In memory of Lee Wei Ling (Singapore)

 

I was sent notifications today (09 October) of Lee Wei Ling’s death today (09 October) by two Singaporeans (my student of Mandarin in London, followed by my ex-RI classmate in Singapore).

My first feeling was one of relief for her, as I’d heard about her condition for a few years now.  Relieved that her suffering’s ended.  RIP Wei Ling.

The first time I heard about her was that the (then-)Prime Minister’s daughter would be joining us at RI (Raffles Institution) for our two Pre-U years there.  Not heard of her prior to that.  

(In the 60s, we at my convent school were so insular that the teacher had to set aside a weekly slot to test us on our Current Affairs knowledge, thus forcing us to go and glean information over the past week.)

There was a school prom to welcome the fresh intake of Pre-U 1.  A lot of the boys had come up from Secondary 4, but the rest of us were new to RI.  Certainly the girls as it was a boys school up to Secondary 4 (O levels).

Attending a prom meant getting all dressed up, especially for the girls.  It was held in the school hall, a huge assembly room with a stage.  Large speakers blaring out music and students were dotted around the hall by the walls. 

It wasn’t difficult to identify Lee Wei Ling.  She was about the only one that I can remember picking out visually who was not in a girly dress, decked out instead in a safari-suit get-up: trousers and jacket with four square pockets on the front.  Plus: a body guard.  We knew it was her body guard because she was not Pre-U age (17–18).

A group of boys were daring each other to go and ask the Prime Minister’s daughter for a dance.  Tan X was the one who decided to brave the walk across the floor to go and ask her.  All eyes were on him as he went over and asked, “May I have the pleasure of a dance?”  (I assume that was what he said, the standard phrase for such an occasion, as the music was very loud.)

We saw her responding, asking him to repeat as she didn’t catch it the first time.

He repeated the question.

She asked him to repeat yet again.

He repeated the question a third time.

Then the music stopped a split second before she responded to that third request, so her shouting back at him rang out really loudly around the school hall, with everyone waiting to hear how she’d answer him, “WHAT?!??  YOU’RE ASKING ME TO DANCE??  BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DANCE!!”

Poor Tan X must’ve blushed.  I couldn’t see his face clearly in the gloom of the school hall, but his body language as he walked back to his group under the glare of a couple of hundred pairs of eyes spoke volumes louder than the music blaring out just a few minutes before.

(Singapore, 1971)

Whose responsibility is it? (Singapore)

An ex-student (American Chinese) has just been talking, not for the first time, about how misogynistic the Chinese culture / family can be, saying women are invisible entities, not being included in family trees.  (I'm giving only a summary here, as she feels very strongly about it and has lots to say on the subject.)

My reply to her:  Quote 家谱、族谱 [jiāpǔ, zúpǔ / “family/clan trees”] are compiled by men indeed, but I blame the women, too, for they're the ones who also have a hand in bringing up the male children and grandchildren.  Two examples spring to mind from my own experience.  This conversation with you has inspired a blog, so will go draft it, then share it with you. Unquote

My mother’s younger brother (of two) lived with us in the suburbs of Singapore as he worked downtown, whilst my grandmother had a coconut plantation out in the sticks which would require about three, if not four or more, bus changes, never mind a few hours’ travelling time each way, even in the days of the relatively uncluttered roads of the early 60s.

This uncle carried on living with us after he got married (and had two daughters under our roof before he moved out into a house of his own).  Being a modern free-love (vs arranged marriage) man, he was liberal in his ways, which included helping his wife with their own laundry — done by hand in those days.

One day, my maternal grandma, dropping in on us en route to the Buddhist temple she frequented, walked in on my uncle helping his wife wring out the clothes and hang them up.  She was appalled, and said to him openly, “How can you do that?  That’s a woman’s work!”

I was only about nine at the time, but even then, I was shocked that my grandma, a woman herself, should’ve told her son off for helping his wife out in what she called “woman’s work”.  

In the late 60s, I was privy to another episode of a mother not doing the right thing in bringing up her male child.  

The whole family was having dinner.  My brother, the first to finish, got up and was about to leave the table. 

 

In my family, we were taught to take our empty dishes to the kitchen sink, which was only about four feet away from the dining table.  We had a domestic help (we called them “servants” in those days without any particular bias, but a lot of British friends objected to the term), but we were brought up to treat them well, so we’d help out as much as we could, e.g., taking our empties over to the sink instead of leaving it all to her.

As my brother took a step away, my second sister (older than my brother by two years) called out, “Dave, take your empty dishes to the sink.”  He stopped because my sister had called out his name, took a look at his empty dishes, then chose to ignore what she said and started to walk away.  

My sister insisted, “Dave, did you hear what I said?  Take your dishes over to the sink.”  This time, he didn’t dare disregard her authority over him as his older sibling.  He came back, and took the empty dishes over to the sink as told.  

All this time, throughout the two exchanges, not a single sound was heard from my mother, not even some kind of “yes, that’s right, listen to your older sister” in support.

