Lunch at Kiku, 10 years after Boat Quay

Posted on January 12, 2011 by admin

Before.

Q was my first.
(Mentor in the banking sector lah, what’s wrong with you people?)

Back then I had dowdy long hair and wore glasses, Watson’s hose, cheap shoes, zero makeup. I was so awkward in heels (even 2 inch ones) I bought shoes a whole size bigger so I could stuff in several Dr Scholl’s padded shoe insoles.

(Years later I would store up to 3 spare pairs of comfortable shoes under my desk. Not that I own that many pairs of shoes in the first place, and until today I can only manage a 3.5 inch heel with some effort (what’s the point when your hub is 5 ft 7 like you are?) but I liked “living in the office.” During the days when the market went nuts, I could feel the difference to my energy levels, whether I scurried about in heels or no.

Sometimes I didn’t wear shoes. I padded about discreetly in stocking-ed feet clad in back-seamed French hose. They cost ~HKD 400 each at Agent Provocateur in Lane Crawford, but years ago I found a lifetime supply at around RM 15 a pop from some pokey little outlet store in a shopping center in KL.

Who knew some of that expensive, ladder-resistant French hose with the line going down the back of your legs was Buatan Malaysia?)

“Can I borrow your PC to look at porn for a minute?”

After scooting over while he made a show of opening up some pictures (his own computer had hung, possibly from the strain of trying to open too much hi-resolution porn), I got up and moved to Q’s newly-vacated desk with something to read. “I’ll sit here til you’re done.”

Q seemed amused. Maybe it’s a bizarre initiation ritual because I’m not sure he actually looked at porn for real. Not long after, he gave me my first lesson in equity derivatives. “Thank you!!” He paused. I must have had puppy dog eyes. I was so hungry. So grateful someone would give me a chance to learn something. He went on teaching.

In the next few months, I would not pay for a single lunch I ate – and I would never venture into Golden Shoe (nearby food court). We often sat outdoors along Boat Quay so he could have a smoke, with only a beach umbrella between us and the bright glare and heat of the Singapore sun at lunch hour. And all the time, punctuated by ‘F’s and brokers he knew stopping by the table, Q would talk.

There were other good guys in that little dealing room too, but before they eventually “came out,” there was Q. Q sounded like the biggest bully. He was loud, abrasive, confrontational, used the F word a lot. And he never allowed me to feel sorry for myself.

It was all a cover for the fact he was a softie. Not of the sissy variety – Q was and still makes one of the most sincere, loyal friends I have ever met. And he’d been with the same girl for like, forever, but held off marrying her until he knew he could stay in love with her forever, like he was to vow he would, before God. (And yes he married her).

Sometimes you need a spine to stand up for someone or something, keeping quiet does not a nice guy make. Q was an open book who barked out his loyalties, sometimes regardless of humongous political cost. That was when the seed of fierce loyalty, being true to what you really believe in, was first planted in me.

As I became a Christian, it would be further nurtured by the conviction I answered for my choices and actions to God, not to office politicking. Who knew a reputation for loyalty (as well as being at least halfway competent) would turn out to be especially valued by bosses as I went thru 3 mergers?

Q is the only son of… An Important Guy. Who… owns Stuff in Asia. (That’s all I know. Swear. Actually, it’s very easy to ask around – everyone knows the name. It was a conscious effort to be distracted by a bumblebee during conversations involving his dad, and I would like some credit for that, thank you very much.)

Why is that so important to me?

Q never said anything about his father til the day he gently told me he was leaving the industry: “Because of my dad, I never wanted to be in finance. Do well, and people say ‘Well what can you expect, —– is his dad.’ Do badly, and people say ‘Well what can you expect, —– is his dad.’ You can’t win.”

I don’t have a famous dad, so I can only guess it is like the uncertainty a rich guy or very beautiful woman feels from new friendships – are they my friends just because I have money/ does he say he loves me just because I am young and pretty today?

There is no way I can turn back the clock 10+ years and repay Q for the kindness he once showed the earnest newbie who didn’t wear makeup or have any working knowledge of derivatives.

But I wanted to tell him one day, when I could buy my own diamonds and Prada and also quit the market for awhile to raise my son:

All those years I rush to buy him lunch every chance I get. I have never known who his dad really is.

Q had a lasting impression on me as this newbie who would later grow up over the next 10+ years, because of who Q is.

Of the people whom we once knew a decade ago, one or two now earn major bucks at large investment banks. I still have zero respect for the people that they are.

Q on the other hand, is currently a stay at home dad to his little girl and scarily advanced baby boy (he stopped working when his son was born). I still care what Q thinks of me and stuff I’ve been up to.

You know what people are really like by how they treat others they perceive to be of no use to them. It is one of the most useful things you can learn when you’re a newbie – who would be a real friend. You will not be a newbie who knows nothing forever. But you will always need real friends.

That day when Q told me he was leaving, I picked up his freshly-printed resignation letter, walked across the room and shredded it. He didn’t stop me. He still left, though. Much as I wished it would, even as I got better and better, our paths never again crossed for work.

After.

But for all those lunches, every day at Boat Quay, he will never have to pay for another lunch with me whenever he comes to Hong Kong.

He likes Japanese, so we Kikued.

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Epilogue

Posted on January 10, 2011 by admin

“So… What’ll we be doing in a few more years (when Rockstar goes to winter sports camps/ develops the general ‘parents are uncool to hang with’ ‘tude)?”

“Couples ski lessons?”

There it is.

When Kings and I agreed on ‘til death do us part we were YOUNG. Er. We hear it all the time: Marriage Is A Lifelong Commitment. But almost a decade ago, that sounded like any other no-brainer good advice. A Bag Of Potato Chips Is Not Lunch. Smoking Causes Lung Cancer. (How many smokers even see the Surgeon General’s warning on the box anymore, before they light up?)

