Writing Home

My grandmother Yew Choy enlisted the help of a professional letter writer to keep in touch with the sisters she left behind in China. This blogpost re-creates a visit to the se seon lou, as recalled by my mother.

 

George Town, Penang – 1952

“What are you both looking at? Walk faster!”

Yew Choy called to her young daughters Ah Thiew and Ah Moy who were trailing behind her. They had stopped by the side of the busy road to watch a food hawker toss egg noodles in soy sauce and sesame oil to make their favourite tok-tok meen.  After one last sniff, the girls hurried to join their mother under the umbrella she held aloft as shelter from the bright morning sun.

A few minutes later, they ducked into a five-foot way, a covered sidewalk that connected a row of shophouses. They walked in the cool shade until they came to a wooden table and several stools. These were set against the wall of a shophouse, on which hung several red scrolls with black Chinese characters. An elderly Chinese man sat on one of the stools, reading.  When he saw Yew Choy and her daughters approaching, he put down his newspaper to look at them through his dark-rimmed glasses.

“What can I do for you today?” the se seon lou asked. He pulled a sheaf of blank paper on the table towards him.

Yew Choy lowered herself onto one of the stools and faced the man, waiting patiently as he set up his writing equipment. Her young daughters watched as the letter writer poured a few drops of water into a worn ink stone. He took a soot-black ink stick, dipping it in the water before making circular movements to create a pool of dark liquid. This he did several times until he was happy with the ink’s consistency, before picking up a slim writing brush. He looked at Yew Choy expectantly.

“Could you please write a letter to my sisters in China, since the New Year is coming round,” she began.

“Please ask them how they are. Another year has come, please tell them I’m sending them some money for the New Year.”

“Tell them we are fine,” Yew Choy continued, staring into the distance over the man’s shoulder.  He nodded, oblivious to the two pairs of young eyes watching him as he flicked his ink-dipped brush, creating elegant strokes that filled sheets of white paper with black characters.

“Ah Kou Toi and Ah Swee are doing well in school,” Yew Choy went on, referring to her two older sons. “And so is Ah Thiew, although the teacher says she needs to work harder. Ah Moy has just started in kindergarten this year.” Nine-year-old Ah Thiew listened in fascination, her head resting on her hands. It was as if her mother was having a neighbourly chat with the man as she narrated the family’s news to be included in the letter.

As her mother’s voice droned on, Ah Thiew began to fidget.  She looked around for her sister and found six-year-old Ah Moy standing behind Yew Choy, watching the traffic on the road. Cyclists in straw hats streamed past men on trishaws pedalling laboriously as they carried their passengers to their destinations. A few cars drove by, and Ah Thiew wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the exhaust fumes mingled with the dry smell of dust. She turned away to study the red scrolls on the wall. They were Spring couplets; wishes for the new year designed to be placed on both sides of one’s front door with a horizontal verse above the door frame.

Tilting her head from side to side, Ah Thiew tried to read the Chinese characters on the scrolls. She called Ah Moy over, but the girls couldn’t make sense of them. They looked like drawings instead of the writing Ah Thiew and Ah Moy learnt at school, the English-language convent they attended in George Town. Neither had been taught how to read and write Chinese as their parents were semi-literate, like many Chinese immigrants in Malaya. Yew Choy knew just enough to follow the news in the local paper while Thong Foo could use the abacus to keep track of his stock at his goldsmith workshop. Both relied on scribes like this se seon loufor any formal writing.

There were many such professional letter writers in George Town, mainly older Chinese men who could be found along the five-foot ways of shophouses. Their services were valued by migrants eager to maintain a connection with their homeland, from the coolies who worked on construction sites to the amah and ma jie domestic workers. The se seon lou didn’t just write letters but also read the ones received by their customers, and composed couplets for the Chinese New Year as well as marriage invitations and certificates. Yew Choy visited this particular letter writer at least once a year when she wanted to correspond with her sisters.

Once the letter was ready, the se seon lou placed it in an envelope and wrote out the address he had been given, before handing it over to Yew Choy in exchange for his fee. Thanking him, she tucked the letter into her purse. She then called to her daughters as she pushed open her umbrella, its waxed paper canopy unfurling noisily.

As the three of them began their walk home, Ah Thiew tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

“Can we stop for some tok-tok meen?”

 

 Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

The Street of Boatmen

My mother Ah Thiew grew up on King Street, once called The Street of Boatmen because of the South Indian sailors and stevedores who lived there. This blogpost is my re-telling of a story from my mother’s childhood in Penang’s Little India.

