One of my nieces, Ramona Jane—she's Bridget's daughter—secretly gave me the nickname Piranha. I did not know that until very recently. All these while she's been addressing me as Uncle Kong (My family members address me as King Kong since I was a small boy, but that's a different story), but behind me, it's Piranha.
I am known amongst my nephews and nieces as the strict uncle. They're very well-versed with my lectures on discipline. I must have been advising them too many times on hardwork and determination. But on the other hand, whenever they do good in school, I am the only one who'd reward them handsomely.
Well, Mona got 8As in her form 3 exams last year. But somehow I have totally forgotten to ask her for her results. So last week, Bridget called me up and told me that Mona has been wondering how come Piranha never asked for her results. I'm very pleased whenever I see any of my nephews or nieces achieve good grades in school. But that 8As means I will have to allocate RM400 for Mona.
I am often disappointed in the younger generation. They generally lack the drive to achieve big things. They pass the exams and that's it. But underneath the very fierce and strict surface, I have a soft spot for children. They are generally so vulnerable. A friend of mine noticed that about me and recently while we were having a yam cha, he asked me why.
And so this gives me another excuse to tell another one of my grandfather stories. I don't normally enjoy telling stories about my childhood days. They are generally lousy stories—the kind which I prefer to erase from my memory. But sometimes they can be a useful source for bedtime stories...
Dad, the playboy, was hardly around when I was a boy. I think I must have been about 6 years old when my parents divorced. Mom went back to Brunei and dad remarried and I hardly ever met him. Bridget and I were parked at our grandmother's house and were treated like slaves. One of these days, I will elaborate on the slavery part of the story. Audrey and Dennis went with my mom. Evelyn was with a grand uncle.
Life was very miserable back then. There were many occasions when I felt like committing suicide. Each night when I went to sleep, I wished that I would not wake up in the morning to face another nightmare. It wasn't amusing wetting my pillow with tears.
One day Bridget couldn't take it any more. She ran away from home to a friend's house. I think she was about 12 years old then. My grandmother and grandfather went searching for her in the middle of the night. They found her and dragged her by her hair all the way home. I watched in horror, and I can still see it all in my mind right now.
I hated my parents; I hated my grandparents; I hated life. There was just no hope; I was doomed for misery.
In school I was never happy. I dreaded the thought that when school's over I had to go home to hell again. And it would be many more hours before I got to be in school again, away from all the ugliness.
Then one day the councelling teacher brought me to her office. Apparently she's been watching my behavior for some time. She installed me into a seat and tried to make me talk about my problems. But I kept quiet; there was just no reason to talk. Nothing could change.
Over the next couple of weeks, she kept summoning me to her office and kept trying to make me talk. Finally I started talking—and once I started talking, I just went on and on. I poured everything out—about missing my parents; my cruel grandparents and aunties; the slavery I had to endure. She remained silent and let me talk. Her face did not betray any emotion; she merely nodded and smiled kindly every now and then. And as I continued talking, I began to become increasingly emotional. I began to cry, but I did not stop talking. She kept listening attentively.
Then I said, "Oh! I regret to have been born into this world; I wish I could just die right now!". And then suddenly she could hold it no more. She burst out crying too. And so, the two of us cried together for a long time after that.
Thinking back of that day, it's kinda funny, really—the two of us crying like fools, as if that could help with my situation.
Many years have since elapsed and I have managed to escape from the hell hole somehow.
I think if you knew what I went through during my childhood days, then you will understand why I have a soft spot for children.
3 comments:
Damn! This is the thing I hate most whenever I recall my childhood days. I was too engrossed with reliving those days that I didn't even realise that I was crying again. I feel like a fool - an old man crying in front of his computer for no apparent reason!
Corn, thank you for sharing this. Sometimes it is easy to forget that other people have had it harder and while I only encountered nastiness and real family problems at a later age (mid 20s), it nevertheless shook me up too. I guess we never stop being our parents kids, no matter how old we are.
In any regard, know that I enjoyed reading this because it's been a while since something has moved me. It is good to know that you were able to shake off the treatment you had to endure as a child and that you were able to continue life as a healthy, intelligent and contributing member of society. Good on you for sharing!
Yes, Shan, life is full of surprises, isn't it? I started from what seemed like a hopeless situation, yet I'm able to achieve happiness today. In a way, I guess you could say that it's similar to the Forrest Gump story. But of course I am not a millionaire - yet; and I have not run across the US several times (I ran across KK city though!). I doubt that I will ever want to run across the US, but I could use those millions!
I've learned a lot of valuable lessons from my past experience, but some ugly scars will remain forever. Sometimes I just wish that I am more forgiving by nature. It's scary when I found myself without any feeling of sadness when my grandmother died years ago. What can I say, nobody's perfect.
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