Astronauts On Earth

Dear Lost,

We are all astronauts on earth. At some point in life, you will drop into this free fall - observing death and loss does that to you. It feels as if the rug has been pulled from beneath your feet, and you realise the floor is gone too. It’s a bizarre thing to feel your foot sturdy on the ground but there's a constant pit in your heart, like a never ending drop on a rollercoaster. But fall long enough, and the fear eventually gives way to a strange, unsettling weightlessness.

But weightlessness is fleeting. The gravity of loneliness crashes down when memories surface, and we believe no one understands our pain. But why would you want someone else to fully understand your pain? The only way to truly grasp it is to have endured the same suffering. Chances are, you wouldn't want to fully comprehend their pain either.

If I could turn back time and prepare my younger self for the grief to come, I would say this: Free-falling is submitting to circumstances. Learn to dive, so you can choose a direction. You see, there’s no point worrying about where you’re going to land because the only time you hit the ground is when your time on earth is up.

In space, astronauts experience weightlessness because they’re in a state of constant free fall. In space, there is no up or down. For us astronauts on earth, we can decide wherever we want to go once we feel this weightlessness. We don't traverse the stars, but drift among flickering human spirits - sometimes burning bright, sometimes reduced to embers. So we drift, often alone, but most times with fellow sojourners, and that is why I believe we are put on earth for. We grieve so that we can grieve with others, to catch them midway, teach them how to dive and let them go.

Perhaps, in the end, it's not about where we land, but how we navigate the free fall, and who we meet along the way.

Sincerely,

Tiramisu

Choco Mini

This story is inspired by my mother, she was a teacher and English was one of the subjects she taught. In retrospect, she taught me how to tell stories because she herself was an exceptional storyteller. I remember how even when I am being scolded, she would naturally revert to stories so that I will remember the lesson. Her nagging and stories would sometimes last for hours but being naturally curious, I would ask more questions and she would finally let me sit as she continued.

I wrote the first draft of her biography 7 years ago with an intention to understand her deeper and why she is the way she is. Through that process, I grew to understand her as a person more than just a mother. I saw her as a daughter, as a child, as a wife and then a widow. Much of my own self work required me to tap into past traumas and I thought I would start telling her story of my mother’s first trauma. When I put the pen down after tidying up this chapter, my heart ached because my mother was just a child when this happened. All these stories were in my memory but writing it made me imagine myself as her and I grew to have much more love and empathy towards my mother.

This is a short story based on real life events extracted from my mother's biography.

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Chapter 1 - Choco Mini

The orange dust never settled during the day along Pagoda street. Pulsing through the narrow street were tok-tok noodle carts, coolies, soil collectors and children kicking rattan balls with one another - almost all of them wearing the same rubber sandals cut out from used tires, already looking worn down before they are used. Ai Lin wiped her brow with her forearm leaving a muddy streak on her face. She deeply inhaled, taking in all the whiffs of pork offals, mixed sulphuric yellow noodles with undertones of body odour and faeces, and then shouted “Pass me the ball!” The teams were made up of children who lived on the second and thirds floors of the shop houses that were connected by a five-foot walkway. These were the sounds and smells of Pagoda street on the weekends.

Ai Lin was not one of the children who lived here. She and her one and a half year old brother were frequent guests of her grandmother who works as a samsui woman by day and returns at night to a small room that housed 20 other people that were wives and children of one or two men. These dens were baby factories to produce more male heirs to the family name and Ai Lin’s brother was the only boy to be born so far. Ai Lin never got used to the musty still air, much less the furniture or the lack of it. They slept on thin straw mats that were considered beds in this house, candles were used for lights and ceiling fans were merely a cloth draped on a wooden rod that swung lethargically because it was operated by an equally lethargic human arm. One sweltering afternoon on 10 January 1964, Ai Lin napped next to her brother and a greasy rat crawled up the platform where the beds were laid and bit her big toe. She woke up kicking and crying as she flung the rat across the room with her foot. As her eyes cleared from the haze, she realised her grandmother never left her side as she napped, fanning her with a straw fan that was fashioned out of a fragmented piece of mattress.