NOW it dawns on us – raising Rockstar is yet another thing Kings and I signed up for, to do together. Like supporting each other’s dreams and aspirations. Like ski lessons. There will come a time when the best thing we can do as parents is to let Rockstar grow up. Live his life. If he gets married and moves halfway across the world, we’d better be more than fine with “just” each other.

It might be prudent to uh, not hate each other too much when that time comes. <Ding>

Once, I had an ex whose parents never let go (I have 9 and moved around. If anyone could be identified, I wouldn’t write it – so please don’t try). At 26 and a few years out of college, he remained the center of his parents’ worlds. N-ot in a good way.

His parents were extremely unhappy with each other. They sought, they clung, they competed for his “love” jealously. He greatly valued (and was greatly dependent on) their input regarding big decisions in his life (for eg further education). The advice he got was fraught with politicking and emotional baggage.

It was terrifying. People you love, whose approval you have been raised to need in order to succeed, so caught up in their own little hell they can’t give you a straight answer.

They love you.
They have no idea how much damage they’re doing to you.
When you try to make your own decisions, they threaten suicide.
Yes, really.

Sometimes they didn’t even care if I overheard. Then in my early 20s, I dismissed them as the cast from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Almost a decade later, with a child of my own, it finally occurs to me what normal people they might have been, until a wrong turn brought them eventually to the dark and lonely place from whence they continue to screw up their only child for life.

This could be you. You might not pretend to try killing or hurting yourself to guilt your grown child into taking your advice, but on some (ok, much) smaller scale it could happen to any of us. Emotional apron strings just have the trickiest ties and knots to overcome.

Make your marriage work. Unless in some extenuating circumstance you were drunk out of your mind and married Hannibal in which case get the hell out of there. But don’t stay “married,” miserable and cruel.

As a Christian I should advocate staying married. Except people who stay “married” may not necessarily also follow the rest of the marriage vows they made before God to love, cherish and respect each other too. Remembering your vows doesn’t mean staying just legally married.

When Rockstar was a baby, diapers and colic and sleep deprivation prevented us from seeing it. We just wanted to get through the night. Even as he reminded us we were miserable, miserable human beings.

“WAAAAAaaaaaa- you-can’t-even-stop-little-ole’-me-crying-and-you-call-yourself-a-PARENT? -aaaaaaaaa!!!!”

But he’s not a baby anymore.

(Not quite legal drinking age to sample the produce of these vines either though)

Wanting to do the Absolute Best Job should transcend cultures, geographical locations. Pride. If I really wanted to do the best job I could, I have to able to take good advice from anywhere I can get it. Even if I hate the giver so much I hope they shrivel up and die (but not before I whip out my iPhone so I can watch the repeat whenever I feel like it). Oh, and this might be applicable to most things in life.

“Can I have a coffee,” Kings says. Waiter flinches. We don’t serve coffee.
(Because it spoils your taste buds for wine tasting we suppose. Some might say.)

Anyway. We spend long vacations with just each other in various towns/ cities whenever we can, not just to well, be with each other over a glass of wine (or water) in Napa Valley (above), but to look for different points of view. About Parenting. Education. Career. Life.

Each walk of life we meet to look for lessons from probably believes they’ve made the Absolute Best Choices for their kids and life, even as some choices wildly diverge from each other. Trying to find out why should enrich the decisions we make for our own family. We kinda hope, anyway.

Heck, vaccies are kinda fun.

Even as our parents believed they were following the best wisdom of their time in our raising, so too their children believe they owe it to their children to do a better job. Talk about karma.

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San Francisco Through The Eyes Of A Rockstar (Part 10 – Neptune Palace Seafood, Immigration)

Posted on January 9, 2011 by admin

We leave at 5 minutes past midnight. It’s a 13 hour 52 minute flight and we will land back in Hong Kong sometime around 6 am. I start writing from the Marco Polo (Cathay Pacific frequent flyers’) Club Lounge.

For our last meal, we pick Neptune Palace Seafood Restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf.

Serious Couple Shot, Ignore Hamster-sized Tongue. (So that’s why the waiter was “Uh, do you want him in the picture?”)

And tell Rockstar naughty people used to get sent to that island (Alcatraz) in his window. (Blue tape only at children’s window seats)

And have the 3 fish (USD 22 and the most expensive meal we have here) dish – sesame tuna with faintly wasabi-ish sauce, salmon with a mildly zesty cream, seabass with an alcoholic-tasting sauce we all can’t get enough of. (Spot Rockstar’s fork horning in on the photo-op).

Rockstar’s been slipping in a comment or two about wanting to get back to school. (Oh tee hee. And there I thought it was my son I was blogging about.) I’m going to steel myself for a wee bit of drama anyway. Meantime, we’re steeling ourselves to face Immigration.

SF Airport just after we checked our humongous luggage in

We… really don’t have any legitimate reason to fear passing thru US Immigration, Kings and I are still on our 10 year visas granted out of Singapore since our honeymoon days, it’s just the whole screening and fierce immigration officers. And germ freak me doesn’t like putting our shoes, jackets and scarves in the plastic bin that has been touched by countless other shoe soles, some of which have also known public toilet floors recently.

Right behind us, some exhibition of small monuments in the major cities, right in front of us <pause for effect> Immigration. I don’t have the guts to take a picture of all the bustling and officers going on right outside this frame.

Going thru security turns out to be wayy not as bad as when we went on our honeymoon a year after 9-11. (Entering San Francisco we had also been pleasantly surprised by the immigration officer with a very Chinese name on his tag speaking to us in Putonghua, referring to me as “Mei Nee” – and who seemed almost disappointed to switch to English when I couldn’t understand what he was asking.)

In the Marco Polo lounge, Rockstar elicits an involuntary laugh from the auntie sitting at the next table as he samples cup noodles, sandwiches, a slice of pizza I packed, and still manages to put away a significant portion of each type of cheese from the snack counter. “He’s hyper!” (Yeah we kinda know.)

