tank man, tanked woman

A not-overly-Chn of-Chn-descent associate of mine caught a documentary on SBS last night about the "incident" that took place at Tian'anmen Square in early June 1989, and asked for "my thoughts on it". As with all things remotely "political" (in the conventional sense of that word at least), I don't have an opinion on what-happened or what-it-all-meant. I can only say a little about what-I-thought-happened and what-it-meant-to-me. (Yah, stark distinctions there.)

I was six years old at the time of the tank man. Even with my astounding perceptiveness and unparalleled memory, little of the initial impact remains:

People talked about it even where we were, on the other side of the country. So whatever media blackout that'd been implemented wasn't an entire success. How could it be, in a land of twelve-plus billion.

There was something about a highly esteemed (until then, that is) newsreader getting the sack (as well as having more nasty stuff happen to him) for refusing to ... follow the auto-cue, basically. I think it's stuck with me because it was the first, maybe the only, different thing that I noticed anyone (meaning the anchor; not whoever took care of him) do.

Phrases like "reactionary elements", "counterrevolutionaries", "restoring the peace" got bounced around in the media, as can be expected. But "delinquents", "troublemakers", "crowd control" seemed to be more user-friendly alternatives around the dinner table; and even these came up only occasionally, with ambivalence.

Whatever its global/historical significance, the "incident" touched my tiny unremarkable life in a tangible way: it made it more difficult for my father to leave the country. (Haha y'all were expecting something more dramatic/traumatic, weren't ya?) If my family hadn't been stressing over dad's visa application, they'd've had even less reason to touch upon the subject.

I remember having questions, but not what they were. I remember having them dodged by the grown-ups I'd asked, but not how. Not that I asked many questions growing up; I preferred to speculate and theorise. My people (take that however you like) are not the communicating kind.

Cut to high school. I discovered docos on SBS like the one my associate did last night. I researched a bit. But my stamina waned when I realised that I wasn't all that interested in finding out what-really-happened, nor did I care for anybody's take on the matter. Whatever happened happened, and it didn't work, however much awakening/upheaval/coming-of-age spin you put on it. And that was what, if anything, I took from this page in the history books.

Nature or nurture, protest in all its marching/chanting/petition-flogging/hunger-striking/... glory, isn't in my blood. I don't follow the news (I'll need to once work starts, but only with considerable discipline and feigned enthusiasm). I admire people who have politics and are able to articulate and advance them, even the ones with stupid ideas and stupider ways of expressing them; but I have no similar aspirations. You could say that I'm big on Control, and try to avoid getting worked up over things-I-can't-do-much-about.

Such is not the mentality of a future world leader, I suspect. But does it necessarily make me feeble-minded / near-sighted / globally irresponsible? Fine, maybe it does. But I have my way and I'm stickin' to it.

Time may be infinite, but my time on earth isn't. Human suffering may be boundless, but that of those around me might be abated, but only to an extent directly proportional to the amount of time I don't squander on contemplating Higher Truths and formulating Abstract Solutions. I'll still indulge in the squandering from time to time (unfortunate and inadvertent pun), but purpose is to be found elsewhere - somewhere more conspicuous and less convoluted, I hope.

I am acutely aware of the infinitesimal ripple that my existence could foreseeably cause in the giant stale pond of all-that-is-wrong-with-the-world. However, what is faith but belief in the Interconnectedness of Everything? Do no harm, and a little good each day, everyone - and the world shall keep spinnin' nicely ... until it doesn't, obviously, but that's nothing us homo sapiens should lose sleep over.

moon, cake, time

Happy mid-"autumn" darlings. It's like, the Chinese Christmas, with nicer weather, yummier food, and more things to do. At least in China, back in the days, it was. Oh I nostalgiate.

Every year on this day CCTV puts on a celebratory extravaganza for all to ogle at Middle Kingdom's economic, cultural, and pyrotechnic prowess. Homesick as I get, I get sucked in every time even if it means subjecting myself to more communist propaganda in one sitting than the rest of the year combined.

This year the show's held in Xiamen. Barely a few seconds in, I was going to pieces. My city is really pretty, people! Quite apart from the no-expenses-spared fireworks and insane festive lighting. I don't do Descriptive so you'll have to go see it for yourselves one day.

Somebody thought it'd be fun to put a White Grand Piano on the beach of Gulangyu aka 'Drumming Waves Island' - not the sandy part, but on a tiny platform raised from the sea - and have a beautiful young couple play a duet on it. Can I just say, hott! (Now don't go pinchin' the idea for your wedding; I saw it first!)

