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. 

New passion, new hope

I've bought it! I've bought this book that I've always wanted! In case you don't know, I've been yearning for this book since one or two months ago and once I bought this, I knew that this is the perfect book for me.

"All it takes is one person to say 'yes'. You just have to find that person." ~Brad Meltzer.

I totally agree! This author has faced a lot of rejection letters for his first novel until he finally meets one publisher to make his dream come true. I remember when I sent one of my stories to a publisher in Australia (back when I was 15 or 16), and I received a rejection email due to "not according to their element" or something. I had my poems and stories published in school magazines and a local Malaysian newspaper, but not overseas...yet.

I'm now on a journey to explore vairous genres in writing :poetry, playwriting, and personal narrative. Poetry class back in Fall 2012 was okay. Playwriting was a mistake; I never knew how hard it was to achieve at least a B-. Personal Narrative IS like the best creative writing class I've even taken! I've found my writing voice this time! All those assignments, samples, and feedback from my instructor and peers really help me to improve my writing and teach me to try new styles. Even though I have a few grammar mistakes in every assignment I've handed in XD, I learn a lot from these wonderful people in my class. They're just so encouraging! Definitely the best colleagues ever! Wait no..the best class ever! And thanks to them, I've found a new favourite writing genre: creative non-fiction. Writing about my life and turn my experiences into stories really got me all pumped up and focused! Or should I say...stressed on with my whole mind and heart. It's sad to realize that summer semester is almost over and after next month, I'll never get to see their faces again =(. But I'll never forget about them, for they have open my eyes to a new light in writing.

I can't wait to read this book! Starting tomorrow, when I'll be showing off this to the Personal Narrative class =P. (neh..I'll recommend this to them, because starting from the first story about Celine Dion's biography, this is definitely a worth-read). To all writers out there, budding or successful, I highly recommend you to read this book, even though I haven't read the rest of it. Haha...

In Great Grandpa's Hometown

My heavy eyelids flickered open due to the bright morning sunlight. All I could remember was the two delayed flights from Changi Airport in Singapore and that super late night in…a tour bus. All seats in the bus were filled with my family and a number of relatives. My grandparents sat at the very front row, followed by 6 families, including mine. It passed by rows of little shops and passers-by stared at us like as if we were aliens from the moon. Shortly, the bus stopped in front of a wide path. There were two lines of women dressed in white and pink at both sides of the road. Question marks floated in my head as I stumbled out of the bus and stretched my arms and legs after a long ride from the Fu Zhou airport. Suddenly, the women played cymbals, drums, and other musical instruments you can find in a Chinese orchestra. The traditional red firecrackers that cracked and bombed like rockets nearly made the eardrum in both of my ears to explode. I even had to stay away from those flickering sparks so that I won’t get hurt. Grandpa strutted forward and the rest of us followed. He reminded me of Simba who made his way up Pride Rock for the first time. Every step he made on the concrete road left the villagers breathless. They clapped and cheered triumphantly for his arrival. Or should I say his return. I was surprised by his youthful way of walking without a single complaint of having aching limbs. Due to his nutritious diet of raw corn and vegetables, he lived the life of an average adult. The thin, silver strands of his hair let out a sheen, and the bald circle at the centre of his head glowed like a golden Olympic trophy. Grandpa led us through a large gate to a two-courtyard house. A crowd of Grandpa’s relatives and friends gave a round of applause to us as we walked by. Even though I didn’t speak my family dialect which was Foochow, I was sure that they were greeting us warmly like VIP. In those 10 minutes, perspiration dripped on my forehead and soaked at the back of my favorite red collar shirt because of the massive blazing sun above the cloudless sky. I wished I could just dash back to the bus to cool myself under the air-conditioner.

