The only thought that gripped my mind was, would she still recognize me?
By now my longing for her had taken root as a dull ache inside, twisting and churning everytime I saw other more fortunate guys on the street. Back in my school days she was always with me, wherever I went, always by my side. Army soon put an end to that, and I think I never really adjusted to her absence. I told myself that I had to move on, adapt to life as it was, but while I might have fooled everyone else, there was still one person I couldn't quite convince.
Would things be the same? Would time apart have changed our dynamics irrevocably? Sometimes it felt as if there were just too many obstacles between us, as if all the effort I could muster wouldn't even give me a glimpse of her. Yet every time I thought I had worked her out of my system, some small thing would trigger all the memories again. Such exquisite pain as I've never known.
And now, the prospect of meeting her again. It seemed so very unreal.
The guy at the counter somehow seemed to empathize with me, and the kindred expression he wore comforted me somewhat. "It is time," he said, "and you can come this way." For all the times he has helped poor separated couples like me and her reunite, I wondered if he ever truly understood how we felt, the storming sea of emotions we had to quell constantly. For his sake, I wished he didn't.
The next I looked, I spotted her. Tears came to my eyes, unbidden.
When our gazes interlocked a lot of words suddenly became unnecessary. Yes, eventually we would have to work around clumsy conversations to fully reintegrate, but for now it didn't matter. The moment I saw her expression I knew that there was still hope for us, that there was space in both our lives for each other, and that was all that mattered.
Just both of us together, beginning the rest of our lives. My Pink IC and I.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
China 4: Driving
In the Singaporean context, the average person learning driving will spend his first lesson being introduced to the various components of the car, followed by the recommended ways of gripping the steering wheel. In China, I highly suspect they just tell you where the horn is, how important it is to keep sounding it, and then wish you well.
In fact, I was actually struck by the relative quietness of our Singaporean roads on my return. The taxt driver in our cab back from the airport looked like the kind who could fulfill any traffic policeman's quota for a month, but I think in Shanghai he might have gotten a job as a Board of Safe Driving consultant.
You simply just have to experience it to know what I mean.
The long and weary path to a driving license in China is ironically harder to obtain. Apparantly, all applying suicidal-daredevils have to first sit through a tedious True/False theory exam, which was (at least two years ago) impossible to pass on the first few attempts unless you brought some loose change along, if you know what I mean.
After which, the learners had to chalk up 60+ hours of driving experience before they sat for the practical test. The tricky part was, as the driving centres are all located in the suburbs, it didn't make sense to travel for 2 hours to the driving centre, drive for an hour and a half and then go home, much like we do over here. Thus, they actually report first thing in the morning at six, and drive all the way till seven in the evening before they end.
Oh, and did I mention that four students would share a car? At the same time?
It is for the above reasons that I hardly know of any Singaporean driving in China. Most prefer to hire a chauffeur, a job package which, as an unwritten rule, also includes the extra services of representing you in any heated traffic dispute. I don't think anyone (in their right minds) would also want to go through all the agony of getting a lousy license again over in China.
If you ask me, if I had to endure so much just to drive, I would be one disgruntled, aggressive and abusive driver. Which would explain quite a lot.
In fact, I was actually struck by the relative quietness of our Singaporean roads on my return. The taxt driver in our cab back from the airport looked like the kind who could fulfill any traffic policeman's quota for a month, but I think in Shanghai he might have gotten a job as a Board of Safe Driving consultant.
You simply just have to experience it to know what I mean.
The long and weary path to a driving license in China is ironically harder to obtain. Apparantly, all applying suicidal-daredevils have to first sit through a tedious True/False theory exam, which was (at least two years ago) impossible to pass on the first few attempts unless you brought some loose change along, if you know what I mean.
