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,
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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.
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