Rojak roots: What it means to be Singaporean

(All photos courtesy of Candice Chan, unless otherwise stated.)

I come from a complicated background.

No, not in that sense. I mean my background is mixed. Or in Singlish, rojak. Bear with me as I explain.

Let’s start with mum’s side of the family.

My folks

My popo and gonggong came to Singapore from Guangdong province. Like a lot of people during that time, they came to Nanyang or Southeast Asia in pursuit of a better life. As for which part of Guangdong exactly they came from… unfortunately, this is where facts get a little fuzzy.

Zhongshan is said to be the birthplace of my popo — at least, that’s what is carved on her urn, although Dongguan has also been mentioned. And Xinyi city for my gonggong. But all this remains uncertain. Then again, as my second yima said so matter-of-factly: what does it matter where they came from? Touché.

By all accounts, my popo Chow Soi (周水) was tough and resourceful in providing for her brood of thirteen children. Of these, one son was killed in action during the Japanese Occupation, and one daughter died of heart disease; another daughter was given away but later returned to the fold. And there was yet another son who was given away, and never seen again — which means that just maybe, I could have an uncle out there somewhere.

But I digress. As I said, my popo did what she could to put food on the table. She hawked fried bee hoon and laksa — which may or may not have contained dried earthworms to keep the gravy from going bad — and did some tailoring for the neighbours in the kampung.

My own memory of popo, though, is quite different: no longer active and mobile, but slowed down and later bedridden by stroke. Yet she remained fiercely independent, often refusing any assistance as she slowly tottered her way out of her bedroom, four-legged walking stick in hand, before sinking with a flump into her chair in the living room.

We visited on weekends, and I remember her with salt and pepper hair in a bun as she watched whatever was on TV (usually the Chinese channel), one hand on her lap while feeding herself with the other, or nudging the helper to feed her.

Sometimes, I tagged along on her acupuncture sessions at some neighbourhood shopping centre (no it was not a mall, think of a Brutalist-style building with Plaza in its name). While I never went into the room, I did catch glimpses from outside of her hand with the fine needles stuck in them, jerking in time with the currents that passed through.

As for my gonggong Lok Mun (陆文), dinner table talk held that he was a good-natured idler. He used to take me and my cousins to the nearby shopping centre in Marsiling, where we wandered around for a couple of hours at a time. Same with his pet rabbit, which he walked in the void deck downstairs — with a piece of raffia string around its neck, man and rabbit both blissfully oblivious to the stares and giggles of passersby.

In some way I think I probably inherited at least a bit of that inclination to wander — I do enjoy window shopping alone, and I don’t mind eating or catching a movie alone. I have been known to sit for an hour at a time beside the Singapore River, outside the Esplanade theatres. And I definitely love travelling and reminding myself that it’s a big world out there.

Moving on to dad’s parents.

My grandpa Chan Koon Yang (曾君扬) was a Hokkien Peranakan, meaning his family were Straits-born Chinese who spoke Malay and Hokkien rather than Chinese. He was either born in Malacca and came to Singapore as a baby, or was born in Singapore after his parents moved southward — it’s fascinating how sometimes no one knows such things for sure, not even the person in question.

He joined the British colonial army, and unsurprisingly became quite the Anglified chap. Unlike the British with their stiff upper lip, though, Grandpa had a hot temper and was never shy to let loose. Once when he thought my dad was driving too fast, he snapped at dad to stop the car, got off and walked home instead.

But when he wasn’t yelling at people, Grandpa had a nice tenor voice, and country was his genre; his favourite songs were Nobody’s Child and Take Me Home, Country Road, often along with other random tunes on his harmonica.

I don’t recall ever asking him why he liked those two songs, but as a kid I did ask him about something else: a fierce-looking dragon tattoo that stretched the length of his arm. Green face and body, yellow whiskers, red-tipped claws. I don’t think he gave me a straight answer why or how he got it, but I do know he always wore long-sleeved shirts — I heard later it was to cover up the tattoo. Why not just get it removed then, I hear you ask? Well… your guess is as good as mine.

Grandpa was the one who taught me to play football — “always use only your forehead to head the ball”; “kick with the ball of your foot, trap the ball with your instep” — and we had kickabouts in our garden. I started watching the Malaysia Cup and the English league with him and my dad — no one ever told me girls don’t watch or play football. In primary school I was the only girl to join the boys at “football” during break, where we kicked a tennis ball around with the basketball net structure as our “goalposts”, until the bell rang and we dashed back into class. Good times.