After which, the learners had to chalk up 60+ hours of driving experience before they sat for the practical test. The tricky part was, as the driving centres are all located in the suburbs, it didn't make sense to travel for 2 hours to the driving centre, drive for an hour and a half and then go home, much like we do over here. Thus, they actually report first thing in the morning at six, and drive all the way till seven in the evening before they end.
Oh, and did I mention that four students would share a car? At the same time?
It is for the above reasons that I hardly know of any Singaporean driving in China. Most prefer to hire a chauffeur, a job package which, as an unwritten rule, also includes the extra services of representing you in any heated traffic dispute. I don't think anyone (in their right minds) would also want to go through all the agony of getting a lousy license again over in China.
If you ask me, if I had to endure so much just to drive, I would be one disgruntled, aggressive and abusive driver. Which would explain quite a lot.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Gifts and Playgrounds
There used to be this playground near my house. I've only brought three friends to the place, Ivan and Alex among them.
The best part about the playground was its location. The value of the small sandpit, modest two-person swing as well as scattered stone benches was bolstered greatly by the fact that the whole playground sat on high ground, overlooking (or for army guys dominating) Ang Mo Kio Ave 5.
The playground had a most soothing, anodyne effect on me. I found that if you were on the swing and you looked down the hill, you had this great panoramic view that made the rest of the world seem so distant, so far-away. How many times I sought refuge at the place!
But it's gone now.
Renovations began a while back, and I thought they just meant to spruce up the place. Yet when I ventured there today, the first time in weeks, I found... a different playground. The swing's gone, along with the sandpit. The stone benches all face away from the slope down the hill. Everything I remembered about it, the romantic quality of the environment, the familiarity of the swing, all gone. Replaced by concrete and concrete and concrete.
Before, when I received gifts of especial value, I would stow them away instead of using them. Today, I came home and unwrapped some gifts, ate others, displayed the remainder. I think sometimes we cherish the gifts in our lives wrongly, keeping them for an indeterminate tomorrow when today would be the best time to appreciate them. If you gave someone a gift, wouldn't you want to see them use it, wear it, eat it?
That old playground was really something special. It deserved more than three of my friends.
The best part about the playground was its location. The value of the small sandpit, modest two-person swing as well as scattered stone benches was bolstered greatly by the fact that the whole playground sat on high ground, overlooking (or for army guys dominating) Ang Mo Kio Ave 5.
The playground had a most soothing, anodyne effect on me. I found that if you were on the swing and you looked down the hill, you had this great panoramic view that made the rest of the world seem so distant, so far-away. How many times I sought refuge at the place!
But it's gone now.
Renovations began a while back, and I thought they just meant to spruce up the place. Yet when I ventured there today, the first time in weeks, I found... a different playground. The swing's gone, along with the sandpit. The stone benches all face away from the slope down the hill. Everything I remembered about it, the romantic quality of the environment, the familiarity of the swing, all gone. Replaced by concrete and concrete and concrete.
Before, when I received gifts of especial value, I would stow them away instead of using them. Today, I came home and unwrapped some gifts, ate others, displayed the remainder. I think sometimes we cherish the gifts in our lives wrongly, keeping them for an indeterminate tomorrow when today would be the best time to appreciate them. If you gave someone a gift, wouldn't you want to see them use it, wear it, eat it?
That old playground was really something special. It deserved more than three of my friends.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
China 3: Parents and Children
You know what they say, parents will always perceive their children as needing protection and guidance, no matter how old their progeny has become.
You want proof? Hey, take a gander at my dad.
When I was younger I'm told I suffered from severe speech problems, at one point being unable to speak in full coherent sentences or understand proper English for up to two years (before I was two). As a result, my parents would take the pain of translating the mechanisms of the world into accessible language for me, trying to ensure I learnt as fast as I could.
Unfortunately, they haven't stopped doing so.
My dad and I were at the Summer Palace, when our tour guide began her historical briefing. The irritating thing was, my dad began to translate everything she was saying for me. In effect, I would receive the Mandarin Historical Account first (which I fully understood), followed seamlessly by the English Totally-Useless-Historical Account.
