NO HOME AWAY FROM HOME
SARAH EN YI CHAN
The city that never sleeps. The Big Apple. The Empire City. A small city in a small state and yet it thrums with culture and history and carries with weight of many names. Her grandma always emphasized the name of a thing, the title of a human. For her, names carry meaning and purpose and design. At home, back in the smoggy contradiction of rainforest and suburbia, names are important. Here, names are a trivial thing. She sits in her square apartment, pictures tacked on the walls with cheap blue stuff that fall off anytime the temperature drops below fifty Fahrenheit. Holes in the crumbling wall will cost extra. Below her, a city hums with life, even at three in the morning. Taxis hurry to and fro, hoping to pick up some extra cash at the expense of a businessman’s late flight. Bright lights flash on and off, advertising soda and underwear and concerts. She’s lived here for a year and still gets giddy when she wakes up after midnight and hears people murmuring in the streets, calling their friend to pick them up from outside a night club. It’s America. It’s New York. It’s different.
It’s three in the morning, but you still find roadside stalls, fluorescent light burning brighter than white lighting up a couple of plastic tables and two fans sluggishly spinning against the heavy, humid air. A modest TV is hoisted between two metal beams, braced against the dusty ceiling. An old football game plays perhaps, or if you’re lucky, an even older Cantonese drama. Malay, Indian, it doesn’t matter. Everyone understands when the lead is getting married and everyone sighs and clucks their tongues under their breath when she is inevitably slapped by a controlling mother-in-law. You can still get a good sized bowl of noodles, the fishballs smaller and sparser than in the day, the vegetables cut chunky by tired cooks. It’s sometimes watered down or under-seasoned, but it’s three in the morning, and you’re hungry. You can order a steaming mug of teh tarik, the handle sticky with condensed milk, and it’ll taste just as good as it did at on a lazy Sunday morning. If you have another shift to work, you’ll pass the thickly sweet drink and order a coal black kopi o, the liquid hot and as bitter as the herbal soups your mother brewed for you when you were sweating out a fever in bed. It’s three in the morning and the roads are quietly buzzing with the energy that fuels the city in the day.
It’s three in the morning, but you still find roadside stalls, fluorescent light burning brighter than white lighting up a couple of plastic tables and two fans sluggishly spinning against the heavy, humid air. A modest TV is hoisted between two metal beams, braced against the dusty ceiling. An old football game plays perhaps, or if you’re lucky, an even older Cantonese drama. Malay, Indian, it doesn’t matter. Everyone understands when the lead is getting married and everyone sighs and clucks their tongues under their breath when she is inevitably slapped by a controlling mother-in-law. You can still get a good sized bowl of noodles, the fishballs smaller and sparser than in the day, the vegetables cut chunky by tired cooks. It’s sometimes watered down or under-seasoned, but it’s three in the morning, and you’re hungry. You can order a steaming mug of teh tarik, the handle sticky with condensed milk, and it’ll taste just as good as it did at on a lazy Sunday morning. If you have another shift to work, you’ll pass the thickly sweet drink and order a coal black kopi o, the liquid hot and as bitter as the herbal soups your mother brewed for you when you were sweating out a fever in bed. It’s three in the morning and the roads are quietly buzzing with the energy that fuels the city in the day.
“I can’t believe my parents want me to visit them again,” Abigail shouts over the deafening sound of frantic last minute shopping. “I’m already taking off a week to spend Christmas and New Year’s with them. Do they know I only have two weeks off a year? And I was planning on taking this new internship with JP Morgan.”
She holds up a dyed glass plate for inspection. “No? Well, “ she says, carefully placing it back on the shelf, “they are your parents and they are getting older. You’re lucky you don’t have the kind that want to visit you every weekend.”
“And you’re lucky your mother isn’t a complete witch when it comes to presents. Cici, grab that purse over there, will you? The pink one with the hideous straps.”
On the weekends, the people flee the smoke and heat of the day and flock to the malls. Cars filled with children and parents and grandparents and cousins impatiently drive around and around in the dim basement. If you’re there after nine, good luck finding parking.
If Ma is in a good mood, she’ll laugh and say, “Pray to god we find a parking space, ah?” If she is not, she’ll stare out of the window, glowering at cars packed in next to each other, muttering, “Why we come to the mall so late? You all did not wake up in time, that’s why!”