My 30-year relationship with Manchester United began when I was 14, after watching them beat Chelsea 4-0 in the 1994 FA Cup. Since then, for some sado-masochistic reason, I have stuck with them through past elation and current frustration, and everything in between. And I am not likely to forget the frenzied journey I had to make by bus and train from Oxford to Birmingham to Manchester to watch them play at Old Trafford. (Thank you British Rail, for cancelling my original direct train with no advance notice.)

Grandpa also taught me to play congkak, a traditional Southeast Asian game involving a long, wooden boat-shaped “board” with holes along its length, where players have to move marbles (or other suitable pieces) into their respective “home zones” to score; and carom too — he never threw a game, so I knew that when I won, I had earned it for real.

And then there was my grandma Chew Swee Yang (周水缘), the only one of my grandparents born and raised in Singapore. Word was her family was quite well-off — apparently her father was some sort of merchant or businessman, so grandma was quite the young mistress. She only completed primary school, but her elder sister went to Nanyang Girls’ High School, where I later went as well.

As for my parents, dad is the eldest of four siblings, and he joined the army because it was a practical way to put food on the table. Mum, being the youngest daughter and second-youngest child, had it relatively easy — she studied for her teaching degree while dealing with me as a baby and toddler. She then became a secondary school math teacher (without passing on that facility with numbers to me, thanks mum).

So, growing up, I was surrounded by a variety of languages — English, Chinese, Hokkien, Cantonese, and Malay — all of which I picked up. OK, maybe only very limited Malay, but still enough to order nasi padang bungkus, with sayur lodeh, ayam goreng and sambal kangkong — nasi kurang, thank you makcik.

What languages say

With languages come the traits and philosophies associated with the community.

When I was young, I quite often heard the Hokkien phrase kiang tio ho, mai geh kiang (勥就好，莫假勥, meaning being smart is good, but don’t be a smart aleck). I also used to watch the comedy duo Wang Sa and Ye Fong on TV, and one of their catchphrases was zo lang agak-agak tio ho (做人 agak-agak 就好, meaning be reasonable and don’t go to extremes). Basically, just do your best according to your ability and don’t step on anyone’s tail. This is the way… the Hokkien way.

Side note: agak-agak is actually the Malay term for “estimate” or “guess”, and in certain contexts it means to go by feel or to “read the room” and do whatever is appropriate. Yes, some Hokkien terms in Singapore include a smattering of Malay.

Which was definitely a part of my vocabulary as a kid. Whenever I couldn’t wait for something, I was sometimes told sabarlah (be patient). And another common phrase I remember is sedikit-sedikit, lama-lama menjadi bukit (bit by bit, over time a hill will build up).

That’s the Malay philosophy for you: patience and perseverance. I see those qualities in my dad’s two younger siblings — dad himself and my second aunt tend to be impatient, though they wouldn’t admit it — and also in my dad’s cousins’ families. One of his cousins converted to Islam and married a Malay lady, and their family is the kind who doesn’t scold a stupid young guest for taking out a collector’s figurine from its box — mea culpa! And we celebrate Chinese New Year and Hari Raya together whenever possible, too.

My Malay friends are also the most easygoing people, the epitome of the phrase “jangan tension”. We don’t meet very often, but when we do, even when they are talking about their frustrations, somehow they are able to see the lighter side of the situation. Which I have to say I admire a lot, because I’m the type of driver that honks one second after the traffic light turns green, and high beams anyone who leaves anything more than say three car lengths ahead of them on the fast lane on the expressway.

In fact, my favourite Cantonese expression is mou zor ju dei kao zhun (唔好阻住地球轉, lit. don’t get in the way of the world turning, meaning “move, you’re in the way”). This line can be used in a literal sense if someone is, say, standing in the middle of the pavement, or also more figuratively if someone is stopping you from getting something done. Often heard in Hong Kong, that no-nonsense, brisk and businesslike city of straight talkers.

A Cantonese person does not sugarcoat what they say. I believe it’s safe to say that anyone with at least one Cantonese parent would have heard some version of this line: “Sang gao char siew hou guo sang lei (生嚿叉烧好过生你, I’d have been better off giving birth to a piece of char siew than you).” Yes, that is how an exasperated or frustrated parent tells their child that they’re less useful than a piece of marinated meat that can at least fill someone’s tummy. Ask me how I learned this phrase…

A mixed table

Speaking of char siew, I grew up with an eclectic mix of food on the table. Grandma was the cook of the family, and the menu often included Peranakan/Malay dishes like sambal prawns/petai/kangkong, nonya chap chye, and my favourite kiam chye ark — salted vegetable and duck soup.