            After the welcoming ceremony, we were given a tour around the humongous house. We stepped on the floor that was made of hardened mud. The walls were made of bricks and the buildings were supported by timber pillars. My father, who was a Chinese history enthusiast, said with his dark brown eyes sparkled like a child, “Did you know that this house was built for over 100 years and it was lived by 4 generations?” That explained the number of bedrooms which were locked up. Each bedroom belonged to the families of Grandpa’s relatives. As I peeked through the doors of my great grandfather’s room, it was dark and quiet with the

furniture all tidy and untouched. It was like as if the room was sacred. I imagine myself breaking in the room when Great Grandpa’s spirit approached from nowhere and haunt me. I immediately shook away the thought and followed my family to the huge open air kitchen. Of course it wasn’t an ordinary kitchen like the ones we have. All the chopping and the cooking were held in this big courtyard, and a number of Chinese maids worked together to prepare a huge feast for us guests. Instead of a modern electric stove, they used rocket stoves made of

bricks to steam up food stored in big wooden pots. I wasn’t quite sure how it worked. All I knew was the chefs lit up fire at the bottom of a tall enclosed square. At the front corner of the kitchen was a long table of raw ingredients. A line of maids sliced a bunch of leafy vegetables, meat, and seafood with sharp knives that glistened like knights’ swords in the sunlight.

            A grumble of ultimate hunger roared from my stomach. I was looking forward to lunch, for I didn’t eat much during the long flight. We were led to a renovated dining room with, finally, electric ceiling fans. The 40 degrees summer heat was so intense that I could feel my skin burning like a vampire’s. I sank on one of the chairs in relief and allowed a fan above to cool me down. As I looked around, 5 big, round dining tables were arranged with 8 chairs surrounding each of them. Each table was covered with a red tablecloth, and a couple of

bottled drinks stood at the centre. My family and relatives sat around and chatted while waited eagerly for food to be served. I curiously took one of the bottles from my table and read the label that said “Peanuts Milk”. That was the first time I encountered such a drink. How in the world you could ever make milk out of peanuts? I literally drank a small cup of it; it tasted surprisingly good, kind of like soy bean milk or roasted milk tea. 10 minutes later, a line of maids marched through the door with plates of food - lobsters, shrimps, crabs that were slashed into halves, little snails, oysters, steamed pork, fried noodles…. There were like more than 10 courses that I

didn’t feel like taking photos of every single dish.

            Feeling bloated, we took a walk outside of the courtyard house. Grandpa took the lead as we strolled down a run-down neighborhood. The homes were made of wood, and the road was deserted. No children came out to play, for I was certain that it was too hot to stay outdoors. I spotted one or two small houses made entirely of brown mud. We finally stopped in front of a grey-painted church. A silver cross stood tall and proud on top of the roof. A shiny blue and green window that was shaped like a big upside down “U” gleamed above the front doors like as if it signaled a message to God. Grandpa stood at the gate, facing us with a glint of excitement in

his dark brown eyes. “My father was baptized in this church.” he explained, “In fact, he was the first person in his family who became a Christian. He was inspired by the priest of this church. When his family found out about this, they opposed him for not worshipping their ancestors. He also cut his long ponytail off, which was a violation to the family’s norms.” He also led us for another 20 minutes to a yellowish-brown river. Grandpa gestured one wrinkled but firm hand to the east of the river. “My father rode a boat from here and escaped to Malaysia. That’s how we all end up living there.”

            That late afternoon, I was so relieved when I settled myself back in the cool-aired tour bus. Then, I realized why Grandpa arranged this trip for all of us. It was not just for the entire family to reunite that summer, but it was also to reveal his family history to us. The surroundings in that village were underdeveloped that it taught us that we should appreciate what we have today; a modern and comfortable life. The tour guide with her black hair tied up into a ponytail, stood beside the bus driver with a microphone in her right hand, “All right, folks! We’re now heading back to the hotel for you all to rewind and get ready for dinner tonight.” I leaned back on

my chair and took one last glance at the village. Drowsing myself back to Slumberland, I wonder whether there were more stories hidden in that place.