On account of the loving care my dad has showered on me over all the years, I resisted the urge to bite him.
My mum's not much dissimilar. Seized by an inexplicable urge to get sporty two weeks ago, I begged my dad to get me a pair of blades. Surprisingly, my mum objected most vehemently, saying that she didn't want me to get hurt before we went overseas. When she said that, my brain just hung. I mean, this is the mum who's seen me through 2+ years of army, chided me for being chicken when I refused to clear the maggots... what the hell am I going to tell my men in camp when they ask me why I don't blade? That my mum is afraid I'll get hurt?!?
I'm not an ungrateful brat, don't get me wrong. At the end of the day, I still get this warm feeling inside knowing my parents still keep an eye out for me, that I'll always have someone to turn to. Parents are wonderful creatures.
But I swear, the next time my dad translates Mandarin for me again, I will bite him.
You want proof? Hey, take a gander at my dad.
When I was younger I'm told I suffered from severe speech problems, at one point being unable to speak in full coherent sentences or understand proper English for up to two years (before I was two). As a result, my parents would take the pain of translating the mechanisms of the world into accessible language for me, trying to ensure I learnt as fast as I could.
Unfortunately, they haven't stopped doing so.
My dad and I were at the Summer Palace, when our tour guide began her historical briefing. The irritating thing was, my dad began to translate everything she was saying for me. In effect, I would receive the Mandarin Historical Account first (which I fully understood), followed seamlessly by the English Totally-Useless-Historical Account.
On account of the loving care my dad has showered on me over all the years, I resisted the urge to bite him.
My mum's not much dissimilar. Seized by an inexplicable urge to get sporty two weeks ago, I begged my dad to get me a pair of blades. Surprisingly, my mum objected most vehemently, saying that she didn't want me to get hurt before we went overseas. When she said that, my brain just hung. I mean, this is the mum who's seen me through 2+ years of army, chided me for being chicken when I refused to clear the maggots... what the hell am I going to tell my men in camp when they ask me why I don't blade? That my mum is afraid I'll get hurt?!?
I'm not an ungrateful brat, don't get me wrong. At the end of the day, I still get this warm feeling inside knowing my parents still keep an eye out for me, that I'll always have someone to turn to. Parents are wonderful creatures.
But I swear, the next time my dad translates Mandarin for me again, I will bite him.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
China 2: Beauty
We were sitting around to lunch when Uncle Richard mentioned, off-hand, that the prettiest ladies in China are probably from Beijing.
We all took a good look around.
You're right, Uncle Edwin said. After further observation, he calculated that if you were to throw a stone, you could probably hit a few pretty ladies, here in Beijing. Far more than you would hit if you were in Singapore, since Beijing's population stands at four times that of Singapore's. My dad spoke up then, the eternal devil's advocate.
"Look, if Beijing has four times the number of pretty ladies as compared to that of Singapore, then wouldn't the number of unpretty ladies be four times more as well? So if you were to really throw a stone, the chances of you hitting an unpretty lady would be much higher too!"
We all took another good look around. It seemed to me as if the unpretty ladies in Beijing were doing a pretty (no pun intended) darn good job of avoiding thrown stones.
Truth is, it's all in the attitude. The Straits Times mentioned in an article last year, how sociologists found that a person's behaviour directly influenced the way others perceived them. Thus, the good-looking but badly-behaving people tended to score good first impressions but slid down the appraisal scale quickly (how many of you envy Paris Hilton?). And of course, vice versa.
Just think about it, how many secret crushes have you had on someone who wasn't conventional Maggie Chung or Hanting material? And even as your close friends think you mad or tasteless, you know deep inside that you've seen something special in that crush that your unfortunate friends haven't yet noticed. It's just like the moral Will Smith expounds in Hitch - beauty might create opportunities, but ultimately it's you who's going to decide how to proceed with the opportunities.