George Town, Penang, 1950s 

A scrawny man rushes into Foo Heng workshop, surprising the few workers in the  room. He looks around frantically before ducking under an empty work table, folding himself into the tiny space and refusing to move even when someone calls out to him to leave.

Tolong!” he calls for help in Malay before mumbling incoherently in his mother tongue of Tamil, clutching the table’s legs.

Standing by the workshop’s inner doorway, eight-year-old Ah Thiew can hear the table rattle with the man’s trembling. She is close enough to detect the sweet-sour odour of his cold sweat mingled with the palm toddy on his breath. His thin face is turned towards her, the whites of his eyes stark against his deep brown skin. Ah Thiew thinks she’s seen him before.

Through the front windows, she can hear shouting and banging. It becomes louder as her father Thoong Foo and his staff try to shut the workshop’s double timber doors, but they’re not fast enough to stop a burly man from pushing his way in.

Oi!”

They shout at him to get out, but the man ignores them as he strides around the room, his fists clenched, his face thunderous. Ah Thiew shrinks back to avoid his eyes, which barely skim over her before they land on the shaking table. He reaches over to grab the smaller man by the arm, dragging him out of his hiding place.

Tolong! Aiiieee!”

Ah Thiew puts her hands over her ears to block out the man’s high-pitched cries, but not before she hears the sickening sound of bone crunching. She can’t look away though, transfixed by the blood streaming from the man’s nose as he runs out of the workshop, followed his attacker. Ah Thiew’s heart is pounding so hard she thinks it will burst through her chest, especially when she feels a sudden grip on her arm. She opens her mouth but has hardly made a sound when she sees her mother’s angry face in front of her.

“Nothing to see here – go to the back!”

Her mother Yew Choy pushes her into the kitchen. Her heart still beating rapidly, Ah Thiew glances at the workshop to see her father pushing a wooden bolt across the doors. His workers are putting several upturned tables back in their proper place as they shake their heads; she can hear snatches of their conversation: “playing cards…lost money”.

Yew Choy makes Ah Thiew sit at the dining table with her little sister Ah Moy, before plonking a bowl of warm congee in front of her.

“Eat!”

Ah Thiew brings a spoonful of the rice porridge to her mouth. She tries not to think of the man’s bloodied face, but she now remembers why he had looked so familiar.

He is one of several men who would gather on the walkway in front of her father’s workshop every evening. The men that Ah Thiew and her siblings would watch through the iron grills of the workshop’s window as they sat cross-legged facing one other, each holding a fan of playing cards. Occasionally, they would slap a dog-eared card on the growing pile in front of them as they chatted in Tamil.

These men lived in the two boarding houses that neighboured Foo Heng workshop. They were among the many labourers from South India who were either stevedores at the nearby docks, or worked at the corner godowns on King Street. Ah Thiew had often seen them run out of the warehouses to unload gunny sacks of onions and potatoes from huge lorries.

Observing them from afar, she could tell the difference between the swarthy labourers in their scruffy t-shirts and sarong, and the godowns’ North Indian owners who were always dressed in white, shielding their paler complexions from the sun with one hand as they gave orders to the labourers.

But she couldn’t tell her neighbours apart, as so many of the coolie workforce came and went from the boarding houses. There were so many of them, they had to sleep in rows on the wooden plank floors, and they would escape the stifling indoors whenever they could, spilling out onto other people’s doorways every evening to catch a breeze.

For some reason however, Ah Thiew had recognised this particular labourer. Perhaps he had once smiled at her, showing his teeth stained red from too much makan sireh or betel-nut chewing, while most of the others hardly ever looked at the children living next door.

In the days following the incident, Ah Thiew would look out for him, curious to know what had happened to him, to see if he still had blood on his face. But when the group of labourers resumed their card-playing in front of the workshop, he wasn’t among them.

Walking home from school with her siblings, Ah Thiew would stop by the kiosks along the way to scan the faces of those buying sticks of rokok – cigarettes –  and parcels of sireh from the vendors. She would peer at the men squatting by the roadside as they chewed their parcels of betel nut and leaves slathered with a chalky lime paste, careful to avoid the red juices of the sireh they would spit into open drains.

She looked for him among those perched on stools eating from bowls of coriander-flavoured sup kambing – mutton soup – sold by the travelling hawker who would set up shop outside the restaurant opposite her home every evening.

But Ah Thiew never saw him again.

 

 

Photo by Tadeu Jnr on Unsplash

Looking for Kipas

A portrait of my maternal grandfather drawn from my childhood memories. This is a companion piece to Remembering Por-Por

 

My grandfather ate grass.

