“as far as the scars will take me”
1988,1989,1990,1991,1992,1993,1994…
i always prayed for rain. not just so the weather will be cooler to bear. when it rains, business traffic will be stalled, giving me periods of rest, without having to sort exchanges with my manager. my manager who happens to be my own father.
“you are a fucking mother of good for nothing cunt, you understand me!”
that i would never ever work smart enough, earn money enough, to feed myself or my own future family. it was a curse i have sought to break since the day it was spoken over me. for these years, it was a constant oppression, from waking at unearthly hours in the morning till late closing hours. volunteering to work for my dad was the worst decision of my life.
enrolling into the armed forces turned out to be the better alternative, contrary to popular demand.
i was in love with the idea of running a business and dad being the businessman, was my natural puberty naive choice to look up to. turns out, his high expectations of me was amplified a lot more unreasonable than i could allow grace for.
“you are the stupidest motherfucker! can’t you count?!”
remember those examination moments of panic, drawing a blank? my panic moments were random and frequent. it’s like holding a rifle inside a foxhole and when the enemies charge in from all sides, you just don’t know where to fire the first shot. now, think of giving that rifle and task to a boy barely a teenager.
i hated the choice of words. bitterness grew a stronger head when it translated into physical reminders – boiling water splashed all over my back, a slap to the ear from the back momentarily deafening, frequent humiliation in front of amused patrons. cat in the alley syndrome.
i lost my complete faith and respect for my father when the years consisted of regular tasks he would not dirty his hands with. like how he diluted every stock to fatten the amount he sold to inflate his earnings. i saw a business run under closed door dishonesty and an attitude that i could not understand. the code of the day was always to smile, make them feel the best and to gossip and slander your way into buying stakeholders’ faith whichever the wind blows.
when i wanted to resign, i found myself scurrying up the stairs for my dear life – a scene that reminded me when i was running away from a mad dog chasing me when i was 8, except this was my dad with some random weapon of choice. Thank God my grandma lived just upstairs.
truth is, spending my months in the green camouflage without contact with my family, like it is now, was the best thing that ever happened to me. some comedians used to say that when i grew up, i would take my dad down like he always did me. somehow when the threat of disowning surfaced, i was perfectly calm and collected.
i have found air to breathe now, why would i take two steps back? moving forward, it seems, there is so much damage i am uncovering and so much healing to do.
1986
mum calls home from the wedding dinner. reminds me to “sit still, study, don’t watch tv, sleep early. exams tomorrow. you fail, you die, we die”.
i look to my right, a pile of receipts pinned to my desk. reminding me. my fears hanging. i shudder. return my eyes to my books. try to concentrate. try to balance the numbers, memorize these multiplication tables, half way between visions of dead bodies piled up in a post explosion ash.
one night ago, mum sat me down. perched right on her bed, she pulled out the pile of receipts. dad’s hotel receipts and tells me of his affairs, lies and secret finds. she cried and made her motivational threat. to grow up a different man. to study hard so i could work in a high paying job. wear a suit and tie and never have to deal with these dilemmas and delinquents. or else the lightning god. or else the gas ignition turned on, poisoned and the end all. or else my worst vertigo nightmares hitting home.
a suicide plan was described in detail, if i were to fail. if i were to miss my mark and be streamed into the lower class of our social academic system. suicide alternatives all laid out before me. just so i get the point. just so i’d be close enough to smell the sting of death and freak out. enough. threats and emotional blackmail enough to motivate a groundless, fatherless kid.
i was only 12.
The remaining years – 1985, 1986…
i was the new kid. fresh into the neighbourhood we moved into. i still remember the year. i hated every part of it. i hated the school corridors, the new faces and new classmates. everyone looked screwed up. i had been demoted from middle class to grassroots ghetto. they all had these names that were always two syllables and difficult to remember chinese translations. Who cares if I was the top student of my class by year’s end. Hell, I was top student of the entire level. Even better than last year’s best. I set a record without even trying. Who cares? No one did. Not even when I walked on stage to receive my book prize. Everyone wondered who this new kid was, “and where are his parents? is anyone taking his picture even?”
No, the only ones who cared were the ones who cared enough to pit me against my best friend the skinny soft kid in our class for a social experiment. We fought and wrestled each other to the ground not because we hated each other’s guts. We fought in fear of losing the temper of the ones who held the ring together. We were the kids’ pet spiders in matchboxes, starved, hungry and let out to fight till their eyes were satisfied. I mastered a few favourite wrestling moves to bite a chunk off my best friend’s arm to earn a louder cheer. It never ended good. The poor kid. I won due to sheer size.
That was also the year when i found i could go to school with more girls than I could handle. We were the victims of social change and I found myself clumsily placed in a class full of kids – girls and boys – when before, i was in an all boys school. I hung out with girls all the time for some reason as boys just wanted to take me in as their pet spiders again. There was a particular girl, Jane, we shall call her, whom i kinda liked and gave her too much attention. Her girlfriends, in my opinion got jealous, or over protective. Rumours started to go around, that I was molesting Jane. Pre-puberty kids we were. Things got a little out of hand when my class teacher, who found it amusing that a boy like me could be capable of such atrocity, put me on the spot in front of the class and allowed my accusers to hurl abuse while she laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. As a 12 year old, I was in tears, freaked out beyond my wits. Try telling me not to take it too seriously. But it was a court hearing, the class was the jury, my teacher played judge judy.
i still remember that teacher’s name and how she looks.
