FUNNYACCENT

You Can't Shut and Open Mind

How Dare You To Dream

When I was nine years old I wrote an essay about Mat Jenin. It was in the classroom assignment. Our beloved Cik Gu Julia was in hospital. She had a minor surgery and wouldn't return to the classroom until next week. The principal, assistant principal and a couple of more teachers from other classes reluctantly dragged themselves to our class to fill in the empty slots. The principal told us to write an essay about the story we heard from old folks. We had two periods to complete the assignment.

I loved Mat Jenin story except when he died at the end of the story. I had always thought the person who created Mat Jenin story was a mean person who had no backbone to do anything in his life even to dream. He created a character and named him Mat Jenin who dared to dream for a better life. At the end of the story he killed the character because in his mess-up mind, Mat Jenin dared to look outside a coconut shell.

Mat Jenin was a village young man who earned a living as coconut picker*.  Every day Mat Jenin climbed up the coconut trees,  selected the matured coconuts and dropped them on the ground. Later he rounded all the coconuts, counted them, and they paid him for the work he did for them with money or coconuts. Mat Jenin sold the coconuts and saved the money.

Mat Jenin was a hard working young man but he was also a dreamer. Sometimes his day-dreams slowed down his daily task. He would be up in the tree dreaming about selling his coconuts and put the money away. When he had enough money he would buy himself  a few acres of coconut estate. Mat Jenin worked harder and climbed more trees. He bought more properties. Now that he owned most of the coconut estates he could hire somebody else to do the job. Every morning he walked around his estates, feeling grateful and appreciating the fortune of his hard work. He stood in the middle of his estate, looking up into the sky and opened up both his arms. When he opened up his arms, he let go the coconut trunk he had been holding onto, he lost his balance and fell on the ground with a big thump.

In my essay, I changed the ending. Instead of letting go of his arms, when he looked up into the sky, a ray of sunlight got into his eyes which brought him back to his task. He finished his work, got paid. He saved the money and finally he actualized his dream.

On Friday, before the end of the class, the principal returned our assignments. When I opened my exercise book, my heart did a somersault, it was like the rock dropped into the water and sank in no time into the bottom of the river. On the top the pages, he scribbled in red ink: Rewrite the ending of your story. It didn't end this way - D.

How dare he is, how dare the stupid principal to critisize my essay. Abah loves my Mat Jenin story. He says I 'm brilliant. That stupid frog-eyes principal is so stupid, so stupid he doesn't know he is so stupid because he is so stupid......

All the way home I was cussing him with all the words I dared not to use in the house. I was hardly inside the house when I started berating the headmaster to Mak. I showed her the comment he wrote in my essay book.

"He doesn't travel much, that's why he never met your Mat Jenin." Mak comforted me.

It was long time ago, but we often forget the stories the grown ups tell the children stay in their minds all their lives. We don't realize the amount of impact  or damages these simple stories can make. I wonder how many children have given up their dreams when the grown ups constantly tell them, "Dont' be like Mat Jenin". Words are heavy to certain people, or light as a feather to others.

Some of us take a critism as a challenge, others will be offended. 

Some of us take another point of view to reflect our words and actions and learn from the past mistakes. The Egoists will be insulted and find ways to throw back the punch, (even it wasn't a punch).

We digest our experiences in different ways.

*LivefromHawaii

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Check this out. Dr. Anuar FArish's interview.

Sniffing the Footsteps

Recently I ran into a Malaysian couple at Harvard Co-Op bookstore in Harvard Square. I was standing in front of Authobiography section. I had a memoir by young Korean-American woman who returned to Korea to learn about the mystery of her mother's death right after she was born. Her mother had an affair with a GI stationed in Korea, and she was the love child of the fated realtionship. When her mother's father found out he was furious. Her grandfather and her uncle forced her mother to commit suicide by hanging herself. I was flipping the pages debating with myself, should I? Should I not? I have a habit of buying a new book if the synopsis hits me like a thunderbolt.

I looked up at the second level trying to catch B's attention. He sat at one of those tiny set of seating sipping hot cocoa and reading a newspaper. He looked uncomfortable with his long legs sticking out from under the tiny table. I held the book high above my head and waved it in the air trying to catch his eyes when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and came face to face a Malay lady. She had fine complexion with a thin layer of foundation blended her light skin tone. Her high cheekbones were carefully dusted with blusher that shared the same color of her glossed lips.

"You ni dari Malaysia ke?"

