Here is an excerpt from a memoir I have written. It’s not specifically about being a
TCK, but I do touch on my life in Asia.
In this section I talk about being thrust into a new Asian culture,
Singapore. We moved there in
December of 1977, the middle of my senior year in high school:
Singapore has to be one of the most
unusual conglomeration of cultures.
Its name translates as “Lion City”; Singapore is inhabited by Chinese,
Malay, Indian and European folks.
It was once a British colony; the traffic drives on the left. The influence of Great Britain is
everywhere: there is a huge cricket pitch downtown, and the Raffles Hotel is
one of its most famous landmarks.
The hotel was named after Sir Stamford Raffles, the founder of modern
Singapore. The famous “Long Bar”
at the hotel was the birthplace of the Singapore Sling cocktail. Once an elegant emblem of the British
Empire, the hotel in the late 1970’s had lost its sheen and glimmer and had
fallen into sad disrepair.
A visitor to Singapore will meander
through parts of the city that are predominantly Chinese, only to turn the
corner and find himself in the Indian quarter on (the incongrously named) Arab
Street. Little open-air shops line
the uneven streets, with burlap bags leaning into each other, overstuffed with spices and beans, and
diaphanous batik printed dresses hanging from hooks on the ceiling, turning and
flowing in the warm breeze. Back
in the day, a trip to Bugis Street was in order; the parade of flashy
transvestites was a sight to see for all the voyeurs in us. (Sadly, they’re not around any more;
Bugis street is just another pedestrian mall).
Even closer to the equator than the
Philippines, Singapore’s heat can be unbearable. Every afternoon, like clockwork, there would come a
downpour, sheets of rain that would lash for 30 minutes. After the rain stopped, the humidity
was as thick as soup. We lived in
a concrete block of five townhouses on Shelford Road (more evidence of
Singapore’s British-ness) off one of the main thoroughfares. Our neighbors were veddy, veddy English.
I only spent six months in
Singapore before I left for college, but I was able to experience a good
bit. My mother and I visited the
Sultan’s palace in Malaysia, across the narrow causeway that separates
Singapore from the Asian continent.
We sampled as much of the multicultural cuisine as we could, including
the food stalls in the median of Bukit Timah Road. We ate typical British fare at Foster’s and Chinese
delicacies at Shang Palace at the Shangri-La Hotel. There was a little guy who grilled spicy chicken satay by
the pool at the hotel, where we stayed for the first month. I still have a vivid memory of another
restaurant called the Omar Khayyam, across the street from the American
Embassy, which had the tastiest Indian food. The taste of curry, with naan and yogurt to cool the heat,
always takes me back.
We flew to Singapore the day after Christmas. I had said good-bye to my current
flame, a smolderingly handsome Eurasian boy, with furtive kisses after the
midnight mass the night before. That morning, Mom, Dad and I had opened a few small gifts in our hotel room at the
Manila Garden Hotel, which had been arranged around a tiny pinecone Christmas
tree, before we packed our bags to head for the airport. I was sick with a bad cold, adding to
the sadness of having to leave the home that I had come to love. I felt like my world was crumbling away. There was no sympathy to be
found from my parents. My pleading
to be allowed to stay to finish my senior year fell on deaf ears. “Sorry, the company won’t pay for your
school if you’re not living with us.”
A friend of my mother’s had offered to take me in, but the answer was a dismissive no.
Digging into my suitcase soon after we arrived in Singapore,
I sliced my finger on a razor blade.
Now I was experiencing a trifecta of pain: grief, illness, and now
injury. My misery was
complete.
As a very small consolation prize, my folks told me that I
could go back to Manila for my birthday in May, which coincided with my
(former) high school’s graduation and prom. I spent my days in Singapore counting down each interminable
day, one by agonizing one. It was
an eternity to me: each day seemed to last 25 hours. I got an occasional letter from friends back in Manila, but their lives continued without me. Even though my principal from Manila had graciously decided
I had enough credits to graduate in December, my parents nonetheless handed
down the edict that I would have to attend Singapore American School as a
post-graduate. Really? Really? In what universe was this fair to
me? Was it to keep me out of the
house? It didn’t matter. I got to experience being the new kid yet again, at the tail end of my senior year.
When we arrived, it was at a point in the school year called
“Interim Semester”. There were
myriad choices of courses to take in this longer semester break: trips to Nepal,
to Hong Kong, Japan. Other courses
were more mundane: remedial chemistry, robotics, chess! I looked
longingly in the brochure at a
trip to New Caledonia, an island east of Australia in the middle of the Pacific
Ocean. “Nope!” was the answer from
dear old mom and dad, and instead, I enrolled in “Advanced Math Word
Problems.”
So, every morning I had to trudge to school to sit in class
learning about Train A traveling east at 50 miles per hour, and train B
traveling west at 40, well, you get the picture. What had I done to warrant this punishment? It was only a little more exciting than
watching paint dry. Talk about adding insult to injury.
When the “real” semester started, I only half-heartedly
participated in my classes. What
was the point? I already had my
diploma; it had arrived, unceremoniously stuffed in the mailbox in a manila envelope. I had a “small world” moment when we
found out that my math teacher had lived in Brussels; he had been my older sister’s
teacher as well. His wife had
taught fifth grade at the International School there.
I got an office assistant job with the guidance
counselor. Sometimes when the
secretary was out, I would type letters to my mom. Filled with minutiae of the day; that I had taken an
envelope to the headmaster. I
sharpened some pencils. I licked
envelopes.
Then, the dreaded lunchtime would roll around. You know that sick feeling you get when
you get your tray and face a sea of people sitting in their little friendly
groups, chatting away. You take a
deep breath and try to find an empty spot in which to sit, not feeling brave enough
to walk up to a group and chirp, “Hi!
Mind if I sit here?” A
group of younger, bratty boys sat at the other end of the long table and threw
peas at me. “Hey, New Girl”. Plop. “Hey,
what’s yer name?” Plop, plink.
A very nice boy named Melvin took an interest in me, even though he had a girlfriend. The girlfriend wasn't too thrilled with this, and I got a lot of nasty looks when I was walking around campus. But Melvin took me to movies, and out to to eat, and came to work on homework with me. It never went any further than that. A TCK never forgets a kindness.
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