That Car Incident..(start of my memoir)

I don't know whether this is true or not, but my sister Megan and I had this vision of the time when we were little kids. Like toddler age. It was like in the afternoon and Megan, Manuel and I were in my mother's car (can't remember which one is it..the old white one or the red Toyata?). My mother was probably in the house. I was behind the wheel, Manuel was sitting next to me, and Megan was at the bottom of the driver's seat, ready to press the accelerator and the brake. I don't know why, but the key was in the ignition, and soon, we found ourselves rolling out of the porch of the house and down the hill..all by ourselves...in that car. And then I remember Mom came dashing off the door, chasing after us before we got killed.

I know this sounds crazy, but Megan and I has this same flashback. I don't know whether Manuel remember this till now. Megan told this story to Mom like a few times, but Mom didn't believe her. To be honest, I don't know whether this is entirely true. But the fact that Megan and I has this same picture of driving Mom's car all by ourselves...makes me think that maybe this isn't a dream. I'm pretty sure that I saw Mom chasing after us through the rear view mirror (or was it I turned my back?). Haha...anyway, I bet this story will be history in our childhood.

Apply God Into You

So as you know, I went for the Freshmen Barbeque event in Richmond church yesterday and it was awesome! That definitely refreshed me after stressing out for this mock trial tomorrow (Tuesday) and midterm this Thursday. 

Anyway, I get to meet some college saints I haven't met for a long time, including the Vancouver saints. First, we played team building games like "four-living creatures" and "scavenger hunt" and "charades". Then, we had an early dinner of burgers with BBQ'ed chicken and patties, broccoli lasagna, salad, chips, fruits, and egg tarts. Speaking of food, I was right when I gained a few more kilograms after eating a full plate plus the desserts... but hey, I should be blessed for having such good food prepared under God's grace. And finally, we sang hymns and listened to testimonies prepared by a few college students concerning the high school seniors who will be enrolling for college. They were pretty good. The serving brother Peter Wang also shared about having a source (supply), some companions, and a new one to look after. This is encouraged to all college students. 

I know I should have said something but here's what I would like to say to the high school seniors who will be going for college/university. Yes, college life is scary, but you just have to put your trust to the Lord and he will be your supply throughout the day. I used to have prayer meeting with two other sisters in Douglas College New West campus, but now I don't have companions in college and I have no idea where the two are now. But when I read the Holy Word for Morning Revival book every morning, I realize that I'm not alone, for God is always there right by my side. And every week, I'm concerned about my Creative Writing's Personal Narrative assignments that I fear about my peers' feedback. I always hope for perfection for my stories...I just have to turn back to the Lord and ask for his help in making my stories to be good enough and worth read. So don't forget to apply Lord Jesus to your studies, for he is your lifelong study buddy 

Portrait assignment "Love Letter of Encouragement" (Personal Narrative class)

A photograph stuck out from one of my diaries one evening. Oh! What a bittersweet memory it was back home in Malaysia! In the photograph, 40 students stood behind the doors of the school hall. We faced the camera with toothy smiles on our faces and two fingers raised up into peace signs. In the middle of the front row was a woman with long black hair and fair skin that glowed radiantly on her Chinese countenance. Behind those frameless spectacles was a pair of dark brown eyes that revealed friendliness to anyone. She wore a candy cane

striped shirt that matched her white-coloured maxi skirt, apart from myself and the rest of the class who wore secondary school uniforms.

My mind flashed back to a typical tenth grade school day. Ms. Chu Siew Mei entered through the door with her cherry-glossed lips stretched into a beautiful smile. Unlike any other teachers, she had this bright light of hope and determination. She helped each of us in the class to ace for exams and planted her seed of faith into us to grow fond in English. She did so by encouraging us to put more effort into essay writing. A few muscular boys followed behind her, carrying piles of essay samples for us to read. What surprised me was the energy, time, and heart she put so much into in helping each student to improve writing. 