There was no place else on earth more uncomfortable for 6-year old Ai Lin yet within this jarring cesspool of poverty, her grandmother’s love kept her yearning to come back. She was a woman of little words but she wore a constant smile on her wrinkled tanned leathery face whenever her grandchildren were around. Ai Lin calmed to a faint sob and curled up onto her grandmother’s lap. As her tears caked with the dirt on her face, she began to notice how soft her grandmother’s thighs were, just like tofu. Ai Lin was enamoured by this new sensation and bobbed her head on her grandmother’s thigh enjoying the little resistance it offered. She giggled to herself, forgetting that just a while ago a rat was nibbling on her toe. Ai Lin’s grandmother propped her up into a seated position, placed the tattered straw fan down and fished out of her faded floral slacks a white and green packet of Choco Mini and handed them over as uttered with a wide grin ‘Sen Yat Fai Lok’. Happy Birthday.

Ai Lin unwrapped the packet that was just a bit bigger than her little palms. She shook it with much anticipation, all that chocolate was just for her. Knowing that it was plentiful but limited, she opened the lid and only allowed herself to have a single light green pellet. She placed it on her tongue, it was smooth and minty, a welcome scent above the shit that was prevalent in the air from the soil buckets not too far away. That crust was meant to be crunched on but Ai Lin never bit down, she savoured every moment of this treat. Her warm saliva dissolved the shell, she pressed the chocolate flavoured palm oil paste against the roof of her mouth and found a single grain of rice crispy at the centre. By the time the chocolate dissipated, that grain of once-crispy rice was lost into the mush that Ai Lin was pushing into all corners of her mouth before finally swallowing. This was her first taste of chocolate.

The other children downstairs were beckoning Ai Lin to come down and play, it was her birthday after all. Ai Lin’s grandmother hurried her along while holding her baby brother in her arms. Ai Lin hid box of Choco Mini in her satchel and tied up her hair. She hopped down to put on her sandals and turned back to wave goodbye to her grandmother. Ai Lin’s grandmother gently passed the baby to a younger woman that lived in the same walk-up unit and waved goodbye and donned her folded red samsui hat in preparation for work. In the late afternoon, the streets were permeated with charcoal fire and grilled satay which was also Ai Lin’s favourite treat but she disregarded them. She had something better hidden upstairs saved for later, her perfect way to end this special day. The children kicked around a colourful and majestic rooster feathered chapteh shrieking with laughter, caught in a giggling trance. As they switched from one game to another, the air cooled as the sun began to set and it all seemed like the perfect day for Ai Lin. “Just one more game and then I’ll go back up to take care of Didi.” She lingered, she laughed and then lingered some more and laughed even more. 

Ai Lin sat on a curb with her friends with heads of wet hair pressed against their foreheads, they had been running and jumping for hours. All of a sudden, a piercing shrill cut through the chittering on the streets, “Ai Lin!”. It sounded like it came from her grandmother’s house so Ai Lin abruptly parted from her friends and jogged up the staircase, limbering up the last few steps with her aching feet. She squinted to make sense of what was going on in the dimly lit den. She found her brother convulsing on the floor, foaming at the mouth with his eyes rolled back. Knelt next to him was the woman whom Ai Lin’s grandmother handed him over before she left for work. The sight of a manic woman bowing over a dying child was too much for a child to comprehend. Petrified, confused and overwhelmed, the only questions running through her mind were ‘Why are the adults crying? This must be serious. What should I do?’ On the same day she had her first taste of chocolate was the same day she saw a glimpse of death. Instead of calling for an ambulance, that once frantic woman started to become hell-bent on blaming Ai Lin. “Where were you? You should have been looking after him! Look what happened!” She never took a breath or a pause with her accusations until help came and took the unconscious child to the hospital. As Ai Lin was getting berated, she averted her eyes to the floor where she saw a foamy pile of pasty vomit, slightly green and light brown. She never found the rest of her birthday chocolates.