Inside, everything is white and clean and air-conditioned cold. Everything is glowing. Ba shivers in the dry air and aims for the benches the mall had forethought to place between stores. Women in tight pencil skirts and bright, perfectly drawn lipstick hover outside their shops and nod and smile and offer small samples to the people waling by. The smell of robust Japanese broths lingers in the air. You can’t find a bowl of ramen at the side of the road. Small children stare at the dozen flat TV screens outside the electronic stores and watch the bloody action scenes playing out with wide eyes. Amah makes a distressed sound and tries to pull them away.
“Not good for him, huh? Too young, aiyah!”
Women in brightly colored hijabs, women in saris, tucked and folded carefully this way and that way. Mothers in practical khakis, skimming the clearance racks to save money for the expensive lunch later. Young girls in pink and blue. Older girls already dressed in the latest fashion styles from Korea, wrapping denim skirts around an oversized shirt. Grandmas in some animal print, grandpas reluctantly giving up their sarongs and tight wife-beaters for a pair of pressed slacks and a polo. The malls take generations, cultures, and customs of Malaysia, mashing them all together and finishing them with a substantial dose of Western influence.
She holds up a dyed glass plate for inspection. “No? Well, “ she says, carefully placing it back on the shelf, “they are your parents and they are getting older. You’re lucky you don’t have the kind that want to visit you every weekend.”
“And you’re lucky your mother isn’t a complete witch when it comes to presents. Cici, grab that purse over there, will you? The pink one with the hideous straps.”
On the weekends, the people flee the smoke and heat of the day and flock to the malls. Cars filled with children and parents and grandparents and cousins impatiently drive around and around in the dim basement. If you’re there after nine, good luck finding parking.
If Ma is in a good mood, she’ll laugh and say, “Pray to god we find a parking space, ah?” If she is not, she’ll stare out of the window, glowering at cars packed in next to each other, muttering, “Why we come to the mall so late? You all did not wake up in time, that’s why!”
Inside, everything is white and clean and air-conditioned cold. Everything is glowing. Ba shivers in the dry air and aims for the benches the mall had forethought to place between stores. Women in tight pencil skirts and bright, perfectly drawn lipstick hover outside their shops and nod and smile and offer small samples to the people waling by. The smell of robust Japanese broths lingers in the air. You can’t find a bowl of ramen at the side of the road. Small children stare at the dozen flat TV screens outside the electronic stores and watch the bloody action scenes playing out with wide eyes. Amah makes a distressed sound and tries to pull them away.
“Not good for him, huh? Too young, aiyah!”
Women in brightly colored hijabs, women in saris, tucked and folded carefully this way and that way. Mothers in practical khakis, skimming the clearance racks to save money for the expensive lunch later. Young girls in pink and blue. Older girls already dressed in the latest fashion styles from Korea, wrapping denim skirts around an oversized shirt. Grandmas in some animal print, grandpas reluctantly giving up their sarongs and tight wife-beaters for a pair of pressed slacks and a polo. The malls take generations, cultures, and customs of Malaysia, mashing them all together and finishing them with a substantial dose of Western influence.
“I swear to god, the whole city decided to come out today,” Cici mutters, ramming her fist into the horn and trying not to feel ridiculous when traffic refused to succumb to the obnoxious honk.
“Don’t honk,” her mother admonishes from the back. “You watch and see. One day, some crazy man’s going to shoot you in the head.”
“Choy!” her dad says quickly. Touchwood.
“Aiyah, Ma,” she says, watching the cars inch forward bit by bit, as if pretending the road was clear. “This isn’t Texas, you know. If people got shot every time someone gets in a rush hour traffic jam, there’ll be no one left in the city.”
Parking at malls on the weekend is hard. Parking anywhere on Friday afternoon is impossible. Cars illegally park, park double, park triple, crowding the streets, and sometimes even the pathways. They don’t bother with the standard phone number scribbled on a scrap of paper and stuck haphazardly in the wipers. People know not to venture out in the streets on Friday afternoon.
“Don’t honk,” her mother admonishes from the back. “You watch and see. One day, some crazy man’s going to shoot you in the head.”
“Choy!” her dad says quickly. Touchwood.
“Aiyah, Ma,” she says, watching the cars inch forward bit by bit, as if pretending the road was clear. “This isn’t Texas, you know. If people got shot every time someone gets in a rush hour traffic jam, there’ll be no one left in the city.”
Parking at malls on the weekend is hard. Parking anywhere on Friday afternoon is impossible. Cars illegally park, park double, park triple, crowding the streets, and sometimes even the pathways. They don’t bother with the standard phone number scribbled on a scrap of paper and stuck haphazardly in the wipers. People know not to venture out in the streets on Friday afternoon.