"Ya, saya," I nodded my head and eagerly extended both of my hands, both palm almost touch each other toward her. She put down a shopping bag near her feet and held out both of her hands too. Our hands barely touched when she pulled back her hands and picked up the bag. Startled by her reaction I looked down at my hands to see if my hands smeared with dirt or something. Nothing. But the sparkles from her bling-bling on her fingers from both of her hands and her writsts almost blinded me.

"Macam mana Cik tau saya orang Malaysia?" -How do you know I'm Malaysian?

"I saw you covered your mouth when you're yawning, and you mouthed Astaghafirullah.. , by the way I'm Datin BlaBla, and that's my husband, Datok BlaBla." She pointed her thumb toward an elderly Malay gentleman at the bargain table.

"So, where is your husband?"

"Sorry?" Here we go again

"Where is your husband?" Her black kohl eyes darted back and forth as a lizard eyes.

I was going to flag down B to ask him to come down here, but the minute she blurted the question I changed my mind. Damn it Ana, haven't you learned anything from the past?

"Oohh.....cik kenal suami saya?" you know my husband?

The thrill of meeting another Malay melted down like the snow outside on the sidewalk. Expectation can be dissappointment if we put it out for a wrong person.

"Uhhh?" Her forehead formed a few lines, the blood slowly crept up to her fair complexion.

"I bukan nak busy body...." By this time her face was turning into a pickle beet. We were standing face to face and yet she was avoiding my eyes. I

I stood there tranfixed and amazed at this woman's audacity to ask such a personal question, and yet I wasn't surprised at all. We were standing in a faraway place from home, instead of asking my name, or which part of Malaysia I come from, or how was I doing, or it's good to see another Malay face in this crowd, all she was interested in was a man she never met.

Dear heaven..they are like a hounding dogs, sniffing around, follow the trails, wagging their tails, tongues sticking out.........ready to attack and pound you and shred you to pieces if you allow them to. And they even cross the ocean.............

When you were single, they suffocated you with:

"So when are you getting married?" : "So when are you getting divorced?"- was my answer to women who were below 50.                                                           From nosy aunts: "When is your turn?" I waited until I saw them again at funeral: "When is your turn?" . They got offended and complained to my mother. And Mak would tell them: "Stay away from fire if you don't want to get burnt." Mak, you were the greatest.

"Don't be too choosy." "When you're hungry do you choose what you put in your mouth, or you just shovel anything in front of you, even the food is rotten?"

"What are you waiting for?" "Waiting for your husband to dump you."

"You need a husband to take care of you." "You need a life, (bitch-in my head)"

"It doesn't matter how high your education is, if you're not married your life is not complete." "So you walked around without your brain before you got married?"

And when you're married, they drown you with:

"When are you going to have a baby?" "When you're ready to be a nanny for free."

"What are you waiting for?" "Waiting for what?"

"Who is going to take care of you when you're old?" "Who is taking care of your parents now?"

I wasn't raised to be rude of disrespectful, but I was angry and hurt and humilated. I wanted them to feel the sting as their poisonous words stung me. Little I knew nobody could hurt me unless I let them to. But that was long time ago.........

It seemed eternity as we stood facing each other. Finally she broke the silence.

"Nevermindlah.....we are going back to the hotel." She turned around and marched toward Datuk Blabla.

Go away dog, go and look for some bones...............

A Lesson Away From Home

Sometimes it takes a long way from home for a person to learn a lesson. That's what happened to me. I've learned how it is felt to be a minority when I moved to this city more than a decade ago. As a Malay, I was born, grew up in Malaysia, I never saw anybody as minority or majority. People are referred to their ethnicity: Malay, Chinese, Indian and Native people.

When I was seven years old, I was at my grandmother's house when I witnessed something that embedded in my brain for a long time.
Grandmother's house was built on two acre lands. Behind her big typical Malay house she had almost a hundred coconut trees. My mother said, those coconut trees were planted when she was a young girl. Every three months, a matured coconuts were plucked down. Grandmother sold the coconuts directly to a small coconut oil manufacturer.
One Sunday morning, I saw an Indian man talking to my grandmother at the bottom of the kitchen stairs. He stood with his back straight. He had no shirt on, his dark skin was as dark as velvet night glistening under the morning sun. He was skinny as stick but he had a pair of legs I never saw a grown man posessed before. Many years later I understood why he had a well shaped legs with muscles at the right places. It was from years of climbing of thousands of coconut trees.

