are beautiful? My camera lens couldn’t take its eyes off you!” the photographer commented. At first, I thought that there was no way a professional could flirt with a typical girl like me. I gave him the best smile I could ever show and struck a pose according to his instructions. “Can you put your left hand on your hip? And your right hand on your thigh? Good! Good! Can you push your right foot a little backwards? That’s what I’m talking about! Yeah! Work it!” His Canon camera flashed white sparks that nearly made my eyes blind. He saw a dull colour of melancholy in my eyes and fake smile. He spoke these words that I could never forget, “Don’t let your worries haunt you. Let your mind be empty. A smile is the best makeover anyone could have.” 

After the photographs of ourselves and our respective small families were taken, all of us gathered at the living room set. A red-carpeted flight of stairs was situated at a corner curtained by a row of purple sequin chains. A simple painting that hung on an adjacent wall, and light peach-coloured curtains were hung in the middle. My youngest sister, Mona, sat with the younger cousins on the chestnut furry carpet. My grandparents sat on a couple of pearly white couches, followed by my other two younger sisters, cousins around their age, and three of my aunts. The third row was composed of the rest of Grandma’s children and the in-laws, including my parents. And finally at the top row there stood myself, my younger brother, and the older cousins. I believed that this was the first time the photographer had encountered a large family photo shoot. He was pretty pumped. His fingers gripped firmly on his camera as he snapped some shots. 

Surprising result

I sighed in relief when the photo shoot was over. I gladly changed back into my casual clothes and strutted out of the dressing room with my comfortable Converse pressed against the shiny tile floor. “Hey! Come check out the photos!” my mother called from the receptionist desk. I walked to it where a computer screen was flashed on. I bit my lip in slight anxiety, wondering whether the photographer upstairs was telling the truth. I was called skinny back when I was in elementary school, and I was teased for being fat as I grew older. I assumed that I was the ugliest girl in my family, for I was not as slim as my younger sisters. As my mother swiveled the screen in front of me, my eyes were fixed on it like sticky glue. Instead of an 18-years-old with two Japanese-like crooked teeth sticking out and a fat stomach that was slightly exposed in my dress, I saw a young woman with a glowing smile and slim figure. 

July 14 2012 

Sweaty Night, Queasy Feeling

        An obsidian sheet covered the sky with silvery-white stars twinkling as if the angels were looking down from heaven. Grandpa, the birthday man, was standing at the entrance of the family’s mansion. I didn’t know much about him, but I remembered that he wrote a nutrition column in a local Mandarin newspaper that wowed many readers. My mother and her nine siblings greeted a bunch of guests, leading them into the dining hall. I had to wear a pink Aeropostle T-shirt and a denim skirt because my only dress was in the laundry pile. I hoped no one noticed me sweating. I was sure that a big splat of perspiration was smeared at the back of my shirt, but it was not entirely due to the humid temperature of my parents’ hometown, Sibu. 

Sibu was located at the confluence of Rajang River which was the longest river in Malaysia. Seeing the people making beelines to the tables caused a serum of fear to be injected into my head. I wondered whether I was ready to show my face in front of them. The elders and adults sat at the eight round restaurant tables that were covered with peach tablecloths. The chairs were clothed in majestic white fabric. Children and young adults sat at an open-air seating area where a swimming pool was situated next to it, so mothers had to keep an eye on their restless toddlers from falling into the waters. They also had to watch out for that light blue water slide that was connected at a further corner of the pool. I remember one time when one of my sisters, 14-year-old Maureen dared to step on the slide with her clothes on. She accidentally slipped on the slide and her body whooshed down to the cold water. 

         Members of a catering team stood in their respective positions, serving the guests. The children grinned with smudged toothy smiles as they chewed satay, a popular Malaysian dish composed of barbecued beef or chicken poked through bamboo sticks. Some preferred to dip satay with chili sauce to spice up the flavor. After gathering an enough amount of fried noodles, veggies, and sweet n’ sour chicken, I balanced my heavy plate of food with both hands as I walked to one of the tables in the outdoor seating area. I took a glance at my sisters and a few cousins who gnawed the contents of Malaysian chicken curry which we called kari ayam. I was not a fan of spicy food, but they did look like they enjoyed the chunks of chicken which were 

immersed into the greasy orange fluid. Speaking of greasiness, I tried to hold the butterflies in my stomach a little bit longer, but seeing the curry gave me the urge to throw up. 