It’s a clear day, the faintest idea of a cloud hovering somewhere in the middle of the baby blue sky. For once, the cramped, dirty city has been washed clean by the flood of human strength and unity. Businesses are forced to close for the day when their employees put down their iPhone and collared shirts and pick up T-shirts and picket signs. The true act of democracy, for the people to be able to voice their opinion in a free, safe way. The morning deepens into a melting afternoon, sun pleasantly burning arms and faces. Laughs ring out between the streets, occasional chanting when someone with a loud voice feels confident. Cici wears her own hand-painted shirt and marches with the crowds of thousands. It is a grand feeling, to be part of something bigger than yourself.
Like any other underdeveloped nation, there is corruption. It whispers in the ear of citizens when they watch their politicians on TV. It rankles the nerves of businessmen and businesswomen when the company is forced to take on people they don’t want. It seeps into the blood and skin and mind of the young adults when discrimination and racism and injustice is stamped as legal by the government. Outwardly, people smile. Businesses and restaurants hang pictures of their leaders in formal garb on their walls. They know it could be worse. Still, they watch quietly. They watch and wait. They wear yellow. They wait.
Like any other underdeveloped nation, there is corruption. It whispers in the ear of citizens when they watch their politicians on TV. It rankles the nerves of businessmen and businesswomen when the company is forced to take on people they don’t want. It seeps into the blood and skin and mind of the young adults when discrimination and racism and injustice is stamped as legal by the government. Outwardly, people smile. Businesses and restaurants hang pictures of their leaders in formal garb on their walls. They know it could be worse. Still, they watch quietly. They watch and wait. They wear yellow. They wait.
“Imported” is stamped on the tags, boxes, bags. Imported from Thailand and the Philippines and Macau. Fruit picked green and early, frozen and force-ripened on the two week ship over.
“They don’t have good papaya,” Cici complains when she phones home and her grandma talks loudly about the problems with imported fruit.
In the harsh superstore light, the brightly colored imported fruit looks small and washed out. She picks over the dry husks of a cluster of longan, sets it aside in favor of a bulging bag of ripe grapes. She misses home.
The kids look forward to the day that Uncle arrives, his trunk stuffed with triple-bagged fruit and durian in dusty boxes. After dinner, they sit outside, mosquito lamps placed strategically around them, Amah with the mosquito racquet in hand. They unload mango and papaya and starfruit and rambutan and mangosteen and persimmons and jambu air and guava with little assam packets. Ye Ye takes his huge meat chopper and bugs his eyes out so that the smaller children laugh and splits the spiny fruit in half. Many hands grasp for the biggest pieces of creamy fruit, although some cringe and turn away. Mama complains about the smell, but eats more than anyone else. The air is hot and wet, but no one cares. Sticky sweet lies on everyone’s tongue, fingers dripping with sugary syrup. Amah and Ye Ye peel fruit and fruit and feed their grandchildren. Piles of bitter papery peel crowd the corners of the table. The moon hangs like a ripe, unpeeled lychee in the sky. Mosquito swerve in and skitter away from swatting hands. It’s summer.
“They don’t have good papaya,” Cici complains when she phones home and her grandma talks loudly about the problems with imported fruit.
In the harsh superstore light, the brightly colored imported fruit looks small and washed out. She picks over the dry husks of a cluster of longan, sets it aside in favor of a bulging bag of ripe grapes. She misses home.
The kids look forward to the day that Uncle arrives, his trunk stuffed with triple-bagged fruit and durian in dusty boxes. After dinner, they sit outside, mosquito lamps placed strategically around them, Amah with the mosquito racquet in hand. They unload mango and papaya and starfruit and rambutan and mangosteen and persimmons and jambu air and guava with little assam packets. Ye Ye takes his huge meat chopper and bugs his eyes out so that the smaller children laugh and splits the spiny fruit in half. Many hands grasp for the biggest pieces of creamy fruit, although some cringe and turn away. Mama complains about the smell, but eats more than anyone else. The air is hot and wet, but no one cares. Sticky sweet lies on everyone’s tongue, fingers dripping with sugary syrup. Amah and Ye Ye peel fruit and fruit and feed their grandchildren. Piles of bitter papery peel crowd the corners of the table. The moon hangs like a ripe, unpeeled lychee in the sky. Mosquito swerve in and skitter away from swatting hands. It’s summer.
Sarah En Yi Chan was born in Malaysia, swiftly transplanted to Japan, groomed in England, and finally, pruned in America. She can be found identifying the deeper social and artistic aspects of the Korean music culture (listening to kpop) when not reading or writing. She drinks too much tea.