And at my cousin’s place where my second yima rules the kitchen, I love the Cantonese-style soups (老火汤, lit. “old fire soup”), where the flavours of the ingredients are brought out after hours of simmering. Not to mention a whole table of other dishes comprising various meats and vegetables in different styles, as well as big bowls of curry and lemak. One Cantonese dish that I never learned to appreciate, though, is pig trotters in black vinegar — that sweet-sour flavour does not appeal to me.

My parents also have their “signature dishes” (which they don’t cook that often, ahem) — mum makes a great salt-baked chicken, and dad’s ayam buah keluak is worth multiple helpings.

I also grew up eating frog legs, stir-fried with ginger and scallion, or steamed in chicken essence, or in congee. This is one protein you have to try at least once in your life, so give it a go if you have a chance. Plus, possible squeamishness aside, if it’s good enough for the French, it’s good enough for the Cantonese.

A brush with Guangzhou

The Cantonese people. I found myself in Guangzhou in 2007 when I was doing my graduate diploma in translation with Nanyang Technological University, which included an eight-week immersion with the Guangdong University of Foreign Studies. I remember the Baiyun and Tianhe districts, and a building with a bookstore that covered six whole levels, which was heaven for me. (Think of Belle’s reaction in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast when she sets eyes on the Beast’s library.)

And while I did not go to Zhongshan or Xinyi, I did feel right at home speaking Cantonese to the old lady selling sweet potatoes and grilled corn outside the school, and the servers who brought us our pig’s stomach soup, and rice with mincemeat patty and mui choy, or preserved vegetables. Somehow the locals were a little more distant when we spoke English or Singlish among ourselves — or even Singapore-accented Chinese — but when any of us spoke Cantonese to them, that was enough to warm them up.

Speaking of Cantonese, another place I have always felt close to is Hong Kong. Not just because popo’s sister migrated there and we have extended family there, but also because I grew up watching movies and TV series from one of the biggest producers of Asian entertainment.

Of showbiz

The story goes that I decided it was time to meet the world just as the end credits rolled on an episode of the TVB series The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (《网中人》, which I always knew as Man in the Net). So, literally right out of the womb, I claimed a connection to the Hong Kong entertainment industry.

Until around the mid-1980s, Singapore showed reruns of Hong Kong TV shows — in the original Cantonese, thank you — and so for the first five or six years of my life, I grew up hearing the undubbed voices of people like Chow Yun-fat and Carol Cheng, Tony Leung and Carina Lau.

There was Adam Cheng as the dashing swordsman Chor Lau-heung, and Alex Man as Zhang Junbao, later known as Zhang Sanfeng, the founder of the Wudang Sect and creator of taichi. And Felix Wong and Barbara Yung will always be Guo Jing and Huang Rong to me, just as Andy Lau and Idy Chan are my Yang Guo and Xiaolongnü.

I liked the movies by the Hui brothers — Michael, Sam, and Ricky — and the It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad World trilogy featuring Lydia Sum and Bill Tung. During Chinese New Year too, my cousins and I would shout with laughter as we watched Stephen Chow movies on TV.

In the void deck downstairs, we would hop around stiff-legged like the Chinese vampires we saw in horror movies, along with “catching” (or tag) or “pepsi-cola”, which sometimes resulted in knocks and bruises that today’s kids and parents might consider permanently damaging.

And of course, there is Cantopop. There is a simplicity and depth to Cantonese songs that speaks to me. The first Cantonese song I learned was Leslie Cheung’s Chase (《追》), after watching the movie He’s a Woman, She’s a Man (《金枝玉叶》). And Sam Hui’s Feelings of a Wanderer (《浪子心聲》) made me tear up when I first heard it as an angsty teenager. 命里有时终须有，命里无时莫强求 (what you have, you need; what you don’t have, don’t insist on getting). Truth.