Melodies to Our Ears

        On the right side of the dining hall was a regular-size event tent. The two words “Happy Birthday” in big colorful letters out of manila cards was stuck at the top of the white canvas roof. A pair of red balloon towers with the numbers eight and zero on top were placed at the back of a solid square stage under the tent roof. My other two sisters, 16-year-old Megan and 8-year-old Mona walked to the stage through a path made out of thick, rectangular wooden blocks. I imagined the path of blocks from the dining hall to the tent as a red carpet where Hollywood celebrities strutted and posed. Megan played her acoustic guitar while Mona sang Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me”. Three of my cousins performed “Mission Impossible” that revived the silence of the night. Chasia and Kimberly rested the base of their violins under their jaws as their 

bows glided on the strings. Charis, who sat on a chair at the left, had a cello between her legs as the bow in her right hand smoothed here and there. It caused me to picture an action-packed scene in my head of the party being suddenly invaded by CIA agents. The sound of piano keys shortly echoed from the family room upstairs. My 18-year-old autistic brother, Manuel played a mellow tune that tugged everyone’s heartstrings. Poem for Grandpa

I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it. I had stage fright, but I dared myself to face my fear. My fingers gripped firmly on the notebook-size paper with a four-verse poem written in black ink. My father stood on stage with a microphone close to his mouth. “Let’s give a round of applause to my daughter who will share a poem with us.” The faint orchestra created by night bugs were interrupted by a harmony of clapping. Blood pumped wildly in my heart. I hurriedly maintained my balance on my high heels while I made my way to the stage. My father handed me the microphone with a you’ll be-great-wink. . All eyes were glued at me like a thousand bats. A couple of photographers who were invited over to the party fixed their cameras on me. If they took a shot of me wearing such informal clothes to one of Grandpa’s biggest moments of his life, I would rather smack the microphone on my head and get knocked out. I was pretty sure that one of the photographers was the guy from Jacky Studio, but I believed it was the tent light that 

blurred my vision. The microphone in my right hand shook like a 2.5 magnitude earthquake, but I took a deep breath to calm myself. In seconds, I found myself reading my poem aloud. 

Grandfather

Once I blow the tiny, delicate florets

of a dandelion,

the flowery snow floats in the wind.

He approaches through the view.

The man who raises independent children

and passes on to his grandchildren.

He owns a successful company,

and has lent a hand to the citizens,

                                                                                             7

making his name known to this state. 

He has overcame a series of obstacles

that pull our heartstrings and blow our minds,

becoming an epitome to the generation

yesterday and today.

His advice and lectures,

will not we forget.

We will never forget what you’ve done for us,

Grandfather.

It didn’t sound poetic and it was not what a real poem should be, but it came from my heart. At a glance, I saw Grandpa sitting at the first table, grinning. Everyone clapped in unison when I was done. Charis gave me a thumbs-up, mouthing the words “Nice poem!” I sighed in relief, happy that it was all over. 

At Eighty

In Grandpa’s teenage years, he had a tremendous craving for carbohydrates. He suffered from diabetes, and decided to change his eating habits by going for raw corn and vegetables. His adamant continuation in eating healthy food caused his illness to fade away and had inspired his wife and children. Ever since my siblings, cousins, and I were young, Grandpa advised us to eat such a crop. “Corn is the healthiest food. You will not fall sick easily.” At first I thought that he was pulling our legs, but after months of eating at least a cob of corn a day, I realized that he was telling the truth. As kids, we would have short-term halos floating above our heads as we proudly ate our plates of corn, salad, and cooked leafy vegetables. When he disappeared out of view, we would switch back to our romance of non-healthy cravings. But as I grew older, I realized that Grandpa wanted all of his grandchildren to be wholesome today and tomorrow. 

Grandpa walked on the path of blocks like a 30-year-old and stood behind the microphone stand on stage. He mentioned this in his speech, “I’m looking forward to another 10 years of living, and I’ll be seeing a 90th birthday party.” Everyone clapped and made whooping sounds, believing that Grandpa would achieve this goal. We were all there to rekindle the flame of love among us and, I believe, that we would never forget each and every one of us in the Lau clan.