distant dreams

this is my home. this is it.

I was born in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. As of 2019, it boasts the Petronas Twin Towers which stands the 17th tallest in the world. Malaysia as a whole is often regarded as second best to its neighbor down south - Singapore. 

A clean, high-functioning, tightly controlled island metropolis too small to have a capital city by another name. It's currency is up to three times the Ringgit Malaysia, and if you manage to emigrate and get a job in this corporate city haven, you'll swear off chewing gum for life and plonk down for the sake of regular paychecks home. Correspondence and extended family drama all hushed in the reverence of your Singaporean career just beyond that promising horizon of the Johor Bahru border. The Singaporean Dream.

This is how most of my conversations go when people ask me, with their tilted heads and vaguely off-center stares, where I come from. I say KL. Then I jut my chin out and say Malaysia, to help them along. Then I relent with a tired, but playful smile, and say: "You know, the country above Singapore! Ha ha ha!"

Few authors make a lasting impression on me. Only three have succeeded so far. One is Japanese, and the other two? Singaporean. There must be something in the water there. Whatever it is, it's probably a little cleaner too.

I should mention, while I am at it, that I am Malaysian-Chinese. Middle-class at that. I am a Privileged Lucky Child even in my demographic, and have no want for anything in particular. I'm the only child stereotype, too. Excluding luxury designer goods, I have had a pretty materially fulfilling life so far. My mother brings me to regular mani-pedis, and my education is the best any one here can hope for - a shining academic place at a Prestigious London University. I speak fluent English and make jokes about memes that make jokes about other memes to fit in. If necessary I can impress the harsh skeptic with conversational Bahasa Malaysia (Melayu) and Mandarin, always spoken with a carefully studied blend of confidence and meekness to establish two things: first, that I appreciate where I come from and more importantly, that I was crafted to be better. I don't know in what way. Just better.

I do not walk Malaysian streets. Instead, I am driven everywhere because even though I have a valid drivers' license, I refuse to drive. It is because I find the idea stressful, and I am out of practice from having spent my university years abroad. When I do walk, it is with a sense of self-consciousness adopted from Thinking Too Much and Being Non-Slim. Yes, I lack bodily perfection - of all things. It makes me able to relate to girls who starve themselves, who pick at birdfeed portions, ban rice from their meals. My free time is spent in social media, staring longingly at edited waistlines and cartoon animations of a woman doing variant squatting exercises. If not, I am reading fiction, watching YouTube vlogs of K-Pop celebrities who feel a million miles away, listening to cheesy pop hits and dreaming Unrealistic Dreams. Regular meals, regular bedtimes, and two loving parents who have the appropriate amount of personal flaws to make you love them and detest them in healthy, expected amounts.

I address my mom as "Mi". Like the musical note. Or noodles. Mi says I am a long-term investment with a hefty deposit and uncertain payoff. It makes me think of movies where the director tries too hard to make everything a mystery before the final crux point and by then the audience has given up and are looking down at their smartphones.  According to Mi, I am different things at the different stages of my growth. At 10 I was a saint, capable of unconditional compassion and kindness because I happened to hug another kid who had Down Syndrome. Honestly, I was just trying to make a friend who wouldn't cry at everything so quickly. At 11, I was a genius because I was two years ahead of the school curriculum and needed to be transferred to a homeschooling, where I only went faster. Honestly, it was only because I knew how to be a teacher's pet. I'll tell you now: just be quieter than the other kids and hand your work in on time, every time. Eventually, Mi and Di (which is what I call my father. Like the musical note. Or earth.) shook up their bank accounts and sent me to a British international education. Alternatively known as a "damn atas school". Three years in I reek of L'Occitaine perfume and air-conditioned classrooms. A picture-perfect application letter.

Now I'm 20. I'm 20% emotional wreck, 20% multi-talented guest entertainment, 40% university-student shaped investment, 15% good person, 5% iced americano. Grande. Black. My name is never spelled right. I am great at writing essays with no clear answer and not great enough at mathematics. To waste my time even more, I try to teach myself Korean, Japanese, German, and Mandarin at the same time. I also sing and play 6/7 instruments with the roguishness of an amateur. I have had parts of my heart and attention worn away by my "first love", and so qualify to have normal conversations where Mi can berate me. Lovingly, of course. Di doesn't share many of his opinions. He just...doesn't. Must be part of the handbook of Good Chinese Fathers In The 21st Century.

My existence totals to a ringing 100% good-enough Daughter. Thank Buddha. Made to wear my religious charm like a protective barrier around my neck. Pray twice a day and light the incense.

This whole thing is a lot of tension going nowhere. I have just told you a few things about myself, my life, and I don't have any justification as to why. Most of the chapters following will be in this fashion. This is an invitation to live vicariously through me. My joys, my frustrations, my secrets.

I was born in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. This is my home. Not Singapore, not Seoul, not London. It's okay. I feel more real at 20 years old. If I have anywhere to be honest, candid, and terrifying. This is it.