We get shushed by Rockstar, who reminds me we’re supposed to be whispering, in the “reading section”. (There was a sign. Rockstar’s latest thing is “What that sign says?” at everything that looks like a sign. N-ot so cute when you’re on a highway and have no idea what we just whizzed past but your son won’t take “I don’t know” for an answer.

I spy the first Hermes Birkin – in deep red alligator, no less (exotic skin Birkins can run up 6-figure price tags) – since we’ve been in the States. Woman Attached to Birkin is also wearing a rich brown fur-trimmed cape and shiny knee-high boots.

Looking around the lounge I spy more Prada. Louis Vuitton. (Or as many local Hongkies refer to the label, “LV” – there is so much LV in HK I will probably never own one – I get this idea many more people know exactly what I spent on my bag, or what I might have spent on it at Milan Station, and yes there is a market for resale.)

It’s almost like we’re already back in HK.

The family at the next table has a helper tending to the smaller of 2 children. On the rare occasion we noticed a helper minding a child in Union Square, the child had an Asian mum. And there were no helpers at the Golden Gate Park playground minding any of the kids, both times we visited. More dads than we usually see in HK though.

Last furtive picture from our seat on the plane before I switch off my iPhone.

Goodbye, San Francisco. You did wonders for our family.

Re-entering Hong Kong I get stuck in the auto gate. I quickly start feeling like corralled livestock. Moo. I have very light fingerprints – standard scanners often have problems reading my prints. Within a minute before an immigration officer with a screen thingy wanders over unconcernedly.

Very casually he gives me a once-over. Another officer speedwalks by, “Sir, I’m getting off my shift now,” and he waves in acknowledgement without looking up from his screen. In terms of Immigration Looks, Hong Kong should get 5 stars – I don’t feel like an illegal immigrant, a terrorist, or a smuggler of fake goods. Which is just as well since we’re none of the above, but these days you almost expect all immigration officers to be that way.

“The gate’s open, you know.” He’s cleared my passport and HKID manually in what feels like less than 60 seconds.

Also, he’s switched to Cantonese after realizing I can understand him. Of course he has. I start, turn, and exit. He’s already ambled off in search of more livestock when I look back.

HOW does he move that fast without seeming at all in a hurry?

(Bear in mind if you or your rockstar were running a fever when you entered HK you’d be stopped far longer getting off the plane, for a checkup).

As I push the trolley laden with 3 giant bags and 2 little hand-carries to the green lane, I remind Kings, with Rockstar on his shoulders, to stay close.

The officer’s gaze flickers over Rockstar, and we pass thru the green lane without comment. Not unusual for parents of small children to lug about several times their child’s weight in luggage I guess.

(We had our snowgear and Rockstar had accumulated half a dozen large wooden jigsaws, ping-pong paddles and a family-size LIFE boardgame we got so he had something to unwrap on Christmas morning itself. We spent Christmas and New Year’s Day playing LIFE.

We like how it brainwashes kids that you eventually command a better salary if you go to college.)

Rockstar is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the taxi non-queue around 7am

(We start switching him back to HK time the moment we board the plane. He stays up about 2 hours longer, then we put him down for a full night’s sleep. Also change his outer clothes and socks, brush his teeth, put on some moisturiser which he hates but is part of his pre-bedtime ritual, lay one of his old baby bedsheets over the plane cushions and seat.)

In the last few days I wasn’t so much dreading leaving San Francisco as I was dreading coming back to HK. I expected to feel at least a little depressed. As we take the HKD 300-ish cab home. (Cab fare starts looking alright when you eye your luggage and rockstar at 7 in the morning – especially when it’s HKD 80-ish per head to take the Airport Express and then HKD 70-ish cab home from there anyway).

As Kings observes the very grey sun-less morning (too common here) it’s a pleasant surprise we’re happy to come home.

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San Francisco Through The Eyes Of A Rockstar (Part 9: Haight Street, Pescadero and the Santa Cruz Boardwalk)

Posted on January 6, 2011 by admin

Wrong turn.

We decide to make the most of it by looking for some late lunch.

There are horror movies that begin this way.

But we’re starving. We ate snacks in the car after deciding not to breakfast in Haight Street – among other things, we read of graffiti and drugs and thought Let’s Totally Breakfast Here With Our Young Child.

Guess people still party one way or the other because most stuff seems either closed or like it’s been open since the previous night (and not cleaned after the party-ers).

Fine, there were some places open, but it didn’t seem like they had crayons and a kid’s menu. Not. That I asked.

But I love the unicorn-pegasus-My Little Pony-looking thing above my head

Sun is shining, blue skies and open highways, Asian family makes wrong turn into unassuming small town, depending who your audience is Asian family or town residents turn out to be cannibals.

Kings makes another turn. “Sh#t! Railroad track!!”

There are horror movies that begin this way too.

Frantically Kings makes a few more turns even as the GPS reminds us we’re miserable navigators impassively and Rockstar does so with a little more heat.

We drive by numerous single-storey houses… A deserted eatery that’s a dead ringer for the kopitiam in Island Glades Penang where I spent a few angsty teenaged years.

Back on the highway we go. Where the hell are we? Maybe we should start reading the road signs.

We pass a pretty, colorful field. It takes Kings to figure out it’s a graveyard. For the holiday season, at least a few graves are sporting candy canes and tinsel. That’s how much these loved ones were missed, this past Christmas.

My frantic attempt at a picture is foiled by a Rockstar intervention – my cellphone is confiscated and soon the tune of Animal Alphabet Balloon Pop competes with KOIT Light Rock Radio Station. Seriously love their music. There seem to be these Cantonese channels in HK that devote a great deal of time to Conversations That Go Nowhere Or Send You Nowhere For Eg “Mother In Law Caused Divorce.” (They can be fascinating. Until you hear “Foolish Heart, Hear Me Ca-allingggg,” for the first time in 6 years and you think Where Have These Songs Been?)