And of course, my heart melted to the Sounds of My Childhood. The perennial classics that no remotely Chn person could possibly love-less-than-whole-heartedly - mostly to do with the moon, family, belonging, drifting, and not being able to have the cake & eat it too. The theme songs of Taiwanese soap operas (which mum used to let me stay up and watch with her, and which nourished the sentimental over-dramatic members of my multiple personalities) - performed by the original artists. The boy band I and every other girl at primary school adored (ahh even I fit in once) - fascinating to see the young adults in the audience tonight singing along word-perfect to their medley.

missing peace of the puddle

Stormy weekend nights make me think of my father - and not just as in "Gee I hope he doesn't catch me stepping out of some meat market...". I picture him slogging through the horrendous weather, dealing with disheartening specimens of the human race, drawing meager comfort from one cigarette after another. And often, for more than a split second, I wish our relationship were such that I could call and say hey.

The first time I noticed that I do this, couple of years ago now, I remember feeling confused, even disappointed with myself. Here's a man I've spent a lifetime keeping at leg's length, a man I thought I'd succeeded in treating as I would any stranger - with civilised indifference.

Once upon a time:

• I self-righteously skimped over my contempt for him (for to elaborate would be tantamount to an admission of caring)
• every well-meaning observation that I was a splitting image of him made my skin crawl
• my Happy Place was Wherever He Wasn't (sadly still is most of the time)

Nowadays I continue to:

• wonder if mum would've had more..., just more, had she not married him; and whether he would have
• be as amused as upset that 95 times out of 100 he communicates with me through mum (including when we're in the same room), and the other 5 he simply shouts
• get irritated when he brags to people about me, because I feel like he's taking credit for things he had nothing to do with
• attribute my deep-rooted far-reaching cynicism and apathy to Whatever He Did Or Didn't to a greater extent than I would readily admit

In spite of it all, I felt my heart wobble a bit the other day when I heard that he might have liver problems.

N scolded me tonight for not knowing that Father's Day was coming up. The most important thing - and the hardest - is not injecting her with my venom.

and the hardest part * was letting go * not taking part * was the hardest part
and the strangest thing * was waiting for that bell to ring * it was the strangest start
and the hardest part * was letting go * not taking part * you really broke my heart
oh and I tried to sing * but I couldn't think * and it was the hardest part

Coldplay, The Hardest Part

[rest of the lyrics, and indeed the point of the song, are strictly inapplicable]

people like us

There is only one class in the community that thinks more about money than the rich, and that is the poor. The poor can think of nothing else. That is the misery of being poor.

Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man Under Socialism

While dad was away, something like half of his friends upgraded or increased their real property holdings. So yesterday the parentals made their rounds upon said new acquisitions, officially to offer their congratulations, unofficially to check out the competition, obviously.

Incidentally, in light of such developments, continued non-acknowledgment is expected of his purchase abroad of comparatively more depreciable assets. But I'm over moaning about that.

What I was wondering, apart from where these taxi drivers, cable guys, tilers, nurses, fish-&-chips-shop owners, Centrelink customers (or combinations thereof) find the deposits for 7-figure waterfront mansions and/or multi-acre farms, was how many repressed disgruntled or generally ill-adjusted offspring these folks will one day let loose into the world. Every dollar that flows into the family asset pool is one less for the Fun Fund. Every weekend spent accumulating pecuniary wealth is one more blank in a little ABC's childhood memory.

would I?

Dr Prozac and I discussed whether we would smack our (respective and hypothetical) children. It got me thinking a lot more than she might've expected.

My initial response: not as a formally acknowledged and carefully implemented disciplinary measure, but I can easily envisage times when I'd be driven to. This, on second thought, is completely archaic and reveals a lot about my upbringing.

Without going into gory detail, growing up I was never so much 'disciplined' as I was a vent for my disciplinarian's elsewhere-sourced frustration. A compliant and oft-used vent at that. The upshot of it is, I guess, while I see absolutely no deterrent or educational value in smacking and the like, I know I'll find it in me to excuse myself should I ever hit a little one.

That's part of what I mean when I say I'm afraid of becoming like my parents. Which, in turn, isn't the only reason for my not wanting children but probably a bigger one than I care to admit.

I have hit N. Many times. Often out of anger but always as a sibling and not a parent, i.e. with a mutual unspoken understanding that it's a fight and that she can hit back.