I’m done with Life Writing class! It has been both awesome and disappointing. Awesome because I got to meet some amazing ladies with incredible stories to tell, and  got myself to start writing again. Disappointing because I realized that not all writing classes are equal, and if not for my awesome classmates, the class would be for naught. Next, I’m thinking of taking either an interior designing course, or a computer programming course. And hopefully continue writing on this blog.

One thing I did learn during this course is that apparently writing related segments, and then putting it together really does work. Here is my finish product for the course. Hope you enjoy, and constructive comments are welcome.

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While my brother, Ocean and I still live at home together, we’re really more like neighbors.

Every morning my brother leaves the house at 6am. He’s a chef, and needs to get into work early to make preparations for the day, working odd hours (including weekends and public holidays). I have an office job, and barely leave the house before 9:30am. Sometimes when I have a late night out on weekends, or cannot sleep, I’d hear him in the bathroom going through his morning routine. Not long after that, I’d hear the front door banging shut. Once I woke up at an ungodly hour early on a Sunday morning for a marathon and we left home together. In the evenings, I get home at around 8pm, just in time to say goodnight to him. That is pretty much the extent I see my brother in daily life. Otherwise his presence is only felt in the slippery bathroom floor and the empty freezer where my ice cream is supposed to be.

Once in a blue moon, when he and I are both home for the evening, and he’s in a good mood, he’d come over to tell me about his latest girlfriend, or all the planning he has done for his upcoming trip to Japan. I am always amazed by the diligence he applies to planning for Japan (if only he were half as diligent at school!). This occurs every few months, whenever he has saved enough money to go. Personally, I don’t get this earn it and spend it concept (I’m more of a save for a rainy day kind of girl), but over the years, I’ve learnt to be encouraging and non-judgmental. Behind his gruff I-am-too-cool-to-care exterior, is a sensitive soul. Besides, I leave the censorship to to my parents.

But even on that front he gets off easy, and pretty much does whatever he wants. He brings random girls he meets on the internet home, never cleans up after himself, never shows up for family events and is in general downright rude. It is not because he’s a boy, and my parents are typical Asian parents who favour boys. But (I suspect) because they feel guilty about his traumatizing childhood (he was academically challenged, and spent his childhood either at school or after-school school), which culminated to what we thought was anorexia when he came back from studying in Canada after a year, looking like a skeleton (being a huge McDonalds fan, he was borderline obese when he went!). That, and because my parents just don’t know what they can do with him. After so many years, he’s pretty much immune to any parental rebuke (and he’s much too old for the stick).

As for me, you know what they say; you can choose your friends, but not your family. We are so different, that under normal circumstances, we probably would never have even spoken. But yet, here we are. He is the only other person in the world who has both my mother and father’s blood running through him. There has got to be some love in there somewhere.

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“My daddy is an astronaut,” or so I thought.

As most middle class Hong Kong families did back in the 80s in fear of the great 97 handover, my family moved to Canada when I was about three years old to sit out our four year immigration “prison sentence.” While my mother and I spent much of this time in domestic bliss in Toronto, I imagined my father in a suit, floating around in space when he was not with us. In reality, he was frequently flying between Canada and Hong Kong so he can get his passport and work at the same time. Such a person was commonly known back in the days as an astronaut.

In that sense, I guess my mother and I were kind of astronauts as well. We flew back and forth a lot too. My mother grew up surrounded by a large and boisterous family in Hong Kong, and could not stand the cold and radio silence of Toronto. She barely spoke English or knew anyone there at the time, so there really was only so much she could do. There were only so much pretend telephone conversations and meals (real and make belief) one can have with a chatty three year old; and only so much one can shop at Eaton and “Hope Renview” (it was only much later that I found out that my mother’s favourite store was actually Holt Renfrew).

Kindergarten was only a distant afterthought. I did not have time for it, and I hated it. I cried so much my first day, my mother, the softie that she is, gave in and let me stayed home afterwards. The school principal called a few days later to find out where I went.

While others remember stealing kisses from the girl on the bus, I remember playing the drums by myself next to the window, waiting for my mother to show up. Even at such a precocious age, when children still played indiscriminately, I failed to connect with anyone. Later this would lead to years of self-doubt and confidence issues. But at that moment, I just spaced out, anxiously waiting for my mother to come pick me up.

My mother got pregnant when I was about three, and because her baby bump was very ’round’ at the time, she was convinced that it was a girl. So for many months before the baby was born, I would cuddle next to my mother while she watched TV, gently put my cheeks on her baby bump and talked to “Hoi Fa” (meaning “ocean flower” in Chinese – my chosen name for her) in three year old gibberish. After so many years by myself (there were no such things as play groups back then), I couldn’t wait to have a REAL LIVE baby sister to play with. I was going to be the best-est elder sister ever. We were going to do everything together in matching red outfits and pig tails!

Before my mother had a chance to get a proper scan to confirm her conviction however, her water broke on the eve of October 30, 1990 (3 months early!). After over 24 hours of labor having me, she wasn’t going to rush to the hospital for nothing and have oily hair for the rest of the week (in Chinese culture, women are not supposed to wash their hair immediately after giving birth). She very calmly finished making dinner and washed her super curly shoulder length hair before heading to the hospital. My brother was born shortly after by cesarean. When I found out, I ran up our long curving staircase to my room, jumped onto my bed and promptly burst into tears. Despite my aunt Anita and uncle Peter’s best efforts, I was heartbroken. My baby sister had turned into an icky boy. I fell asleep staring mournfully at my Mickey Mouse lampshade.

Needless to say, the arrival of my brother was marred with disappointment and nagging feelings which I eventually identified as jealousy. It wasn’t so bad at first. My mother came back a few days later and the three of us went out for dim sum as usual. Since my brother was born premature, he had to stay for further observation at the hospital, inside a small plastic box. My mother marveled at the convenience of it all. Instead of staying up all day and night feeding and changing diapers, she was relaxing and enjoying herself with a nice cup of tea. After a few days though, the hospital called asking my parents where they were, and why they had not come to visit at all.

When I envisioned the arrival of my new sibling, my three year old mind did not factor in the fact that it would take my parent’s attention away from me. Indeed, I thought there would actually be one more person in my orbit to circle around me. Parents nowadays try to ease the entry of a second child into a household, by presenting the first child with gifts from their new sibling to generate good will. But my mother is fifth of seven children and my father is second of three. They had absolutely no concept of what an unwelcome intrusion a sibling is to a single child. I was suddenly thrown out of my limelight, and I didn’t like it at all.

It was dark days for me after that. I don’t remember much, but from what I’ve gathered in home videos, it was cringe worthy. Every time I see those videos, my heart goes out to that little girl. One in particular featured my brother lying crinkly and naked in a small tub full of water in the shower, while my mother kneel next to him with one hand behind his neck and the other running a soapy wash cloth over him, giving him a bath. My father stood next to them, holding his huge rectangular video camera over his shoulder. And in the background, you can hear the voice of a little girl, repeatedly going “daddy daddy, look at me!” Then the camera shakes a bit as my father glances back and reproaches the little girl, telling her to be quiet. I stop watching after that, as embarrassment and rejection overcomes me all over again.  I was supposed to be the focal point of my father’s big black box. I freeze whenever I get in front of a video camera now, but back then I was a natural. I would just look straight at the lens and talk non stop, showing my invisible audience a photo album or just go about cooking in my toy kitchen, while my mom cooks in the real kitchen next door. My  brother was just lying in a tub! 

Eventually I got over the fact that I have a brother instead of a sister (I even started to appreciate that I never have to share my clothes), and learnt how to regain and share the limelight. But that is a story for another time.