Oh wait. Clean. Is there anything open here? If they are, I hope they’re vegetarian. But do mean egg omelettes.

Mezzaluna Italian Restaurant / Cafe in Pescadero makes up the nicest fruit salad (with pancakes). And it’s the non-greasiest omelette and rosti we encounter the whole trip. They have 2 kinds of packeted mustard. I love rosti with mustard.

The older kids at the next table aren’t subject to sanitiser foam before eating like Rockstar is, but I overhear the two girls remind each other to go to the bathroom and wash their hands before they dig in…

There are two tween girls trying on stuff in the jewelry store:

“My mum wears a big diamond with two little sidestones in a ring that was her —’s before she died”

“So it’ll be yours one day”

“And she wanted to makes some earrings with the sidestones… I was, like, ‘No way! I LIKE it that way!’”

The girl behind the counter (who doesn’t look that much older) volunteers, “Jewelry’s just so fascinating. My grandparents own this store, and I learned a lot about jewelry working here. My brother’s 16, he’s minding their other store nearby… Every teen should get to mind a jewelry store sometime…”

And then on to Santa Cruz Boardwalk. Eventually, anyway.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_hKE2iulZk&feature=youtu.be]

But we erm, didn’t find it very much different from any other amusement park though Rockstar goes on the Merry-Go-Round umpteen times…

And messes about on the rather grungey beach… Why are there flies in the seafoam?

Then we ride off into the sunset (after a snack of course)…

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San Francisco Through The Eyes Of A Rockstar (Part 8 – San Francisco Zoo & Safari West)

Posted on January 4, 2011 by admin

By some cosmic confluence of events, we scheduled 2 consecutive “animal days”.

(I cheated. This one above is Safari West, where we take far awesome-er pictures below. The zoo has something kinda like this too, but you’re a lot further away from the action)

Freezing cold at the zoo… The white-nosed coati is curled up in a dog basket.

We get the orange chicken and rice in Leaping Lemur Café (and the by now much-anticipated fortune cookies that come with)… You can see everyone bundled up outside…

Including the Rockstar

A quick glance around yields 4 lone dads with their small children. We encounter at least 2 or 3 more in the course of the visit.

Near the exit, yet another lone dad with three 6-8 year olds and another boy closer to Rockstar’s age on his shoulders asks us where we got the rented “safari jeep” Rockstar’s been riding in. We hand him ours and bundle Rockstar into the gift shop for the souvenir toy zoo jeep we promised him.

I speculate all the mums must be in spas after the holidays. Kings thinks they’re all single parents who take turns with the kids. Either way, we feel pretty silly whining about Rockstar’s high-maintenance-ness. He’s still just one rockstar.

It’s quite a nice zoo. It’s sunny, and the tall trees and giant branches landscaping the place are beautiful. We spend way too much time with the friendly goats in the children’s section and don’t quite finish everything else. Rockstar chides the donkeys for hee-hawing too much.

Sharing a gossip with nanny goats.

Next day, it’s the much-acclaimed Safari West. There aren’t many slots left, and by the time we show up several days after calling in, they’re fully booked.

Our guide is a senior at university, writing a thesis about the diet of 2 different kinds of mice (like I’m smart enough to make this stuff up). He disagrees with “many conservationists” who might protect a particular species of animal to the detriment of others (bringing in some species that could carry diseases affecting local species for eg). Wish I could go on, it was a fascinating, very meaty tour. But it was really hard to absorb stuff and keep an eye on Rockstar who occasionally roamed and gabbled.

Things that make you go AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Baby giraffe

Baby zebra

Q from someone in our group: Why don’t people ride zebras more?
A from guide: Because they have really bad attitudes

Baby I-Don’t-Know-What-The-Freak-This-Is-Because-I-Was-Too-Busy-Messing-With-It-When-The-Guide-Was-Talking, who got obsessed with Kings’ shoelaces (he shooed it off when his feet started to hurt).

Also searched our bag pockets as we exited and loaded up on the jeep… and pecked at exposed hands hoping for snacks (we reminded Rockstar to keep his hands firmly in his pockets) – take note, Cute Overload.

The top seat can be seriously trip-y – there were parts of the safari where the jeep would tilt and the people on top would scream… Rockstar didn’t meet the (I think it was) 4 foot min height requirement to sit up top anyways

There were 3 or 4 jeeps, each seats about 4+ families, we spy just one other Asian family (speaking in an American accent), and an Indian family. One family in our jeep were local, and the others were mostly from other parts of San Francisco.

Don’t be fooled, these aren’t just your regular Kerbau/ buffalo (which they get mistaken for quite often), they are The Mafia Of The Animal World. So says our enthusiastic guide. They bear grudges.

They are the one animal the guide doesn’t try to move out of the jeep’s path. Another older boy who needs to find an outdoor toilet (strategically placed rock or tree) is told this is the worse time during the drive to try and exit the vehicle.

So, as he talks, I snap pictures. This doesn’t even look real.

Our guide says his jeep has been rammed twice because each time he shooed one of these out of his way they would walk a few steps, then turn and charge him. So no one looks at the Road Obstruction With Giant Hangup as he parks and tells us about the Battle of Kruger – filmed by American tourists who then tried to sell the video below to National Geographic, got turned down, posted it on Youtube. 6 million hits later NG apparently bought it. The price had of course appreciated somewhat. Consolation for them is it’s now at 58 million hits and counting.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM]

(If you’re squeamish like me, here’s the spoiler – after getting caught by lions and crocodiles before the herd returns full force to chase away each lion, the baby buffalo gets up and walks away.)

The Kerbau look-alike finally ambles off the path and we carry on.

Shortly after, Rockstar falls asleep. (Tour on foot is about 45 mins, in the jeep it’s about 2 ½. 3 hours, with all the questions everyone is asking our enthusiastic guide.)