The weight of condemnation and guilt afflicted Ai Lin with a slouch that stayed with her throughout her childhood. Hunched on the hospital bench, the doctors were at a distance explaining to her mother that her brother was fed industrial grade detergent which dissolved much of his oesophagus and feeding is only possible through a tube into his stomach. Since he could no longer push food down after swallowing, a hole was opened at his throat to allow macerated food to be thrown away if he ate anything. Hospital, school, home, hospital, school, home. For years, that was Ai Lin’s daily routine that she committed to because of the guilt she bore. Ai Lin’s mother never verbally accused her for what happened but like Ai Lin’s grandmother, she was a woman of action and it was clear to Ai Lin from the cold treatment that she would have to live with this blame as long as she was under her mother’s care. For her parents, there was a single mission that required all their energies, making money to survive. No energy was invested to seek justice for this attempted murder, it was easier to accuse a child of neglect and resume their day jobs unabated by guilt. Ai Lin never returned to Pagoda street to nap on her grandmother’s lap again. During the years spent caring for her brother, Ai Lin’s grandmother passed on and along with her, little Ai Lin’s final bastion of kindness.

On the third January that came to pass since that evening at Pagoda street, Ai Lin purchased a box of Choco Mini from a provision shop along the way to the hospital. In those 3 years, her brother had finally learned how to speak. Since there was no need to drink or eat, his lips were always cracked, his tongue was constantly dry and he croaked more than he spoke. Ai Lin’s birthday had just passed but her brother’s was just a few days away and his wish this year was to taste chocolate for the first time. She remembered her first encounter with chocolate and wanted her brother to experience that same euphoria. When Ai Lin entered the ward she wasted no time unwrapping the box and popped 2 pellets onto her brother’s pale tongue. The pellets were tiny but his mouth was opened wide in anticipation. Just like Ai Lin was when she had her first taste, his eyes dilated in pleasure of the taste of sugar. He reframed himself from chewing, letting the pieces slowly dissolve with what little saliva he had. With much straining, he finally swallowed and Ai Lin fed him more chocolate, as much as he wanted. Each time he swallowed, a paste would excrete from the hole at his throat, it was slightly green and light brown. Ai Lin thought she had seen this messy paste before but before she could remember, she wiped it away quickly before it stained her brother’s hospital gown. This continued until he had his fill, all the time Ai Lin smiling silently at her brother while he was engrossed in this fascinating thing called chocolate. Just for a moment, time seemed to have slowed to allow them a chance to linger. Perhaps only he knew that he would fall asleep for the last time that night and this was his final wish fulfilled.

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I sometimes wonder why justice was never served for what can be considered murder. It was truly a different time back then and I am thankful that my mother remains kind and gentle till today despite what she had to go through. Again, I appreciate you for reading till the end and would leave you with something to consider doing this lunar new year’s celebrations. Some of us will have the opportunity to spend extended time with our parents over the holidays, I can’t think of a better time to ask about their life stories. Maybe you will be able to see them beyond their roles of being your parents and maybe more love and empathy can come into your relationships this year.

Sincerely,

Tiramisu.

Paperweights

As a kid I would pace the park grounds to find that perfect pebble so I can bring it home to use as paperweights. It had to be dark, smooth, just smaller than the size of my palm so my fingers could conceal them as I slip them into my pocket. These pebbles had great use in my stuffy home where fans would blow over pages of my homework. Over the years, this collection grew to include rocks from around the world which weighted down love letters and my occasional journaling - papers filled with intentional words.

In the past 6 months I have not written sincerely. The stones seemed to have moved onto my heart, heavy and cumbersome yet I have done little to address that. Within arms reach there are too many distractions, an online sale to not miss out, an Instagram post to publish, a shot of whisky to swallow. But I cannot ignore this ache in my heart any longer.

So I wrote this for me, and if you have found yourself in a season of hurt and despair, I wrote this for you too. Piece by piece, I hope to lift these stones from my heart so they can return to being paperweights - slightly hefty but palm-sized so I can wrap my fingers around them to be put aside.