Bully – 1989
the smell of used uniforms and marching sweat orders kept me living in utter fear every saturday afternoon. i found every excuse to stay away but mum kept insisting that school had this stupid rule that quitting the Saturday uniformed marching cadet group ECA was as good as dropping out of school.
For some reason, any excuse is good to beat up the local school kid. Apparently, rumour has it that I had joined the rival gang in the neighbourhood and my ‘brothers’ from the marching band had the obligation of beating the living daylights out of me. Just because they heard from some reliable source. When I denied knowledge, the beating ensued. Soon, throngs joined in the fun to torture the stray cat in the alley. When i confessed, the beatings stopped, extortion took over. I must have handed over up to fifty dollars and in those days, my pocket money a week was like $5. When I could not cough it out, the beating continued. They wanted to be my brothers, but needed money to protect me. I didn’t know the logic of the economy then, but today, i think it’s a raw form of bribery.
so i usually arrived home in the evenings bruised and battered, literally. i tried to hide them, as much as i could help, turning my back, letting the punches drive directly to my body, tummy, anywhere but my face. Being a fat kid was the saving grace. Plenty of padding to take the shock. Whenever mum asked about my face cuts and bruised back, i told her the tall tale of falling into a ditch. Till this day, she believes every word of it. I could not tell her anything. For some reason empathy did not live in our house. Dad would find out and I would get caned for falling prey to school bullies. I had no sympathy when my classmate stole my pencil case in primary school. I was disciplined for not standing up for myself.
Then one morning, pushed beyond my capacity, i confided in a friend and found courage to tell my teachers. The parents of the bullies were called in for a special meeting and these Saturday tribulations stopped. I convinced my officers from the marching band that i had a high blood pressure condition and could not participate anymore.
It was a convenient lie, of course.
1982
Mrs Lim, i can still remember, my class teacher. My first “meet the parent” session. I had failed my spelling test quite miserably. Could not even spell “egg”, even though they had a picture of it right next to the missing spaces … e _ _. While some got a 5 out of ten, i scored a perfect zero.
Dad was smiling in the teacher’s room when he heard the news. Looked completely amused and somewhat happy. I still remember the chills. Can’t quite describe the feeling but it’s one of those shivers you get face to face with a smiling villian. For when i got home, hell raised all of its fury.
Every piece of my uniform and garment was torn and ripped from my body. Completely naked, limbs held up like a dog’s hind, at the mercy of the cane, whipping, stroke by stroke, definite and deadly. A pillow was pressed against my face to muffle the screams, leaving only my legs struggling, kicking for dear life. I could not breathe, choking between tears and gasping for air between the seams.
Grandma came to the rescue, fighting the man who was tearing me apart. If she had been a minute late, things would have been a lot different.
Funny thing is, English is now my strongest suite. Beats everyone in my family hands down.
Funny thing.
1988 or somewhere in between
my heart pounding, my palms sweaty. my face aghast like a ghost and strength is drained from under my skin. i slowed my pace home, praying some car will hit me, maime my limbs so i don’t have to participate in these humiliating faux trampoline circus training anymore. the thought of being half naked in front of the women in my household, bouncing and bobbing on these spring cushions in sticky hot weather in the middle of the living room was the last thing i looked forward to home for. i knew reality tv’s biggest loser before public embarrassment.
“you’re too fat and too short for your age. this is for your own good. if you keep jumping for an hour a day, you will see the difference in time to come. who’s gonna want an ugly fat boy as husband?” the kind of wisdom too futuristic for a puberty kid to handle.
the door unlocked as I reached for my keys in my tight shorts. dad was sitting on the far end of the wall facing the door as I entered.
“take it all off. leave your underwear on.” Something was different. Strangely different. The training schedule was taking a turn.
His eyes were bloodshot. His breath smelt of anger. Inside, I shivered as he dragged me to the steel window grills and bound my hands tightly with the skipping rope…
My little sister watched on as he proceeded to whip, swing, swinging away like he was disciplining an unbridled dog. My brothers stood in their corners too afraid to say a thing. When the screaming got too loud to control, i found a sock ball in my mouth shutting the dumb down. Mother appeared to be the accomplice, treading between defence and aide, between coaxing and chiding.
The Maths Tutor had complained earlier of my homework truce and made mention of my truant ways, expressing her disappointment and recommending a dose of discipline.
Against the noise of my pain and shame, all i could pray was for an end, that everyone would leave their place as the audience to this freakshow.
A door knock interrupted the proceedings nervously. Every plug was pulled, lights turned out, toy soldiers scuttled across to their rightful place, stage props covered with blackcloth, dark intentions hidden cleverly and a towel wrapped around me, lovingly, covering my bruise and cuts, as the delivery man entered our house to send us our weekly householders.
I fixed my eyes out onto the horizon above these tall stacks of houses overlooking the scorching afternoon sun, wishing this was just a bad dream, trying to avoid any eye contact. It was the local grocer I saw every week, the friendly man who turned out to be my colleague’s Dad many years later.
hate was written all over my journal. vengeance was my lesson for the day.
[...] Boy [...]