So please, all of you who are on diets that are so miserable even bacteria would go elsewhere to colonize. Eat up, worry less, and polish that smile of yours.
We all took a good look around.
You're right, Uncle Edwin said. After further observation, he calculated that if you were to throw a stone, you could probably hit a few pretty ladies, here in Beijing. Far more than you would hit if you were in Singapore, since Beijing's population stands at four times that of Singapore's. My dad spoke up then, the eternal devil's advocate.
"Look, if Beijing has four times the number of pretty ladies as compared to that of Singapore, then wouldn't the number of unpretty ladies be four times more as well? So if you were to really throw a stone, the chances of you hitting an unpretty lady would be much higher too!"
We all took another good look around. It seemed to me as if the unpretty ladies in Beijing were doing a pretty (no pun intended) darn good job of avoiding thrown stones.
Truth is, it's all in the attitude. The Straits Times mentioned in an article last year, how sociologists found that a person's behaviour directly influenced the way others perceived them. Thus, the good-looking but badly-behaving people tended to score good first impressions but slid down the appraisal scale quickly (how many of you envy Paris Hilton?). And of course, vice versa.
Just think about it, how many secret crushes have you had on someone who wasn't conventional Maggie Chung or Hanting material? And even as your close friends think you mad or tasteless, you know deep inside that you've seen something special in that crush that your unfortunate friends haven't yet noticed. It's just like the moral Will Smith expounds in Hitch - beauty might create opportunities, but ultimately it's you who's going to decide how to proceed with the opportunities.
So please, all of you who are on diets that are so miserable even bacteria would go elsewhere to colonize. Eat up, worry less, and polish that smile of yours.
China 1: Suppression of Free Speech
When I met Lip Jin on MSN, I poured out my Blogger woes to him. You see, travelling inspires me, and during the last week while I was in China I kept meaning to write but simply couldn't log on to Blogger.
"Hanting, maybe it's China la. Suppression of free speech and everything."
To tell the truth, initially I thought he was just kidding. I mean, yeah, everyone knows that China is communist and everything, but would they really go block the website?
It was only after five nights of repeated, frustrated attempts to log on that I searched for "Blogger + China + block" under Google, and yeah, Lippy's right.
Therefore I had to wait until I got home to loving Singapore, where they let the men learn how to kill using guns before letting them watch RA movies, to regain my freedom of speech.
Nothing like home. =)
"Hanting, maybe it's China la. Suppression of free speech and everything."
To tell the truth, initially I thought he was just kidding. I mean, yeah, everyone knows that China is communist and everything, but would they really go block the website?
It was only after five nights of repeated, frustrated attempts to log on that I searched for "Blogger + China + block" under Google, and yeah, Lippy's right.
Therefore I had to wait until I got home to loving Singapore, where they let the men learn how to kill using guns before letting them watch RA movies, to regain my freedom of speech.
Nothing like home. =)
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Maggots
It was the Critical Moment. As I slipped into my outing clothing, I counted the seconds going by. Research shows that in almost 90% of all instances of children being enslaved to do household chores, the event which triggers a Call To Duty by parents is when the children are getting dressed to go out. Uncanny, yet true. Hence, the term Critical Moment.
"Hanting! Quick! Come here!" yelled my mother from the backyard. Right on time.
I surveyed this particular rack in the backyard that demanded my attention, and my blood ran cold. We used it to stack old newspapers, and the karang guni man had discovered a motherload of maggots nesting in the topmost rack.
"Ok, you've got to kill the maggots first, then clear the newspapers, then disinfect the entire area." My mother pressed a bottle of insecticide into my hands, then took an appreciable step back. Looking back at the maggots, layers upon layers of the grimy abominations, I knew what I wanted wasn't a can of Shelltox, I needed a flamethrower.