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tldr.

As I lift these stones off my heart, I am forced to face the rot underneath. I fought the strong urge to put them back down and cover it up but this rot can spread very quickly. Being vulnerable in words may sound brave but I innately feel that it is rather obnoxious to assume that anyone should listen to what I have to say. I battle feelings of inadequacy from questions I often ask myself, ‘What are my problems compared to others? Do I know enough to have a say in this? Who the fuck cares?’

But I found that support comes when I am brave enough to talk, even though it may seem self indulgent at first. I am fortunate to have friends who remind me that I am cared for and loved. Although my wounds will take time to heal, they have helped me stop the rot. I sincerely hope you find the courage to allow your friends to save you at your darkest hours.

Some time ago, a friend called me at midnight on a weekday just to cry. He and I had gone through separations recently and we both were not-so-subtly crying out for help on Instagram stories. So I reached out to him and we surprisingly became confidants to each other. My friend, you might have felt like you were intruding on my time but you gave me the opportunity to be kind to you and I am grateful for that.

I get frustrated when people say we have a 90 second attention span. Because we are capable of much longer and I believe we desperately want to sit with a thought long enough to acknowledge emotions attached to them. During the call, my friend started describing every situation with, ‘TLDR, I’m just gonna give you the lowdown…’ TLDR stands for ‘Too Long, Didn’t Read’. A term used to describe articles or emails that are annoyingly long winded. 

Through the phone I could sense the struggle between his desperation to be heard and the urge to shelve away emotions just to make the phone call quick. His deep hurt made it impossible for him to summarise and I listened as he shared in full details with an apologetic tone. This made me think of how much we, more so I, rob ourselves of relief through venting because we do not want to be that 'troublesome' friend.

Our stories matter, all of it - beginning, middle and end. If you feel as if you are in a tiresome middle-ground and see no end to it or are thinking about ending it, talk to someone. Be long winded and use as many words as you need, stop that rot.

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lo(ve)ss.

I am only beginning to realise how significant this separation from my partner of 9 years is to me. For the past few months I have been pondering about the what-ifs. What if I tried harder, what if I were more honest with both him and myself, what if I was being too selfish, the questions goes on. To be honest, it is still going on. When people ask what happened to us, I often tell them that we grew up and grew into different people - an answer that I too would like to be able to articulate clearer. So here goes nothing.

Weeks before I moved out, my ex recommended a book to me. ‘Tiny Beautiful Things’ by Cheryl Strayed and in it there was an essay that described love in an intriguing yet solemn way. She wrote that the minds of drug abusers stop maturing the day they get addicted. In some ways similar to drugs, our maturity towards love may have been locked in since the day we fell in it. While reading that bit, it felt as if I was being prepared for the separation to come. 

We were 24 when we met. What did I know about love? All I knew was there were three deep desires I had in my early twenties. The desire to do great big things, the desire to explore this big beautiful world and the desire to share my life with this beautiful gentle soul. It was in Hanoi, our first trip together, where we spoke of our desires by the lake and I chose this beautiful gentle soul in front of me.

I thought love meant sacrifice, always having to put myself in second place. So I tried in my own ways, trading time at work or rest for time spent together and boy did I love doing so. As the years went on, I became more involved with my undeniable want for doing great big things and it got harder to be able to make those sacrifices. Perhaps it was then where I realised I was unable to love in the way I thought should be expressed. Instead of intentionally working on redefining its expression, I unconsciously ‘graduated’ our love into a mere companionship. People around me told me it was natural but I overlooked one jarring fact - none of them were in a relationship for as long as we were.

This detrimental shift made our willing sacrifices transform into a sense of responsibility. From freely giving acts and words that required no reciprocation, to two people keeping scorecards of who gave more or who showed more appreciation. In the end, we became tired of keeping scores and decided to part. Apart from my father’s departure, I have never felt such an acute sense of loss.