It’s the return trip he misses. At least he got all half way before KO-ing.

BIGGEST LESSON LEARNT:

Safari West has a very low escapee rate. Why? Our guide explains, the only time animals “gamble” and try to escape is when their currrent situation isn’t good enough. Humans should be that smart. The animals know where their next meal is coming from, they don’t try to run and risk losing that.

As a result, when safari staff leave gates open, they get a “So, are you going to close that?” look from the inmates – with the exception of the ostrich, who can’t remember it gets fed regularly.

(And that myth about ostriches burying only their heads when they hide – there’s no need to hide, they can seriously KICK.)

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“Outraged Dad Storms Daughter’s Bus, Confronts Bullies”

Posted on January 2, 2011 by admin

As they sum up the news stories of 2010, Outraged Dad Storms Daughter’s Bus (first came out in Sept – note the comment from a parent who gave his child a sock filled with quarters!) makes top 10 for 2010 here. Child with cerebral palsy taunted relentlessly. The disabled girl is hospitalized from stress.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pvsVHdepsw]

Her dad confronts the bullies, uses rough language, gets arrested (later released on bail.) The bullies didn’t even seem intimidated at all in the video and you can hear them laughing at the end – and the dad of the disabled child gets into trouble? Are you freaking kidding me?

I wonder how the bullies’ parents feel about their kids picking on a disabled child. Just watched the news channel interview and commend the disabled girl’s dad. Goodie.

Two decades ago as a tween, and then again as a 17 year old in the top class of one of the (then) best academically performing secondary schools in our (then) hometown, I… kinda got bullied.

“You have no breasts and no butt. Nothing.” I also made some kind of gossip book a-la Mean Girls – I was apparently sleeping around. “Aileen’s my friend. She told me.” Especially ironic since I lost my virginity at age 27 when I got married.

Bullying of any sort is a real pet peeve for me. I view bully retribution as a form of natural selection – retribution should make bullies extinct. It is for the benefit of our species.

My mother was a teacher in the school during one of the periods I got picked on (but avoided teaching my class). She was also the one who came across what was said about me in confiscated Mean Girls gossip book. She never told me what else was in there.

I requested to change seats in class.

When the teachers weren’t around, my “friends” still sauntered over to my new seat.

When the brains behind “No breasts no butt” was called in to the principal’s office, she played the “race” card: “I’m the only one called in because I’m the only one of a different race.” The school didn’t dare touch her. I think they might have tried to tell her parents, but I’m not sure. At some stage, our dads were introduced to each other.

The bullying stopped thanks to my father. “Please, please don’t misunderstand that this is by any means a threat,” he began carefully. While I was essentially easy going he went on, “Everyone has their limit, and they’re all still kids.” I was practicing breaking inch-thick boards with my forearms at the time (usually not fists – I have very thin wrists and besides I needed my fingers for piano), he explained.

Overheard as we left, “Why would you choose to pick on someone who’s training for a black belt?”

I wondered – if her dad could have called her off that easily, why didn’t he do anything before my dad mentioned the black belt? Or had he not known to what extent his daughter was making my life miserable?

Smart kids know how to be particularly cruel. And infinitely more creative in not getting caught. Bully retribution is therefore a real necessity. Otherwise they grow into smart adults who haven’t grown up. Even more capacity for mischief, ever better at avoiding censure, never learning it was never the right thing to do in the first place.

After all, they got the grades in school.

Good grades – or for that matter any other achievement – should not be a license to treat other people badly. Yet it’s a lesson many top students I would come across have skipped.

And then there was A – we had been classmates several years prior, but after the SRP streaming exam she had gone to a different class. She sat outside the principal’s office waiting for me that day, skipping “important lessons” in class just so she could be there when I emerged. No “friend” of mine that I know of in my own “top class” would ever have thought to cut class so she could be a friend to someone.

A and I hadn’t been classmates for almost 2 years. I was desperate to fit in and be accepted among the “top students,” after the streaming, and though we remained friends, we hung out in different circles. My friendship with A had been discouraged because in a fairly “good” school, she was a black sheep. The mean girls on the other hand, were the “right kind of friends” my dad initially strongly encouraged me to hang out with (until this thing happened). A invited me to hang out with her circle.

That day my mum (who taught A’s class) walked by and saw her sitting outside waiting for me.

“Don’t you have class?”

<grin> “Yup”

My mum smiled. Then she kept on walking.

“A” was not a “desirable student,” from the top class, like my bullies were. But she was a much better person. (And btw like the bully, she is of a different race than me too)

And as for bullies and retribution, it would seem that’s a grey area – supposedly “two wrongs don’t make a right,” we’re supposed to teach our kids to be better than that. On the other hand, it is a language bullies often don’t understand. Even the best collegiate debater is limited to the language he/she speaks.

When it comes to our children, how many of us are willing to even try to teach bullies our language, when we can so easily revert to the “quarters in a sock-speak” that they understand?

 

Kids have to be protected from grownups, this is the world we live in today… So who’s going to protect our kids from other kids?

 

Golden Gate Park is the largest outdoor playground Rockstar’s ever been in… And the only people filming their children are us and another set of parents speaking in Cantonese. A Caucasian dad pulls a face at my iPhone, and at one point walks behind me to see exactly whose child is on my screen in the crowded playground. Food for thought – wouldn’t have crossed my mind but for the sign Kings is happily posing next to in the first pic.

 

Even as our own Rockstar appears out of Giant Child Dispenser.

Rockstar makes friends with a very well-mannered 4 1/2 year old who is bilingual in French and English. “Does he learn Chinese?” Arthur’s mum wants to know. They live nearby this park, which his mum tells me is also near a French school that her son attends.

“Some of Arthur’s cousins have been exposed to 4 or 5 languages… But for me two are enough, I wanted him to start speaking earlier.” The whole time she’s speaking to Arthur in French, and he’s speaking to Rockstar in perfect, very eloquent English.