When I think of Kong-Kong, I see him crouched in our garden, patiently tugging at the slim strands of green growing out of a corner of the lawn, the blinding sun reflecting off his white t-shirt. That evening, a plate of green-flecked omelette appeared at the dinner table. As my brothers and I prepared to attack it, Mum stopped us. That’s not for you, she said, it’s for Kong-Kong.

Growing up we saw my grandfather often, especially after Por-Por passed away. We would visit him in Penang during the school holidays, bringing chaos and chatter to 58 King Street, the Straits Settlement shophouse where he lived upstairs and ran his business downstairs, turning pieces of gold into jewellery.

He also came down to Kuala Lumpur to see us. We would return from school to find the house filled with the smoky deep spice of his cigar and the sweet-salty scent of the tau sar pneah he’d brought us from Penang’s famous Gee Hiang bakery. But before we could look for the sticky molasses and roasted green bean pastries, Mum would send us to the spare room with an order: Go and say hello to Kong-Kong first. We would crane our necks to look at him as he towered over us, and we would stare at the prickly grey stubbles on his chin, the pair of black-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose. A small smile would appear on his craggy face as he acknowledged our greeting with a nod and a grunt. Duty done, we’d run to the kitchen for our treats.

Whenever Kong-Kong came to stay, we would hear the musical lilt of Taishanese, the Southern Chinese dialect that Mum used only with her parents and siblings. My brothers and I understood very little of the language, and could only say at dinner time: Kong-Kong hiak fan – Grandfather, eat rice – as a sign of respect before we could start on our own meal.

If Mum wasn’t around, we communicated with our grandfather using a mishmash of Malay, English and Cantonese, the Chinese vernacular more commonly spoken in Kuala Lumpur. This usually worked, except for the time when Kong-Kong asked us – my brothers and our cousins Lin and Lee – to bring him a kipas.

“No,” he said, shaking his head at us as we stood, sweaty and breathless from carrying the heavy electric desk fan down the stairs for him.

Kipas,” he told us, making a flapping gesture with his right hand. We looked at him blankly. He walked out of the room muttering to himself in Taishanese – no doubt about the questionable intelligence of his familiar yet so foreign grandchildren – and returned a few minutes later with a hand fan made out of straw.

Kipas,” he gently waved it in front of our laughing faces, cooling us in the tropical heat.

Mostly, Kong-Kong sat silently with his right leg crossed over his left thigh, leaning back against his chair and fanning himself as he watched us play. Like most Chinese men of his generation, my grandfather was not very demonstrative; no hugs or kisses from Kong-Kong. He often looked stern, but we were never intimidated by his gruffness. In the rare moments that we made Kong-Kong laugh, his impassive face would be transformed by a wide smile that revealed gaps where teeth once resided. His bright eyes would crinkle, his large hands gentle as he lifted up my baby brother. He’d buy me ice-cream to make up for being left behind when the rest of you went out, my brother recalls.

My grandfather didn’t actually eat grass. Later that night, Mum told us what was in that omelette; a medicinal herb Kong-Kong used to take in China, which he’d found growing in the corner of our garden. I’m still glad I didn’t try it.

 

Photo by Amirhossein Abdollahi on Unsplash

 

Remembering Por-Por

A portrait of my maternal grandmother drawn from memories, photographs and her diamond ring

They wink at me as they catch the light, like stars flickering in the night sky. Five small diamonds encased in a gold ring, shining brilliantly against the row of matte green jade on another ring I’ve pushed right down to the base of my little finger.

I rub my thumb over the rings; my maternal grandfather, who was a goldsmith, had made them.

“Kong-Kong used some lower-quality gemstones his clients didn’t want,” my mother tells me as she squints at the rings. I can feel their heft on my finger; at least he didn’t skimp on the gold.

“I remember this one!”

I point to the jade ring, which used to adorn my mother’s fourth finger along with her platinum wedding band. In my memory, I see Mum reaching into the hedge between our house and our neighbours to retrieve this very ring, and a much younger version of myself standing by, looking worried. Was this from seeing the angry red scratches on Mum’s hand when it re-emerged from the thorny bushes? Or from fear that I would be scolded for playing with it and losing it?

But I had never seen the diamond ring before. It had belonged to Por-Por, my maternal grandmother. Now it sits snugly on my little finger, barely moving when I try twisting it. I marvel at how petite she must have been.

I have very vague memories of Por-Por, who passed away from nasopharyngeal cancer when she was 55. She and Kong-Kong lived in Penang, but regularly made the overnight journey on the sleeper train to visit us in Kuala Lumpur. I was always happy to see her, Mum tells me, recalling how I would run to my grandmother the moment she arrived at our door.  I hear a firm yet gentle voice calling me to eat my rice; was that Por-Por?