Ms. Chu once gave the class a special assignment which I would never forget. “Here’s what I want you all to do.” she said, “First, take out a blank paper. Then, choose four or five persons you know in this room and write as many good points about him or her as you can. List down the things you like or at least you know about the people you choose. When you are done, fold your paper so that no one can take a peek at it and hand it to me. I’ll leave you all a surprise during our next class.”  The next day, she entered in the classroom with her high heels

clicked lightly on the concrete floor. She held a stack of yellow papers which were folded neatly in rectangles, in which she called them “love letters”. The papers were given to each of us respectively. As I unfolded mine, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A list of positive traits was written on it, such as “creative in writing stories”, “a good friend” ,and “trying hard to be more sociable”. The students who wrote those traits remained anonymous, but I believed that they were from friends who were being honest and respected me for who I was. The closing message at the bottom of the paper caught my attention the most. “You are made for great things and God

will help you to achieve it. Keep up the good value in you. Do open up to your close friends once in a while. May God continue to bless you with more talents and fulfill your heart desire.”  There was no other teacher in this universe who would give me such emboldening words. In that hot and stuffy classroom, all of us were filled with joy and our hearts were deeply touched by the positive, likeable things written on the papers. 

Stepping into the school last summer felt like home. A smile crept on my face once I sawher face in the teachers’ office. She didn't change much. Her smile was still as dazzling as ever. “You come all the way here to see me?” she smiled gratefully as she took the Canada keychain from my hands. I nodded in reply, agreeing to myself that there was no place like home. “Do tell me when your first book is published. I’ll definitely buy a copy.” Ms.Chu said, “You are indeed a talented writer, and I’m rooting for you.” Her last words echoed in my head as my eyes stared back at the “love letter”. Thanks to this treasure, I was reminded that I was not entirely alone. And thanks to Ms.Chu who was by far the greatest teacher on Earth, I had found a deeper passion in writing stories

my own way. 

Personal Narrative disadvantage

I woke up this morning with a smile. The song "Can't Take This Away" by David Choi became my theme song for the whole morning. Until then, I don't know whether the Personal Narrative course is the course for me. I plan to take the memoir writing course for my second year. And as you read my previous posts in this blog, I would like to give it a try because I like to write stories about my life and I love sharing to friends that I trust. The thing that bothers me is the workshops. In the Creative Writing courses I've taken, I struggle in trying to give comments to peers about their works. This is my last shot. If I didn't get at least a B in this course, I won't be able to get into the second year course I want. Sigh..I don't know...If I didn't achieve this, it's like the end of my dreams. I want to improve, but if I don't speak, I'll get screwed. Screw you, this incredibly verbal fear of mine. Every time I speak in front of new people, I stammer and try to collect myself to speak slowly and clearly.

I hope I can survive this term. Even though it's painful for me to speak long sentences, I have to try. It's the only way for me to get high grades. Sorry, antisocial, zip-the-mouth girl, I have to try. The assignments in this course look amazing. Writing a portrait (should I write about my best friend again? or maybe I should write about another person, but who is that other person who inspire me in my life?), a travel narrative(oo China! That could be a good one to write about!), a family incident (I can't seem to find a clear one, there were too many!), and a memoir chapter (cool! I could write about my bullied experience!). I know! It's like writing a autobiographic journal!

New Poem: Sakura

The breeze grow cold.
Rays of the summer's eye
illuminate the earth.

Warmth starts to swirl around,

awakening nature. 

Little buds pop on the tips of branches.

Then white or pink flowers 

spread petals wide and proud

as they breathe in the spring air.

Down the path,

the colourful trees will make your eyes sparkle

with wonder.

The breathtaking scenery doesn't stay much longer

for each petal will drop and sink,

allowing emerald leaves to sprout.

I wish the cherry blossoms can stay for a little longer

so that I can sit under its shade.

This creation comes and fades

like a morning star that appears 

for lucky early birds to see.

Sakura,

I'm begging you,

please let my eyes see

your beyond beauty

for a little longer.