Not that I only listened to Cantonese songs. Over the 1980s and early 2000s, I listened to everything from the emo Cantonese rock ballads of Beyond, to the gritty Brit sounds of Oasis; local singers Kit Chan and Tanya Chua, Western icons like Madonna, Annie Lennox, David Bowie, and Asian artists like Eason Chan, Jacky Cheung and A-mei, and Mayday. I still have my CD collection from decades ago, and a working CD player; and I do like to put on some classical and jazz records to relax. So when I go for KTV or karaoke sessions, I have multilingual options.

And how could I not mention musical theatre? The day I start forgetting the words to the songs from Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera and Wicked is the day I start worrying about dementia or Alzheimer’s.

Celebrations and events

It was from Hong Kong shows and mum’s side of the family that I learned the cheery Cantonese birthday song, wishing the VIP nin nin yau gum yat, soi soi yau gum jiu (年年有今日，岁岁有今朝, meaning good fortune and longevity to match the heavens, and that they may see the same day every year) — which just sounds better than “many happy returns”.

I remember greeting popo and gonggong in Cantonese on their birthdays and during Chinese New Year, which was (and still is) a big affair. We usually see the relatives on the first and second day, and I noticed quite early on in life that dad’s side and mum’s side were very different. While dad’s relatives are content to sit and watch TV while munching New Year snacks, mum’s relatives are more… extroverted, shall we say, with the click clack of mahjong tiles adding to the noise of conversation.

As for red packets, the biggest ones I get are from my dad’s sisters, while the others are modest sums. Not that I mind at all; hey, at my age (or any age) red packets are to convey good wishes and blessings, not a competition to see who can afford to give the most money.

Which is also in line with my Catholic faith, where each Sunday we contribute to the church according to what we are comfortable with.

Comfort — I find it comforting to pray and worship Jesus through serving in the choir. But I am not a cradle Catholic: I did attend church as a child with my aunt, then stopped going for about 20 years until one Sunday I woke up and told mum that I felt like going to mass. To which she asked: “Have you been traumatised or something?” (No.) Long story short, I started going to Sunday mass and taking a preparatory course, and got baptised exactly 20 years ago.

But when I can make it, I also pay respects to all my late grandparents and other relatives, at Mandai Crematorium and Kwong Wai Siew Peck San Theng. Always in the spirit of veneration and remembrance, rather than worship (that to me remains strictly reserved for God only). So I do offer joss sticks and burn joss paper and pray for them, as opposed to praying to them. Having said that, I do pray for the departed in church, including on All Souls’ Day, which always falls on or around Halloween every year. (Coincidence? I think not.) My family also has never insisted that I join in any prayers to Chinese gods or deities; it has always been left up to me.

And even though I’m Catholic, I have read books on Buddhism and Islam and other religions, just for knowledge and understanding — living in Singapore, surrounded by a variety of different beliefs and cultures, I see no reason not to learn anything about how and why other people do what they do.

Same when I was a kid, where I read about Oliver Twist and Tom Sawyer, as well as Sun Wukong and Zhuge Liang — the latter albeit in English rather than the original Chinese. So while I was (and am) interested in Chinese culture and history, I process information a lot faster in English. 

There was a little book corner in my primary school classroom, and I would pick out volumes detailing the heroic deeds of the 108 outlaws of Mount Liang, like Wu Song and “Nine Dragons” Shi Jin, or myths and legends like Nezha, or historical figures like Qu Yuan. Then, when I got to secondary school, we had reading time in the morning before class, where we read Chinese classics like Journey to the West (I like the Monkey God because I was born in the year of the Monkey) and Dream of the Red Chamber (which I still hate, because Jia Baoyu and Lin Daiyu are way too wishy-washy for my taste).

Come to think of it, perhaps this is partly why I eventually went into translation — to bring together the Eastern and Western elements inside me. I don’t think I would feel “complete” without either side of the equation being balanced, as it were.

And obviously, this particular equation is a complex one. If anyone asked where I come from, my answer would be Singapore. As for those who might scratch their heads and point out that my ancestral home (祖籍) is Guangdong and/or Malacca, I would say yes, but I am an ethnic Chinese Singaporean (新加坡华人) and my identity is Singaporean. My personal take is, expecting any other answer (from me, anyway) would be like expecting an Australian or American to say that they “come from” Britain because their ancestors came from there — which is not something I would venture to suggest.

So, given that Singapore just turned 61 this month, I’ll munch on satay and chye tow kuay (fried carrot cake) and roti prata, and raise a Tiger beer to the land of my birth. Nin nin yau gum yat, soi soi yau gum jiu.

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