My grandmother died barely a month after my fourth birthday and my younger brother’s first. My youngest brother was born three years later and never had a chance to meet her. I remember being at Por-Por’s funeral, sitting behind my father, rubbing my face against the soft jersey cotton of his T-shirt as I tried to hide from the deafening din of drums and clanging cymbals, and the sword-waving Taoist priest jumping around a ferocious fire. He was just doing his job, trying to ward off evil spirits, but my toddler brain probably thought he was coming for me next.

My grandmother felt very present in our lives while we were growing up. She appeared in the many stories Mum told us of her childhood in colonial Penang; Por-Por taking my mother and her three siblings to school in a trishaw on rainy days; disciplining them with the cane whenever they misbehaved; buying their favourite tok-tok meen from the food hawker cycling past their home, announcing his presence by making his trademark tok-tok sound with a bamboo stick against a bowl.

Por-Por stares at me from a handful of monochrome photographs, her eyes soft, her slender neck half-concealed by the high collar of her samfu top. Her hair is neatly pulled back from her face, square-shaped like mine. She looks solemn in her photos, except for the ones where she’s holding me or Kiang, my cousin. Even then, she has just a glimmer of a smile, as if uncertain of what she should do in front of the camera. In her later images she looks wizened, her petite frame reduced further by illness. Yet her arms were strong enough to carry the chubby toddler that was me. Perhaps the ring was resized so it wouldn’t slide off her shrunken finger?

These photos are my only tangible reminders of Por-Por, and now this ring.

“You can have them if you want; take them back with you to England.”

Mum wraps both rings in tissue, stuffing them into a small brocade pouch before pushing it to me across the dining table.

 

Photo by Calwaen Liew on Unsplash

58 King Street

 

When my mother Ah Thiew talks about Penang, she constantly refers to 58 King Street, her childhood home. This is the story of why her family moved there, and my re-creation of the shophouse as seen through my grandmother’s eyes.

 

George Town, Penang, 1940s

Ah Thiew was nearly three years old before her family moved down the road on King Street to Number 58. By then, the Second World War had ended, and George Town liberated from its Japanese occupiers and returned to its British colonial government.

Yew Choy couldn’t wait to leave their present home, where she had given birth to Ah Thiew. She had been reluctant to live there ever since their section of King Street had been hit by a bomb during the Japanese occupation. Thankfully, it had missed their home but many others living on their street had been killed, and it had left behind a huge crater where several shophouses used to stand.

A shudder would run through Yew Choy every time she walked past the site on her way to the wet market, and she would keep her face averted as she tried not to think of the many bodies that had been unceremoniously dumped into the gaping hole before it was filled up. Deprived of a proper send-off, these restless souls continued to roam the area, Yew Choy believed. She was convinced she heard them every time the house creaked; she saw them whenever she caught a glimpse of a shadow from the corner of her eye.

Number 58 was located close to a busy intersection between King Street and China Street, among a row of  Straits Settlement shophouses linked in front by a covered kaki-lima or five-foot way that offered shelter from the tropical heat and rain.  A structure unique to colonial Southeast Asian towns, the shophouse was built to be used as a home as well as business premises. It was perfect for them; Ah Thiew’s father Thoong Foo would have his goldsmith’s workshop on the ground floor while the family lived upstairs. Also, Number 58 was just two doors away from the clan association building where Thoong Foo spent a lot of time as a committee member.

Yew Choy stood on the ornately-tiled kaki lima in front of her new home, craning her neck to look up at two gold Chinese characters, shiny on a dark wooden plaque that’s hung above the double timber doors. ‘Foo Heng’ it read; the name of her husband’s workshop. Walking through shophouse’s entrance, she carefully stepped over the mun cham – a raised wooden threshold – that was bolted to the floor to ensure that the family’s good fortune wouldn’t flow out of their home. She stood for a while in the coolness of the dark workshop, enjoying a reprieve from the blazing heat outside. As her eyes adjusted to the room’s dimness she could make out the rows of tables where Thoong Foo and his staff would work, tooling pieces of gold jewellery under bright lamps.

The shophouse was long and narrow, and as Yew Choy walked further on she came to the  air well, an open-air courtyard placed in the centre of the building to provide light and ventilation. She looked around her, already envisioning the tables she would set up in the bright and airy space for the workshop’s staff to have their lunch. A short flight of stairs on her left would take her upstairs to the rooms that would be her family’s living quarters, and if she walked further towards the back of the shophouse, she would find the spacious kitchen with its firewood stove.

