What makes history so interesting is that it entails bits and pieces of us, our culture, our values, and our belief system. Truthfully, I couldn't care less about history, not until I begin to unravel my very own family history. I'm writing this solely out of interest, with the intent of integrating as much family history and memories I can gather and to share it with the people I love.
Born into a Malaysian Chinese family, it didn't take long for me to comprehend where we Chinese people originally came from and what we're doing here in Malaysia. All I knew was somehow, some way, our ancestors decided to flee from China and ended up on the shores of Malaysia. As a young boy with the span of attention of a fish, I didn't question any further on that matter. What matters to me most (when I was 5) was how to greet my not-too-distant relatives during Chinese New Year. I'm sure most Chinese can feel my pain and confusion when one has so many relatives and they all have different salutations, the pressure to greet them right or risk losing an Ang Pow can be too much! As I learn how to greet and who to call what, I began to make a mental connection of all the relatives I collected Ang Pows from, finally realizing how big my family tree actually is.
My parents do occasionally share with us a little about our family history, but nothing quite so far back. The only stories I often hear about are those of my grandpa who passed away at the young age of 57. He was my dad's dad. From what I gathered from my grandma and parents, I learned that he was a strict, caring, intelligent, and resourceful person. Most unfortunately, he was also a heavy smoker, of which eventually caused him to die of lung cancer. Whenever my grandma talks about grandpa, she would sigh and end up with this sentence "... if only he was alive, you grandchildren would've been so spoiled by him. Oh how he loves children." Although I've never had the chance to meet my grandpa (he died when my mom was pregnant with my older sister), I can somehow feel his presence in my life, a beautiful image untainted by the world's imperfections, throwing me high up in the air and catching me again, groaning about how fast I've grown and how much heavier I've gotten.
Grandma and grandpa have only one son, my dad. They adopted a lovely baby girl from a family of the same village and raised her as their own. This baby girl turns out to be my aunt. I didn't know about my aunt being adopted until much later. Between the age of 3 to 8 or 9, I always had my hair cut at the village's barbershop. The barber was a friendly-looking old man who always greeted me with a huge warm smile. He cracked jokes whenever he was about to shave my side burns, knowing that I fear the sharp blades so very much. Later, when I was much older, I came to know that the kind and jovial old man was the biological father of my aunt, and the similarly cheerful aunty who had religiously brought tea for her husband was my aunt's mother. It was one huge revelation for me.
So that's all there is from my dad's side of the family for now. I'll go further back in history as the blog progresses. Now, I'll delve into my mom's side of the family.
My mom's parents gave birth to 13 children! 7 boys and 6 girls. It's a shocker for the current generation, but not so for those born before and during the World War 2. Back then, people gave birth like rats. My grandparents by no means look anything like rats, in fact, my grandma looks like a Korean empress, and my granddad has the kindest face I've ever seen. My grandpa passed on a few years ago, he died peacefully and had returned to the Lord. I was fortunate as I had the opportunity to grow older with him. Whatever grandfather (dad's side) love that my sisters and I may be lacking was compensated by the love of our grandpa (mom's side). He had indeed spoiled us to pieces, chauffeured us to school and back, constantly bought back banana fritters despite my mom's constant look of disapproval, faithfully waited under the tree outside my class 15 minutes before the school bell rings, just so that I can see him and know that he's right there waiting to send me home. Oh I had the best grandpa in the world. He was a cool man, independent and fearless. He continued to drive even though he was too old and it became too dangerous for him. No one could've stopped him. He had very little wants and needs even as he aged. His laugher was so contagious, no one could stay mad at him when he breaks into a smile. Most people would say that their grandpas are/were the best, but mine undoubtedly was.
I don't hear much about my mom's relatives as there are too much going on with the immediate family. As one would bluntly put it 'the bigger the family, the more problems there'll be', and it is so with my mom's family. Hence, too much focus is placed on the present and there isn't much to get out of the past. I'm thankful nonetheless, as my aunts are all like a mother to me, and instead of just one, I have 6 mothers who love me unconditionally. During Chinese New Year, I would bet that my mom's side family gathering is the most unusual one. Most people won't believe it when I tell them that mom's family communicate using the Malay language, or rather the Baba Nyonya language, which I'd refer to as the mixture of 60% Malay, 20% English, 15% Hokkien, and 5% of unknown language which I really suspect they came up with themselves (mom and aunts would disagree). Yes, I do have a few drops of Baba Nyonya blood in me, I say a few because the origins are not so clear. Apparently my grandma's mom is a Baby Nyonya or something. I'll be sure to get the facts right.
I have merely touched on what I'd like to achieve with this blog. There are too much to say and my lack of writing expertise has caused my points to be in disarray. Will be more organized as I go along. Till then!