But when Kings returns with an ice cream cone for Rockstar, Arthur’s mum quickly runs distraction. They leave for a nearby merry-go-round ride. (Rockstar’s different, he doesn’t get hooked on sweet things)

Kings drove me an hour out of Seremban to visit A last year when she was heavily pregnant with her second child. She graduated from university, holds down a pretty good job, married a great guy whom she raises a boy and girl with in a double-storey semi-detached house.

So much for being a “problem student” in our school.

A decade later, I received a letter and later an email apology from one of my bullies. A gesture that gets full marks for its sincerity – I changed addresses several times, wasn’t that easy to find me for some years.

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Happy New Year 2011

Posted on January 1, 2011 by admin

New Year’s Eve in San Francisco Union Square…

He’s been here each time we pass, like for 3-4 days… He doesn’t seem to be asking for money…

This guy is, though – he’s got a graffiti-ed saxophone and a surprisingly clean and fairly well-fed canine companion who dug in his bag and got out a cleaned out bone to chew and play with on the street…

I originally wanted to give him some money and take a pic but then 3 white guys walked by holding a large american flag and Saxophone-And-Dog Guy turned and started yelling at them for being wussy enough to carry the flag around and to “come over here and lemme tell you somethin’ about America!”

Which is why I’m dancing around the pillar to get a picture instead of walking up to him (I wanted a pic of the relatively well-kept dog playing with a bone as shoppers bustle about)

And there’s this one below…

My husband made me post this one. (Sigh. For better or for worse, right?)

(If you didn’t get this, you are in the majority of the population of Normal People Who Aren’t Bankers. Heck, you need to work for a certain French bank of the red-and-black to get it)

There they are… Retribution may be sought at the Bar Norcini, just off Union Square

(Ok, maybe not, as they ride off into the sunset, but I would still recommend the Pecorino Brillo, which is a sheep milk cheese soaked in Chianti wine, and the Marin French Blue…)

We have a quiet dinner of supermarket takeout (love the vegetarian dal) and Whatever’s On Tv (David Blane), thinking the closest we’ll come to 2011 fanfare is the Chantix (the drug for quitting smoking) commercial, “‘My little boy helped me with the countdown – 5 days, 3 days..’. …A new year with Chantix”

But Rockstar isn’t falling asleep, and at midnight the sound of fireworks brings Kings rushing in the bedroom. “You can see the fireworks from the living room window!” We all rush out.

My hurriedly snapped iPhone pics wayy don’t do this justice. It’s the best display + view we can remember (and in HK we actually drove out early for fireworks displays – it was crowded, people were pushing, the view was ho-hum, we left halfway).

We stand in the darkened apartment all 3 of us, arms around each other, and watch.

New Year’s Resolution: To remember our blessings – in all our interactions with others.

Happy New Year 2011!!

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San Francisco Through The Eyes Of A Rockstar (Part 7 – Zeum, San Francisco’s Children’s Museum)

Posted on December 31, 2010 by admin

We spent a rainy day here… And am saving another rainy day to come back… And if there are no more rainy days Rockstar still wants back…

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUqsCgF9V7c]

Over a lighted work table where Rockstar and some other kids were messing with shapes and lights that reflect onto screens all around the darkened room, another mum addresses me, “Where did you get that bag?”

She’s referring to my trusty Donna Karan Messenger Bag from umpteen seasons ago – I bought it half off on net-a-porter.com ages ago, and recommend theoutnet.com, where last I saw it on sale.

“I’m going shopping!” she tells her little girl. “Should be at least half off…” Her little boy has already wandered off bored.

Even the back stairs boast beautiful murals… There’s a lot more stuff on walls everwhere, things for kids to do, things for kids to see…

Briefly we consider making a music video clip… But as we wait, Rockstar observes there isn’t a single other boy waiting for his turn…

And – just as I muse aloud if we should ask the crew if they have anything for Incy Wincy Spider, a very cute little blonde girl not that much taller than Rockstar, in a bubblegum pink puff-sleeved top, steps up to the mike and belts out:

“She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts,

She’s Cheer Captain and I’m on the bleachers”

It’s unclear who initiates the quicker retreat – Rockstar or his parents.

The boys are in the next room pushing each other around on a green background, and a lone dad offers to clear his 2 sons out after a few minutes so Rockstar can have a turn. In fact, most parents we encounter are pretty much as nice as that.

“…..why can’t you see,

you belong with me-ee-ee…”

from the next room as Rockstar politely declines and we wander into a third room full of Apple Macs and photoshopping software.

I get a Marilyn Monroe wig, Kings a curly purple moustache. Rockstar chooses weird glasses, a spider and a snowman on his shoulders.

But we spend the most time browsing the artwork, reading the opinions expressed by the children and teenagers in their pieces. We’re pretty much alone – there aren’t many Asian tourists, and virtually all the Caucasians moving up and down glance just briefly at the art before proceeding to the activities rooms.

Here are a few. They speak for themselves.

No, not really. They’re screaming.

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San Francisco Through The Eyes Of A Rockstar (Part 6 – Chinatown)

Posted on December 29, 2010 by admin

“Wow this place is bigger than London Chinatown!” Kings is visibly impressed. He immediately vows to return at night and wander about by himself after parking the wife and child back in the apartment.

“Are you sure it’s safe at night?” I will always remember Kings getting mugged on his 2nd day in London by two guys and a broken bottle.

“Who’s going to mug an Asian guy in Chinatown?”
I consider returning “other Asians” but let it slide.

We can’t find parking.

We did however find:

Chinese Baptist Building
Gold Mountain Sagely Monastery (separated from the above by the pink and blue building on the right)
Penang Garden
Chinese United Methodist Church
Asian Women’s Resource Center
Cumberland Presbyterian Church
Bank of East Asia and HSBC (the first we’ve seen driving around San Francisco)

We park at the nearby Hilton and walk back. Then decide to brunch at the Empress of China. (It was their décor.)

