2006-08-10
A very correct entry
9th of August, when we love our country, like we haven't before.
In the spirit of patriotism, or excuse, rather, my extended maternal family makes a tradition out of gathering at my Godma's superbly high-rise flat for dinner and a home-viewing of the fireworks display.
We would gather around her malfunctioning television set (she claims we intimidate her TV set into not working, because it always works perfectly when we aren't around), sprawled across the parquet and rugs, with half an eye fixed on the view the full-length windows offer. And we did.
The spread would be fanatic, with my biggest Aunt exercising her penchant for over-stuffing her company and each family unit bringing something special to lace the feast. And it was.
Over the last couple of years, we'd been having special guests too. An old friend from overseas, a business partner, this year, a cousin's girlfriend. She was a slim, fair thing, modelled after the HDB beauties of our little island, who seemed quiet by displacement rather than nature. I watched her half-absorb, half-ignore the boisterousness of the house, and squirm politely at the interrogations the Aunts collectively put her through, and couldn't help but think of the time when I would have to get my special friend acquainted with the loud matrons as well. Would it be pride I would feel, to finally get the two most important parts of my world to meet? Or would it be pain and embarrassment, to watch them judge each other, to watch them test each other? I eyed my cousin carefully - his highlighted hair in spokes of gel, his pierced ear and polished complexion - but he seemed completely at ease, proud of himself, even, for finally bringing back the girl who kept stealing him from family gatherings. I wonder how she felt.
The parade began, as with every year, with the exploding of comments dripping with political sarcasm from all corners of the house. And admittedly, it was fun. Fun to hear all of them enthusiastically throw in their two-cents worth of humour. We laughed at every single attempt, even those discounted.
And in the midst of laughter skewered with dialect, good food, and the massive scrambling to the windows to greet the fighter planes, helicopters and fireworks, I knew exacty why I love being Singaporean.
I love the fact that no matter which part of the country you're on, the roar of the fighter planes would circle you anyhow, the 21 gun salute would ring anyhow, the helicopters would pass you anyhow, and if you get high enough, the fireworks would bedazzle you anyhow. It makes me feel included. Like the celebrations truly belong to every citizen out on the street.
People complain about the bad political environment, the terrible schooling environment, the appalling social environment. My foreign friends laugh and tease at the minute size of this country and the even smaller cultural potential. Well, China may be richer, Taiwan may be more exciting, Malaysia may be sweeter, but Singapore is mine.
I look around at the old women who sit watching patriachally over the family, the younger women who gossip in a rojak of languages and dialects, the men who smile and fall asleep, the youths who alternate between worlds of their own and visiting the adult one, the children who screech and run despite shouts and warnings. I look at the little six-year-old boy who sits cross legged next to me, grinning impishly as he tries to tell me a mandarin joke punctuated with english. I laugh at his earnestness, and he laughs at my delight. And I think, they're all mine. All mine. And I am theirs.
nothing ever happens at 10:28 a.m.