Tea Leaf Journals

In which I’ll make you Google “Malaysia”

My parents are children of immigrants from China to the then-Malaya, a turn-of-the-century magical destination of opportunity.

First-generation Malaysians, they are also the precious bearers of tales featuring howling, heartbroken mothers forgotten in forsaken lands, their sons and husbands braving treacherous, month-long sea journeys for gold-paved streets and people so rich they throw away their crockery after each meal (a famous South Indian fable describing banana leaves used as plates - a tradition very much alive today).

My father, the youngest son of one such man, was born in Malaya, so he knew no such perils. My mother, also born in Malaya in the early 40s, too was spared the ordeal. But they may as well have been the ones sleeping next to filthy strangers in pitch-black basements, ten to a cabin, eating fermented rice crawling with maggots and salted fish, because my parents, they have carried my grandparents’ tales well – tales of real suffering, as opposed to the “Oh man! Gas is $4.50 a gallon?!” whines we, the spoilt and lazy children of an ungrateful generation prone to complaining and not much else, like to indulge in.

“Take the bus. Or walk,” my dad would undoubtedly retort if that complaint ever escaped my mouth.

“With two kids?!” I would’ve asked, as though he was the mad one.

“What? They can’t walk?” would’ve been the gruff end to that conversation.

The story of our journey to America is, of course, less colorful, although some might argue (some being me) that my 30-hour journey with one layover, one transit and two young children, can trump my grandmother’s three-week “cruise” with my 15-year old aunt (adjusted for, like, modern advancements in transportation). Granted there may be very little entertainment or refreshments or, you know, sanitation, at least she got to take care of business without feeling like the worst mother in the world.

It’s funny to think of myself as a migrant because I’ve read Amy Tan and Lisa See and Jhumpa Lahiri and a few hundred émigré stories with the same “family on the run” beginnings, “fish out of water” middles and rags-to-riches endings, that I can’t help wondering what my own story will be like.

Will I suddenly be speaking in Chinese, wearing cheongsams and arranging my house according to the rules of fengshui, bringing my extant Chinese-ness to the fore for fear of losing it?

Will my daughters, all grown up, be tortured, confused creatures of fusion upbringing who end up taking pre-college, self-discovery trips to Malaysia?

Will one of them end up hating me for not having integrated as readily and as completely as I should’ve after 30 years, loathing my yearning for mahjong partners or my evening Chinese serials and my unwillingness to eat enchiladas without chopsticks with a teapot of Chinese Oolong to wash it all down, my English still embarassingly rife with “lahs” and “lors” that have not managed to fade even when all we speak at home is American, where “herbal” is “erbal” and “rubbish” is not even a real word?

Good grief, it seems romantically possible, doesn’t it?

But I am already halfway not there. I don’t have much of an accent, some Americans tell me with some measure of disbelief.

Actually, I do have an accent – an American accent (how can one have zero accent? Not possible).

I don’t use fengshui because my kids will probably redefine all of it in under two minutes.

I don’t watch much TV either, American or Chinese.

But I definitely would like to play some mahjong soon before I forget all those clever combinations and how much fun it can be (a great Math training exercise, fyi).

When I go home next year for our first visit in what will be three years, I will probably revert to Malaysian English (with sudden lapses to American when I have to make the kids understand that this is the last time mommy is telling you to cut it out!).

I will probably complain about the heat and the lack of sanitation and the state of the roads (you’ve never seen a real traffic jam until you’ve visited Kuala Lumpur – or Bangkok).

But I will probably also reminisce fondly, telling my girls things like, “you were born here” as I drive by our old homes and hospitals, or “this is where Mommy used to play” or “this is what durian tastes like” with a pensive, nostalgic quality to my voice, as I try to sear those aromas and images into my memory to take them home when we return to the Northwest.

With time, the bigness and brightness that is America will undoubtedly cast them to the unreachable recesses of my cluttered mommy mind, only to be summoned occasionally in sudden outbursts of Malaysian gibberish uttered unkindly to my husband on an especially trying day.

Or to regal you with my ramblings here at Seattle Mom Blogs.

Nothing too epic nor heart-wrenching. Nothing involving kitchen gods nor rice padi fields (okay, maybe one padi field). Nothing spicy, nor sweet and sour (unless it’s a recipe).

Just exotic enough so you’ll Google Malaysia.

Read more of Jennifer Tai’s writing at The I’mPerfect Mom. If you have questions, anecdotes, or topics for Tea Leaf Journals, email jenn[at]theimperfectmom[dot]com.

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