“America’s only high-rise Chinese roof garden restaurant Distinctive Cuisine of all China amidst oriental splendor with enchanting vistas in the heart of San Francisco Chinatown,” their postcards proclaim, “International Gourmet Honors & Travel-Holiday Awards Since 1968”

They have the walls of awards and pictures of famous diners to prove it. What a unique experience for 2 Malaysians who live in Hong Kong. We have to dine at the Empress of China in Chinatown.

After all, he might be back.

I had a thing for Eric Estrada of Chips when I was like, 5.

Except two other small tables who are speaking in Putonghua and English respectively, all the other patrons coming and going are white.

King at The Empress Of China. (We’re a little early – from around 12.30 when we’re ready to leave, the restaurant fills up)

Rockstar knocks back iced water with a view

The woman behind me speaks slowly to the middle-aged restaurant hostess who seats us, “I came here on tour ma-ny years a-go… Now I’d like to show my pa-rents this beautiful street full with colorful flags and ma-ny things to see…?”
The hostess laughs, “So many like that here…”

Here’s one…

We overhear a waiter with all-grey hair at the next table remark in Cantonese after the woman and her parents leave, “They didn’t eat much… only about USD 30 per head… Ah well…”

Later as we place our order, the (younger) waiter stops us over-ordering, “That’s quite enough for you.” After passing the display of awards and celebrity visitors, we kinda expected the food to be more expensive (the prices are about your average fairly nice restaurant in Hong Kong). So then we thought the portions must be quite small.

Also, “The dim sum platter will be 25 minutes though, do you still want it?”

We struggle to finish a plate of steamed tofu, spicy fried noodles and the dim sum platter. Total for the 2.5 of us before tips comes up to about USD 53. We find the dim sum unremarkable (not to mention you can’t change the pre-selected items). Then again we came from Dim Sum Country.

But it’s an interesting feeling as we speak to the waiters in Cantonese and observe all the Caucasian tourists. Quite a few are quite taken by the restaurant. Quite a few are ordering alcohol. When the man at the next table queries his drink, the grey-haired waiter immediately changes it without even checking what the order was.

As we exit the restaurant there’s an asian homeless person with a tin bowl, instead of a cup. I pull out my wallet without discomfort. He thanks me – in an American accent.

Kings stops at the ATM for cash and then we’re approached by a woman who asks in Cantonese for assistance in switching the language on the English-defaulted ATM.

Out on the street it’s crowded, but way not as horrendously so as Causeway Bay or Mong Kok in Hong Kong. There are at least a few churches – and a Chinese school. The ratio of senior citizens to younger folk walking about seems notably higher than say, in Hong Kong, and they look, dress and sound quite like the folk back home.

A little old lady walks by slowly, with a bright pink deerstalker-style hat but with dangly pom-poms attached to the ear flaps. Ok, maybe n-ot quite.

Except for the old waiter at brunch, we don’t overhear a single other grumble from the older folk (in Hong Kong they complain really loudly about standing in line at banks and stuff), just Cantonese and a smattering of Putonghua conversations. And they’re not as loud.

At least a few all-white tour groups pass us by. They’re taking lots of pictures. I get a few looks – from the other Asians (mostly the older ones) – as I pull out my iPhone and start snapping.

An older man and a teenager who lookslike his son or nephew stroll by, deep in conversation in Putonghua – complete with distinctive Beijing accent. The teen looks like he could sideline in gangsta rap, he’s dressed hip-hop style in a cream baggy hoodie (drawn over his head) and low waisted jeans.

Rockstar’s public service message to all readers:

Gambling’s bad for YOU <point finger> (No, not really)

The bunch behind us are playing Choa Dai Dee. Kings is thrilled and wants to join them. “They’ll probably win all your cash,” I warn.

Rockstar crashes. It ends the discussion.

So we camp out at the Hilton on the edge of Chinatown, also where we eventually found parking. I hurt my lower back, and check myself at Tru Spa in the hotel lobby for my first massage in more than a year. (Briefly, I also consider my first facial in 3 or 4 years, but quickly pass – just not in the habit of doing it regularly is all.)

My massage therapist used to be Indonesian. “Came here 11 years ago. I’m an American citizen now,” she tells me proudly. “I vote.” Still, her English is heavily accented and feeling hopeful, I try to get some Bahasa practice in. She sticks to English.

“Do you actually like it in Hong Kong?” she asks – a total of 3 times in the course of our conversation. “People are really rude, aren’t they?”

Umm… I was going to say people in San Francisco are really nice/ polite – when they see us travelling with a toddler people hold doors open for us, or if we get every-so-slightly bumped or even almost bumped, people say “sorry”

“I know only 1 Singaporean and 2 Malaysians,” she goes on. “Not as many Indonesians as there are Philippinos – many Philippinos and Vietnamese here… That’s America, when they see problems in their home countries, people move here.”

It took 2 Caucasian teenagers taking pictures in front of this before we read it carefully…

“San Francisco is a big city, people are used to Asians,” says my therapist..

(Can’t argue with that, Kings and I have been constantly surprised how easily people here assume we live here too, despite us not speaking in anything approaching an American accent. An older Caucasian man we met at lunch in Silicon Valley who’s lived all his life in California told us,

“At work we did a survey for some Japanese clients, and got many Asian respondents. The Japanese clients asked us ‘But where are all the Americans?’ and we said ‘Right here!’ What our clients didn’t realize is all these people are American now.”)

“But I think it can be very different for Asians in some of the other states,” therapist qualifies.