After five minutes of groaning and moaning about how disgusting the entire thing was, and generally complaining without any work getting done, my mother reminded me that I was a fully trained officer, capable of being drafted for war. I paused midway through my griping, and got a hold of myself.
She was right. Shame washed over me. This wasn't how a young, fiery soldier handled a stressful situation. Youths my age had gone through so much more, take for instance the teenage militants in war-torn countries, or the kids who endure endless repeats of Limp Bizkit. I steeled my stomach, grit my teeth, and followed my honed soldierly instincts.
I went to get a pair of gloves.
The truth is, the best way to bring out the machismo in men is to have a large female audience around. When I was younger and had to face down my first cockroach alone, I drowned it in Shelltox, stabbed it with chopsticks, battered it with a wooden ladle, put newspapers over it and jumped on it. In contrast, when a cockroach appeared at Haoyun's place the other day, I calmly picked it up in my hand and flushed it down the loo.
I just didn't see the need to be macho in front of my mum. I mean, you're not going to impress a lady who's seen the worst of you over all the years, right?
Death to all maggots!
"Hanting! Quick! Come here!" yelled my mother from the backyard. Right on time.
I surveyed this particular rack in the backyard that demanded my attention, and my blood ran cold. We used it to stack old newspapers, and the karang guni man had discovered a motherload of maggots nesting in the topmost rack.
"Ok, you've got to kill the maggots first, then clear the newspapers, then disinfect the entire area." My mother pressed a bottle of insecticide into my hands, then took an appreciable step back. Looking back at the maggots, layers upon layers of the grimy abominations, I knew what I wanted wasn't a can of Shelltox, I needed a flamethrower.
After five minutes of groaning and moaning about how disgusting the entire thing was, and generally complaining without any work getting done, my mother reminded me that I was a fully trained officer, capable of being drafted for war. I paused midway through my griping, and got a hold of myself.
She was right. Shame washed over me. This wasn't how a young, fiery soldier handled a stressful situation. Youths my age had gone through so much more, take for instance the teenage militants in war-torn countries, or the kids who endure endless repeats of Limp Bizkit. I steeled my stomach, grit my teeth, and followed my honed soldierly instincts.
I went to get a pair of gloves.
The truth is, the best way to bring out the machismo in men is to have a large female audience around. When I was younger and had to face down my first cockroach alone, I drowned it in Shelltox, stabbed it with chopsticks, battered it with a wooden ladle, put newspapers over it and jumped on it. In contrast, when a cockroach appeared at Haoyun's place the other day, I calmly picked it up in my hand and flushed it down the loo.
I just didn't see the need to be macho in front of my mum. I mean, you're not going to impress a lady who's seen the worst of you over all the years, right?
Death to all maggots!
Writing Seriously
I'm back!
This is after tons of failed attempts at writing seriously, really. I even wanted to create a sister blog to this one, one with a URL like www.thisisaseriousblogreally.blogspot.com, then realized that no matter how hard I tried to write on various pressing issues, such as the Budget Debate, or the Casino Debate, or the Is-Sylvester-Getting-Married Debate, it wouldn't be long before some twisted or humourous thought would worm its way into the argumentative. Then all my seriousness would go out the window, and I'd end up spending one or two paragraphs self-gratifying or lampooning someone.
Oh well. Best to just keep doing what comes naturally then.
This is after tons of failed attempts at writing seriously, really. I even wanted to create a sister blog to this one, one with a URL like www.thisisaseriousblogreally.blogspot.com, then realized that no matter how hard I tried to write on various pressing issues, such as the Budget Debate, or the Casino Debate, or the Is-Sylvester-Getting-Married Debate, it wouldn't be long before some twisted or humourous thought would worm its way into the argumentative. Then all my seriousness would go out the window, and I'd end up spending one or two paragraphs self-gratifying or lampooning someone.