Yew Choy glanced up at the wooden shutters that overlook the courtyard, squinting against the sunshine as she imagined laundry hanging out of the windows, the sound of her children’s feet on the wooden floorboards above.

This would do just fine for the family, she thought, especially now that it had grown to include Ah Moy, a younger sister for Ah Thiew and her two brothers.

 

Photo caption: Tiled five-foot way linking a row of restored shophouses in George Town. Photo by Yin F Lim

 

In the Beginning…

 My mother Ah Thiew was born in George Town, Penang during the Japanese occupation of Malaya. This is a creative reconstruction of the night of her birth, based on the stories she was told by her own mother Yew Choy.

Church Street was eerily silent, a stark contrast to the hustle bustle of barely a few hours ago. Under the dim glow of the street lamp, Thoong Foo glanced worriedly at his neighbour walking next to him as they made their way back to King Street. Catching his frown, she tried to quicken her pace but she knew she had to match the quietness of their surroundings. It wouldn’t do to get caught breaking the night curfew; just last week a man from a few streets away had been shot in the back by patrolling soldiers, no questions asked.

Recalling the incident, Thoong Foo felt a chill run through him despite the stiflingly warm night.  If they were stopped, would the Japanese soldiers give him enough time to explain why he was out so late at night? Would he be able to tell them that his pregnant wife had gone into labour just after dinner and that he needed to fetch the zap maa – midwife –  from the next street?

Thoong Foo had brought his neighbour along with him, in hopes that the soldiers wouldn’t shoot a couple without notice. Safety in numbers, he tried to reassure himself as he looked at the zap maa shuffling on his right. She was struggling to keep up with them, hampered by the large basket on her arm.

The three of them soon arrived back at King Street. Thoong Foo nodded a quick thanks to his neighbour as he ushered the midwife through his front door.  Stepping into his home, he let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, feeling his shoulders relax. They had arrived just in time, as they found Yew Choy standing hunched over a chair, gripping its back and breathing hard, her face pale from advanced labour. The zap maa helped Yew Choy onto her bed before she began unpacking her basket, laying out everything she needed to deliver the baby.

In the late hours of that April evening in 1943, Yew Choy gave birth to their first daughter Ah Thiew.  She would be their third child, joining her older brothers Ah Kau Toi and Ah Swee in the family.

 

Photo by Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

 

Why Family Stories

 

Story is the umbilical cord that connects us to the past, present, and future. Family. Story is a relationship between the teller and the listener, a responsibility. . . . Story is an affirmation of our ties to one another.” Terry Tempest Williams

 

When I was growing up, my mother would often tell my brothers and me stories of her family. Stories of my grandparents – Kong-Kong and Por-Por – and their emigration from Southern China to colonial Malaya. Stories of my mother’s own childhood, growing up in Penang with her three siblings.

Everyone loves a good story. Even more so when it’s about the people we know well. The family stories I grew up with give me an insight to the people I thought I knew. They capture a moment in time and place. They form a part of my history, my heritage.

It is said that young children in particular greatly benefit from family storytelling. Kids who know a lot about their family’s history are said to have higher self-esteem, a stronger sense of control over their lives. Apparently, knowing that they are part of something bigger than themselves gives them a strong ‘intergenerational self’ and helps them handle challenges better.  They are said to have more robust identities, better coping skills and lower rates of depression and anxiety.

For me, growing up with such stories has led to a quest to learn more about my family history, to help me understand where I come from, to help shape my sense of who I am.

Crucially, it has also motivated me to record and preserve this oral heritage for future generations, which feels particularly important for an immigrant family such as mine. Many of us – not just myself but also siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins – have moved to different parts of the world, away from Malaysia, our birthplace, and from China, my grandparents’ country of birth.

Hence this blogsite, which I’ve set up as a repository of our family stories.  But I use this term broadly, as not everything posted on this site will necessarily be narrative-driven. They could also be snapshots of memories, reminiscences of people and places, reflections of love and loss.

They are all stories personal to me and my family, yet hopefully universal enough to be appreciated by many. In sharing them, I hope to inspire others to seek out and preserve their own family stories.

Sharing family stories can benefit both the storyteller and the recipient; the parent and the child. I’ve spent hours talking with my mother, mining her memories for our family history. It’s not just been an opportunity for me to know her better; it’s also given my mother a voice, a chance to reminisce and talk about her life. Those conversations are truly treasured moments.

In my family, we call our maternal grandmothers Por-Por. I’ve used this familial title in naming this blogsite, to honour my mother whom my son calls Por-Por, and to remember my own Por-Por, who used to tell my mother many of the stories on this site.

Photo credit: Joey You on Unsplash