More graffiti

When I get back to the hotel cafe where Rockstar is napping and Kings is surfing the net, my hub wanders off and decides on Chinese takeout for dinner so he can more easily drop us home and then come back. He chooses a nondescript restaurant near the Hilton where Rockstar is still asleep on the sofa. The middle-aged Hongkie lady at the counter chatters on in Cantonese, “There used to be a lot more Hongkies than Mainlanders, but nowadays the number of people coming here from China is going up.”

“Oh, and look carefully before committing at some of the all-you-can-eat places – some of em are “all you can eat for USD 17.99 or whatever, and then the selection of stuff you get is really bad.”

Then she learns we’ve been to Empress of China. “And what did you think of their food?” We… didn’t think anything, we went in because they looked so interesting from the outside. The food was “alright”.

“In that case you’re going to love our food.”

She’s right.

I’m especially critical because of her comment. It doesn’t help – our takeout dinner is freaking fabulous. I rummage thru the bags – all nondescript plastic and paper. She didn’t even slip a restaurant calling card or takeout menu into our order. I text Kings who’s living it up in Chinatown right about now.

Kings insists the hanging laundry is intended as part of the art on this building. I beg to differ. The number of Caucasians taking pictures of this shows clearly no one else cares. (Also, a lot of their streetlamps look like the ones on either side of the picture)

Kings replies my text: ”I think it was Jade Garden.”

Then “Going traditional massage now.”

Stay tuned, will update with confirmed identity of Nondescript Chinese Restaurant…

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San Francisco Through The Eyes Of A Rockstar (Part 5 – The Homeless and Not-So-Homeless)

Posted on December 28, 2010 by admin

Coming back to our apartment near Fisherman’s Wharf, we drive aimlessly and eventually rustle up brunch on Fifth Street…

“TRAM!!!”

We pass signs in windows with “I DO support the right to marriage” (but I’m not fast enough with my iPhone, especially now Rockstar’s watching lots of snow videos and is in charge of calling up my phone camera)… But this is a beautiful teal house anyway…

Their houses are just gorgeous. And there are dogs going for walks everywhere.

There’s a tall, broad-shouldered african american man sitting in a Santa hat with a backpack and what looks like some belongings in a cardboard box near the parking meters, occasionally holding up a cup.

His voice.

It’s one of the most pleasant voices we’ve ever heard, not just walking along the streets here. We’ve encountered not a few people on the streets with cups especially around the shopping centers:

“HelLO.“

“I could use a little HELP.“

Sometimes to my un-trained, have-always-lived-in-Asia ears, they sound belligerent.

7 years ago running around Times Square after an impromptu decision to take some wedding pictures (Opened phone book. First photog listed was in Chinatown. Long white dress came free with the photo package. Voila. Wedding Pictures. Yes, seriously) people came up to us with a cup, “Hey, you’re getting married. How bout a dollar?”

Our Chinatown photog said in Cantonese to us, “Don’t give them anything. They just choose not to work.”

“I can’t stand them.”

I… have to get my head around people who choose not to work and just bum dollars… You can’t bum enough to buy Prada, can you? Or have kids… Surely you’d find work if you could? Sometimes I feel a bit sorry for them thinking they CAN’T find work. But people have told me there are people who CHOOSE not to work at all, I should really get out more often.

(Uh… Yeah, says the person who saw snow for the first time at age 34 and used to rarely travel except when she got married. I know.)

This Christmas we watch on tv as they interview people at the homeless shelter.

There’s a bespectacled woman with a 5 week old baby. “Well, I guess here I am.”

Another woman with smooth, long, blonde hair in a black v-necked sweater says she came from a good home and then the crisis hit.

I know someone from here whose parents had a drug habit and have been in and out of homeless shelters. His wife, whom I met in Hong Kong where they now live, tells me every time he looks at the graffiti, he gets mad because it signifies the height of irresponsiblity. For someone who had such role models growing up, I have the utmost respect.

Then there was the whole impromptu band with full set of percussion instruments playing really groovy Christmas music on the street outside Westfield shopping center something, and the lone man with a trumpet in front of the lighted Christmas tree in Union Square…

Except I was a little afraid to open my wallet in the crowd by myself (Kings and I occasionally split up and take turns minding napping Rockstar in various hotel lounges while the other roams… I took this pic earlier when it was less crowded as it was raining) – I had been carrying all my cash everywhere <sheepish>

Anyway. Back to the original Guy With Remarkable Voice, Santa Hat, And Cup.

A passerby puts a dollar bill in his cup and his “AW, THANK you, sir!” sounds so….. Friendly. Warm. SINCERE.

It’s hard to imagine this guy doesn’t, I don’t know, sell vacuum cleaners or CDOs in a day job. Or have a talk show.

His voice is so charismatic Kings doesn’t just take some money out of his wallet, he follows him down the street a short bit (interestingly we parked almost right in front of his cardboard box and back pack but he didn’t ask us for money), tapping his shoulder til he turns.

His surprise, and his “God BLESS you,” reminds us we really are. Blessed.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter as much whether that guy could find work. We’d much rather be the people who can find jobs, work our butts off and be able to give.

For all we have, we will Praise the Lord.

It’s a warm feeling that follows us into some random cafe, pulls up a chair, and sits with us at the corner window table as outside, another seemingly random guy walks up and starts meticulously cleaning the windows (left).

The impressively articulate blond little girl at the next table having spinach omelette with her father and baby brother chirps “Hey… Someone’s cleaning the windows!” Then, spying the Van Gogh Starry Night Gelaskin stuck on my laptop as Rockstar puts a Little Red Tractor jigsaw together on cbeebies.com, “That’s from Classical Baby!”

“We get it on HBO,” her bespectacled father explains very patiently (because I can’t understand how to pick it up off their tv here) from under his baseball cap. “Van Gogh Starry Night (is this why everywhere I go with my laptop everyone knows this picture) is one of the paintings featured as they play classical music.”

“It’s better than Baby Einstein.”

We half expect Window Cleaning Guy to come in asking for tips, but he doesn’t – he carries on down the street out of sight.

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