Oh well. Best to just keep doing what comes naturally then.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Humbled
I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been visiting my blog. I would also like to take this opportunity to say that I will be taking a break from writing, for a short while.
It happened like this. I was just mucking around on the internet when I found a link to a blog that critiqued the way the Straits Times censored the exchange between MM Lee and NUS undergraduate Jamie Han. From there I followed a link that led to this guy who has a blog dedicated to issues revolving around Singapore, from the way NS is useless and should be made better, to the way we should encourage the young to shake off their political apathy.
The links went on. I had stumbled onto a blog-ring, maintained by some of the brightest minds at NUS.
They discussed how the administration of NUS could be better managed. They argued about national policies across their blogs, challenging each other on so many different levels. They talked about the tsunami, and how different countries have capitalized on the situation. The list goes on.
I am humbled. A blog's such a powerful tool, such a far-reaching platform, and yet I've been abusing it, using my blog to remind people again and again that I am beautiful.
Going to sort things out in my head.
BRB.
It happened like this. I was just mucking around on the internet when I found a link to a blog that critiqued the way the Straits Times censored the exchange between MM Lee and NUS undergraduate Jamie Han. From there I followed a link that led to this guy who has a blog dedicated to issues revolving around Singapore, from the way NS is useless and should be made better, to the way we should encourage the young to shake off their political apathy.
The links went on. I had stumbled onto a blog-ring, maintained by some of the brightest minds at NUS.
They discussed how the administration of NUS could be better managed. They argued about national policies across their blogs, challenging each other on so many different levels. They talked about the tsunami, and how different countries have capitalized on the situation. The list goes on.
I am humbled. A blog's such a powerful tool, such a far-reaching platform, and yet I've been abusing it, using my blog to remind people again and again that I am beautiful.
Going to sort things out in my head.
BRB.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Accident 3: Impact
This very evening, at the junction of Ang Mo Kio Ave 3 and Ang Mo Kio Ave 8, I witnessed an accident in its entirety.
In retrospect the scariest thing about it all was how an idyllic, almost dull moment could develop so drastically into a mind-numbing, life-changing one. This car was heading down Ave 3 across the junction when it crashed into a motorcycle making a right turn from the opposite lane. It's strange, how the busy and noise-polluted junction seemed to freeze for a while, as the tragic event unfolded.
I guess by some peculiar happenstance there was actually a police vehicle waiting to make a right turn, and the alert men in blue reacted swiftly to control the situaiton. The entire scene plays out again and again in my mind's eye, yet I find it so difficult to describe it accurately in words. Suffice to say that after the car hit a stationary taxi and came to a halt, the distraught female driver stumbled out and could barely keep from becoming hysterical as she saw the policemen attend to the fallen motorcyclist.
Tomorrow I will return to the junction, and I will pray tonight that there will be a signboard saying "Serious Accident", rather than "Fatal Accident". The taxi driver of the cab that I was in was more pessimistic, and told me that going by experience, the unnatural way the motorcyclist was splayed out on the road, coupled with the severe degree of blood loss so fast, he thought it would be a miracle if the poor guy survived.
I really don't know about you, but I don't feel the same way about my driver's license anymore.
In retrospect the scariest thing about it all was how an idyllic, almost dull moment could develop so drastically into a mind-numbing, life-changing one. This car was heading down Ave 3 across the junction when it crashed into a motorcycle making a right turn from the opposite lane. It's strange, how the busy and noise-polluted junction seemed to freeze for a while, as the tragic event unfolded.
I guess by some peculiar happenstance there was actually a police vehicle waiting to make a right turn, and the alert men in blue reacted swiftly to control the situaiton. The entire scene plays out again and again in my mind's eye, yet I find it so difficult to describe it accurately in words. Suffice to say that after the car hit a stationary taxi and came to a halt, the distraught female driver stumbled out and could barely keep from becoming hysterical as she saw the policemen attend to the fallen motorcyclist.
