“What’s BTO?”
“Built-to-order. Buying it from plan. It’s subsidised by the government so it’s affordable. The government had not encouraged young people to live on their own before. But I guess they’re finally keeping up with the times. Like Andie said, if they want women to have babies, they will have to let us do it our way. It’s hard to think of romance and making babies when you’re still living with your parents! No adult in the West would dream of living with their parents the way ours do here.”
“There’s nothing wrong with living with one’s parents. Your grandpa and I did,” says Pansy. “But I get your point. Oh, by the way, I’ve just received a Pioneer Generation Package. It’s beautifully designed. It’s heartening to know that the government appreciates its old people.”
“Frankly the whole thing smacks of vote-securing to me.”
“Now, Goldie, don’t get cynical.”
“It’s not easy in this social and political climate, grandma. Anyhow, back to cooking. As I said, once I get my own flat, I can do all the things I want to do, like prepare my own meals, more hands-on you know.”
“Yes,” says Pansy. “Cooking for someone is a way of saying I love you. Asians are not as vocal or demonstrative about expressing their love as Westerners. So we show our love through cooking. My mother used to make foods I enjoyed eating. It is especially poignant when you’re ill and mother is there to care for and minister to you with special foods—moey, herbal soup, ginger pork, sesame chicken—that kind of thing. I still hark back to a simple bowl of Teochew porridge when I’m feeling unwell, perhaps with a bit of salted fish or egg in it. Even in England, your grandpa George used to cook a smashing bowl of moey! He would go up to Chinatown in London just to get me the salted fish or salted egg. That’s like seventy miles away! Probably like from here to Ayer Hitam. Did you know that my village, Kampong Tepi Laut, was famous for the Teochew salted fish that your Cho Cho also made?
“Anyway, today, we’ll start with an English apple pie. Then, when you are ready, I can teach you some Peranakan dishes. Our culture is also in the eating and cooking of our traditional foods. When our culture is gone, what will be left?”
“Okay, grandma, I’ll pick you up at 10am.”
Her grandmother’s words make Goldie think. What is culture all about? Is culture about one’s colour or features, or how one would address one’s parents or grandparents? She has never been concerned before. She is part Peranakan, but how does her life project this inheritance? Is Peranakan culture just about dressing up in a sarong kebaya? Or talking in a Peranakan patois? Or cooking and eating ayam buah keluak and knowing how to make nasi ulam and arranging the bunga rampay? Or is it about knowing how to embroider, or the ability to thread glass beads to sew onto kasut manek? Does culture contribute to who she is? Does it matter?
After all, this is an era of globalisation where it seems that nearly every young adult moans about their parents, rebels against them and authority, listens to the same songs, watches the same films, updates their Facebook account every few minutes with friends around the world, or tweets, blogs and Skypes on the phone. The realisation hits Goldie.
My god! We’ve become a uniform sub-species of one tribe!
Suddenly, the thought of her belonging to this featureless global youth, existing on a diet of part Western values, raised on Western pop and knowing no Asian culture deeply, engaging in impersonal communication through emails, blogs and social media accounts, seems colourless, when her own inherited culture is so rich and vibrant. She sits in front of her dressing table mirror and examines herself. What does she look like for goodness’ sake? She is nothing but an imitation of some Western idea of a hip youngster. Is she having an identity crisis? Or has she purposely created a persona to defy her mother? But who loses out in the end? It’s time she uncovers who she really is. Goldie ruffles her hair to take the spikiness out of it. Then, slowly, she takes out each of the numerous earrings from her ear lobes. Something in Goldie is beginning to bloom.
“You look lovelier each time I see you,” her grandmother says when Goldie picks her up for their day outing in the taxi. “Something about you has changed.”
“Oh, I’m not gelling my hair anymore and have taken out all the ear studs,” Goldie beams, her smile brightening up her face.
“That’s good. A pity to camouflage all that beauty,” Pansy says. “Before we go to the supermarket, let’s go to Katong and measure you out for a sarong kebaya. It’s my treat. By the time you get back from China, the outfit should be ready. We don’t have to disclose this to anyone if you don’t want to. You can still wear your Western clothes every day but at least you have something special for an occasion. I also want to show you where the original Tanjong Katong was when it stretched into the sea.”
Goldie is vaguely aware that Katong is a district by the East Coast Road, around Joo Chiat Road, which is considered a Peranakan enclave, though she knows it better as a hip place with lots of bars and cafes. As the taxi makes its way there, her grandmother gives her the history. They are dropped off on the corner of Mountbatten Road and Tanjong Katong Road where there is a heritage sign that reads ‘Di Tanjong Katong’—a board, decorated in a Peranakan design, to commemorate where the seaside had been.
“‘Tanjong’ means a promontory or headland that juts out to sea,” Pansy explains. “This was where the sea used to