I often blame the mothers for bad behaviour in men.  Can I be blamed for that?  

(I also give credit to mothers for good behaviour.  I've found myself saying to young people who give up their seats or help old people on/off the bus: "Compliments to your mother.  She's brought you up well."  Some people might find this )

(The outcome of my second sister’s disciplining my brother:  he always took his dishes over to the sink after that.)

Fast forward to the late 80s, when my mother’s younger sister died of breast cancer.  The beneficiaries of her will were:  my mother, her two younger brothers, and my brother.  So, she’d skipped one generation and included my brother, her nephew, but she’d also skipped the four of us girls in the same generation.  This is a woman being sexist towards members of her own sex.

(Singapore, 1960s)

PS:  Thanks to Li Hsia for prompting this long overdue social comment, albeit only based on my own experience.

Christmas cards (London)

  

I was known among one of the circles of my student-friends for sending interesting Christmas cards rather than the standard robin / holly ones.  As far as possible, of course, as it's not easy to find the right ones for the right people.

A perfect match was one I sent my then-boyfriend Swiss Michael.

He is 6'1" (or 6'2").  Whenever he came to London, he'd bang his head against the lintel of the bathroom, so that by the end of his visit (usually a weekend only), he'd leave London with quite a few (small) cuts on his front bare pate.

I then chanced upon a Xmas card that had this picture:

* Tunnel leading under a bridge

* Sign on the side of the bridge over the tunnel says "Beware, low bridge"

* At this end of the tunnel, a pair of antlers lying on the ground

Michael absolutely loved that card.  So apt.

(London, 1987)

Getting computer screens cleaned for free

Same as for cleaning mirrors (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2023/05/cleaning-mirrors.html), part of which I reproduce below for ease of reference:

For cleaning mirrors, a lot of tips out there say water + vinegar, and maybe washing-up liquid plus other things that you have to pay for (soap, rubbing alcohol*). Not to mention the microfibre cloth for wiping the surface.  

If you live in an area where you get free newspaper, use it to clean mirrors.  

Just wet it, and wipe the mirror with it.  All blotches will be lifted, even stubborn stains.  (The news ink soaks up all the grease.)  No streaks.

 

*google says: isopropyl alcohol or an ethanol-based liquid, with isopropyl alcohol products being the most widely available.

Bus-spotting in Lima (Peru)

 

On my second visit to Peru in October 1987, I had a few hours to kill in Lima before catching my flight back to London, so I walked around Lima. 

At one point, I found myself on a busy road with buses looking like those American school buses one sees in movies. 

Ancient looking to me, partly because I’d first seen them in my younger days in movies, but more because of the design. 

Also ancient looking because Peru is so poor, so a lot of things are re-hashed and re-used. 

One of them had “Canada” on the front! 

I thought, “Wow, a clapped-out thing like that going all the way to Canada!” 

It turned out that Canada is the name of one of the districts in Lima (like the Angel or Highbury in London), not the country thousands of miles away!  Hahaha. 

I sat on a bench and watched all the buses going past, hour after hour, taking photo after photo of the different buses.  I could’ve stayed there all day.

(Peru, 1987)

Students’ tones in Mandarin Chinese (London)

One of the common mistakes made by my (non-Chinese lineage) Mandarin students over the decades that I’ve been teaching — whichever level, whatever the age of the student — is getting the tone wrong almost every single time for the same character, no matter how many times they might’ve encountered that character before.  The same student can pronounce the same character in as many different ways as the number of times they come across it.

There was a student who once said, during a tone drill session, “Why do you keep correcting my tones?!?  I’m saying it exactly as you are.”  He couldn’t hear the difference.

This puts me in mind of a British TV double act in the 70s and 80s called Morecambe and Wise, a kind of comic variety show, with Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise.

One of their sketches featured André Previn as the conductor with Morecambe as the pianist who kept missing his cue because he (Morecambe) was very tall and couldn’t see Previn through the propped up lid of the piano when the cue came.

After a few more times of this, Morecambe started to play Grieg’s Piano Concerto, all out of tune.  Previn said, “You’re playing all the wrong notes!”  Morecambe said, “I’m playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order.” 

I’ve now taken to telling my students this story, adding: “You think you’re saying the right tones, but they’re all in the wrong places.”  They love this version.  We all get a laugh out of it.

(London)

The Turkish Van cat (England)

Jenny, an Australian colleague at the film company (producing The Heart of the Dragon, a 12-part documentary series for Channel Four, 1984), was visiting a friend when she spotted the kitchen sink tap dripping, so she turned it off more tightly.

A little while later, it was dripping again, so she turned it off again. This went on a number of times, so Jenny told her friend about it. The friend said, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with the washer. We’ve left it like this deliberately, as our cat likes to sit under the tap and let the water drip on his head.” 

The following day, Jenny walked past the toilet and saw the cat’s head protruding from the toilet bowl, its body immersed in the toilet. 

It turned out that the breed of the cat is Turkish Van, from Lake Van in Turkey, where they swim in/across the lake all the time. 

(England, 1980s)