But in the past three months I have learnt so many lessons from loss. One of them is familiar, that is the magnitude of emptiness felt is the collective evidence of a remarkable love that lived. We spent more than half of our adult lives together and I ache terribly with gratefulness for the wonderful memories we have.

The other lesson I learnt is that maybe we lost ourselves in the years spent together and there were empty parts of us that neither of us could fill from the beginning. The feeling of losing oneself was also evidence of how little I loved myself and how unclear I was with asking for love. In hindsight, sometimes I wonder why there could only be one choice between my three desires. It seems so clear and possible to define a way to love ourselves and each other now that there is an absence of it.

So this was what happened to us, we grew up sharing a great big love, we travelled a big beautiful world together and in the end we became two different beautiful souls deserving gentleness and kindness. Dear you, you deserve nothing less than gentleness and kindness in this world.

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gave, thanks.

Growing up in a Christian family, I was repeatedly bombarded with this line “The Lord Jesus himself said: ‘it is more blessed to give than to receive.’” Whenever I recall whom I heard speak these words, I realise how misquoted this verse was. Most times, it comes from pastors right before passing around the money offering bag. Church goers would either be convinced to be grateful of their wealth and give to the church, or aspire to be blessed and adopt a ‘do as though you are’ attitude and give to the church. Weekly, those pastors drove people into a corner and got away scot-free by quoting scripture. I admit, I sometimes succumbed.

I have read the gospel several times and Jesus never said that in the written books. Even if that quote is from the bible and widely accepted, it was not meant to be used to beckon people to give money to the church. The giving was not limited to money and the giving was meant for the weak - the lost, the last and the least of us. With not a lot of money in my bank, I gave my time and energy to the outreach ministry doing charity work.

Half a decade of service passed and I was called into a meeting with the pastors. I was asked to step down from my service because someone reported my gay relationship with my partner and they were afraid I would be a ‘stumbling block’ to the rest of the church. He even offered to ‘journey with me back to the right path’, a sugar-coated term for conversion. Imagine a family telling you to stop loving them in the way you are able and willing to because of a way of life not by choice. “But God still loves you, and we want you to keep coming back to church.”, the pastor ended it there. Deeply insulted and unable to reconcile the irony of their message of grace with the true hearts of their leaders, I left the church.

Searching for comfort and answers, I confided in my best friend whose mother is a councillor in another church. His mother and mine had much in common, both are accustomed to living with gay sons, deeply rooted in spirituality without coming off as religious crusaders. She said this, “Jesus asked the worldly woman at the well to serve him, why not your friend (me)?” There were quite a few conflicting thoughts that blitzed through my mind as I listened silently.

‘Did she just compare gays to a whores? Will I ever hear the end of this type of discrimination? Am I missing the point?’ Those were my thoughts at first. Thanks to my Sunday school upbringing, I quickly calmed down and understood her true intentions of saying that. Jesus did not discriminate, in fact he qualified the socially ostracised as people worthy of serving, worthy of service.

I gave my time and money to organised religion and thanks to what has happened, I am no longer spiritually conflicted because I have distanced myself from them. I am not sure if I will ever find another church to be a part of but I know a large part of me still believes in Jesus. After writing about this previously, hundreds of marginalised Christians came forth with love and kindness and encouraged me. But along with it came stories of similar experiences which led me to discover the term ‘sit-down Christians’, that saddened me.

Perhaps my giving was never meant to be for the church. I derive so much joy from listening to people and telling them stories, biblical or not, to bring a smile to their faces. I do not need the church to do that and it is my hope that I can continue to do so by giving my time for listening and words for encouragement. In this way, yes I still do believe that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

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In writing this, I realised how much I have lifted three burdens off my heart. There is a switch from denial to acknowledgement of self-importance, a shift from grieving to gratefulness of loss, and an uplifting vindication from religion. If you have reached this final paragraph, I want you to know that I appreciate you for spending time with me. My wish for you is that you will be able to lighten the weight off your chest when you are ready. Shall we be penpals?

Sincerely,

Tiramisu