Tomorrow I will return to the junction, and I will pray tonight that there will be a signboard saying "Serious Accident", rather than "Fatal Accident". The taxi driver of the cab that I was in was more pessimistic, and told me that going by experience, the unnatural way the motorcyclist was splayed out on the road, coupled with the severe degree of blood loss so fast, he thought it would be a miracle if the poor guy survived.
I really don't know about you, but I don't feel the same way about my driver's license anymore.
Purpose In Life 1: Questioning
A strange thought crossed my mind a while back.
In camp, someone had mistakenly scribbled across a white board using permanent markers. As part of the cleaning-up effort, we were using whiteboard markers to go over the permanent ink, and when we were done we threw away the whiteboard markers.
That's when it struck me. Let's say I were a whiteboard marker, made with the sole aim of writing delible messages on white boards. Assuming I knew what I was made for, would I want to be used to write, and look on in envy at all my sibling markers who fulfill their life's purpose as I lie in my box unused? Or would I be happier remaining unsold in some warehouse or stationary shop?
And what if unlike all my siblings I take the road less travelled, and end up deleting permanent ink instead of being used to write? What then? Glad that I was special, was useful to others, or would I be devastated over never fulfilling my original purpose in life?
What if a marker doesn't know what it was made for, and what its purpose in life is?
But as the army has very strict rules over using brains for constructive thought, especially when you lack substantial rank, I let the thought pass. Maybe one day I'll revisit this... perturbing yet pertinent train of thought.
In camp, someone had mistakenly scribbled across a white board using permanent markers. As part of the cleaning-up effort, we were using whiteboard markers to go over the permanent ink, and when we were done we threw away the whiteboard markers.
That's when it struck me. Let's say I were a whiteboard marker, made with the sole aim of writing delible messages on white boards. Assuming I knew what I was made for, would I want to be used to write, and look on in envy at all my sibling markers who fulfill their life's purpose as I lie in my box unused? Or would I be happier remaining unsold in some warehouse or stationary shop?
And what if unlike all my siblings I take the road less travelled, and end up deleting permanent ink instead of being used to write? What then? Glad that I was special, was useful to others, or would I be devastated over never fulfilling my original purpose in life?
What if a marker doesn't know what it was made for, and what its purpose in life is?
But as the army has very strict rules over using brains for constructive thought, especially when you lack substantial rank, I let the thought pass. Maybe one day I'll revisit this... perturbing yet pertinent train of thought.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Nomenclature
Startled. Then stunned. Then horrified.
I was all that, and more, when I discovered that there is, living on this same little island as I, another person who *gasp* has the same name as me. Lee, HANTING, Justin.
For close to 21 years, I've enjoyed the singular fortune of not having to meet anyone else with the same name as me. Ok, fine, there was this girl (4 years my senior) in RGS who was named Hanting too, but since that name was printed in a yearbook, I believe it's a typo, so it doesn't count. Hah.
Who doesn't want a unique name? People have increasingly found that unique names are better remembered by others, thus providing an added advantage in social or business circles. In fact, a Straits Times report carried this anecdote of this guy in the quarry business, who named his daughter Pebble and his son Rock (I wonder how much they hate their dad). In the same survey, they found more and more people giving themselves Christian names too, in an effort to be remembered better.
As for myself, even though "Hanting" is, or was, probably as unique a Chinese name as you can get (unlike names like Xiao Ming, which appears in thousands in Sentence Construction worksheets across the nation's schools), I began preparing long ago for this unfortunate eventuality, when pure chance would throw up another kid with my name. And that's where the problem begins.
Because, as you probably already well know, Christian names repeat too frequently. Think of... Ben. You have Benjamin Ang (aka Bang), Benjamin Koh (aka Ben Koh), Benjamin Tan (aka Ben). You have... Alex. Alex Ho (aka Alex), Alex Wee (aka Lex aka Worm). And we're not even counting all the Shauns, Kelvins, Adelines.
Every time I look in the mirror, I can't think of a Christian name that would suit myself, without infringing on another person's personality. Sylvester's too toned-down for me (ah see you are already thinking, is he talking about the Sim one or the Stallone one?), Brad's not macho enough, Vin Diesel makes me sound cheap. So taking on an existing name's out of the question for me.
Next, I tried try my hand at making a name for myself (no pun intended). For a while I thought I'll make myself sound like I'm a Honky, so maybe Cash Leong, or Money Leong. For a country that has citizens with names like Noodle Cheng, Toxic Pang and Fruit Chan, I thought I'd fit right in. But after violent protests from my fan club, I thought, ok, let's try more exotic, European-style names. Hence, Beelzebubbly, or maybe Quetzcoatly. Luciferous?
My Christian aunt promptly threw a fit. So that was the end of that.
Just before I gave up, I decided to go with the radical name *H(#&!. For those who don't know, it's pronounced "Crazy Sexy Cool With A Good Bod To Add", only said very, very fast. I gave it up soon though, because people kept mispronouncing it as *h)#&! (Crazydeludedpieceofshit).
So fare you well, Clark Hoo Swee Tiang. I'll stick around with Hanting for the time being. =)
I was all that, and more, when I discovered that there is, living on this same little island as I, another person who *gasp* has the same name as me. Lee, HANTING, Justin.
For close to 21 years, I've enjoyed the singular fortune of not having to meet anyone else with the same name as me. Ok, fine, there was this girl (4 years my senior) in RGS who was named Hanting too, but since that name was printed in a yearbook, I believe it's a typo, so it doesn't count. Hah.
Who doesn't want a unique name? People have increasingly found that unique names are better remembered by others, thus providing an added advantage in social or business circles. In fact, a Straits Times report carried this anecdote of this guy in the quarry business, who named his daughter Pebble and his son Rock (I wonder how much they hate their dad). In the same survey, they found more and more people giving themselves Christian names too, in an effort to be remembered better.
As for myself, even though "Hanting" is, or was, probably as unique a Chinese name as you can get (unlike names like Xiao Ming, which appears in thousands in Sentence Construction worksheets across the nation's schools), I began preparing long ago for this unfortunate eventuality, when pure chance would throw up another kid with my name. And that's where the problem begins.
Because, as you probably already well know, Christian names repeat too frequently. Think of... Ben. You have Benjamin Ang (aka Bang), Benjamin Koh (aka Ben Koh), Benjamin Tan (aka Ben). You have... Alex. Alex Ho (aka Alex), Alex Wee (aka Lex aka Worm). And we're not even counting all the Shauns, Kelvins, Adelines.
Every time I look in the mirror, I can't think of a Christian name that would suit myself, without infringing on another person's personality. Sylvester's too toned-down for me (ah see you are already thinking, is he talking about the Sim one or the Stallone one?), Brad's not macho enough, Vin Diesel makes me sound cheap. So taking on an existing name's out of the question for me.
Next, I tried try my hand at making a name for myself (no pun intended). For a while I thought I'll make myself sound like I'm a Honky, so maybe Cash Leong, or Money Leong. For a country that has citizens with names like Noodle Cheng, Toxic Pang and Fruit Chan, I thought I'd fit right in. But after violent protests from my fan club, I thought, ok, let's try more exotic, European-style names. Hence, Beelzebubbly, or maybe Quetzcoatly. Luciferous?
My Christian aunt promptly threw a fit. So that was the end of that.
Just before I gave up, I decided to go with the radical name *H(#&!. For those who don't know, it's pronounced "Crazy Sexy Cool With A Good Bod To Add", only said very, very fast. I gave it up soon though, because people kept mispronouncing it as *h)#&! (Crazydeludedpieceofshit).
So fare you well, Clark Hoo Swee Tiang. I'll stick around with Hanting for the time being. =)
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