I went back to the kicthen to ask my mother who the Indian man was. "Oh......that Muthu, he's been climbing your grandmother's coconut trees for many years."
I was on the ground before my mother finished her sentence. I never saw a man climbing coconut trees before. This is going to be fun, I thought. When we lived in Kelantan, they used monkeys to pluck off the coconuts from the trees.
My mother called out from the kitchen door asking me not to stand too close to the trees. When Muthu saw me, he nodded his head, "Kichi..,"(little one) . His teeth sparkled.
My curious eyes watched every move he made. He moved to a nearest tree, picked a worn out rope as big as my arms. Both ends were tied together. He dropped the rope on his right foot. He flicked the foot and the rope nestled on his ankle. He slid his left foot in it. With an ease he jumped off the ground, and both of his feet planted on tree. The roped held his feet together. His hands clasped the tree trunk. Before I blink, he was already half way, teen feet above the ground. He looked down at me and said, "Little one, go away from the tree, please." I moved two phases. He shook his head. "A little father, little one." He pointed to the mangosteen tree. At the same time I heard grandmother sharp voice telling me stay away from the coconut trees.
Within two hours, Muthu already cleared half of the coconut trees. Everytime he got to the ground, I ran over to him. "Do you climb the trees everyday?" "How many trees you climb?" "Do you have a daughter like me?".
"Not everyday, some weeks I climb more trees than other weeks."
"Maybe thousands, I don't know."
"Yes, I have a daughter, she likes to ask questions like you too." When he told me his daughter, his eyes gleamed.

Then I heard my mother called out my name. I ran back to the kitchen stairs. My mother was standing at door. She had a tray in her hand. A pitcher of of ice water and a glass. My mother came down the stairs and handed the tray to me. "Give this to Muthu and ask him if he cares for roti chanai later."
I walked back to Muthu. His sweat dripped from his body as he'd just came out from a bath. He was drying his back when I got back to him. He dropped the cloth and took the tray from my hand.
He poured the ice water into the class.
"Little one drink ice water?" he asked.
"I don't like ice."
"You don't?"
"Uhh...,uhh.." I shook my head.

Muthu brought the glass near his mouth, at the same time he looked up as he was looking at the sky. Without touching his lips to the glass, he poured the ice water into his mouth. His adam apple moved up and down while the ice water flowed without a spill.
I watched with my mouth opened.
He emptied the glass and put it down in the tray. "Hmm...the water is sweet, little one."
Finally I found my voice. "Why did you drink like that?"
"Drink like what?" His eyes twinkled. He knew what I was talking about.
"Why you didn't touch the glass. The glass is clean."
"Little one, I'm pariah, you ask grandmother, she will tell you."
"What is pariah?"
"Your grandmother will tell you." He nodded his head and moved to another tree. "Go back to your tree little one."

I ran back to the house and dashed up the stairs, breaking one of many grandmother 'don't' she set for us. Never run up or down the stairs. My mother sat on the floor mat, slicing the eggplants.
"Mak, what is pariah?"
My mother put down the knife and looked at me. The combination of horror and worried crossed her face.
"Where did you hear that word?"
"Muthu told me he is pariah." I told mother what Muthu did when he drank the ice water.

That morning I learned about the caste in Indian culture for the first time. My mother told me, grandmother had repeatedly asked Muthu not to do it. "Malay don't practice caste." Grandmother told him. "I don't care what they do out there, but when you are here, you are like us." My mother repeated what grandmohter said to Muthu.

"So, why he still drink ice water like that?" I wondered.
"He's used to it. It's not easy to break what we use to do everyday." My mother picked up the knife and continued to slice the eggplant into a bowl of water. The water rippled when the eggplant fell into it.
Before I got up, my said something I remember until this day.
"We come from the same source. When we die we will become the earthcreatures meal."
I didn't really understand then, but over the years, my mother's words have rooted in my brain.

Vampires and Draculas

When you are away from home, I mean far, far away, there are many things you miss or you don't miss it at all. "When are you getting married?" was the most popular question I got back home.
A question was thrown in my face in different tone and situation. They usually chose a delicate moment say, at the wedding, when everybody could hear their question within 20 miles radius. They never asked a question when I was alone. No, never. The louder the question the better.

These women, they make it as their personal quest to hunt down every single andartu-oldmaids on every wedding day. They look, they search, they seek all the andartu-oldmaids in a crowd, they approach with both hands extending out to greet the victims, and wham...........came the question.

*"How come you're still not married?"
*"What are you waiting for?"
*"Don't be too choosy."
*"So, when are we going to eat nasi minyak?" (A special rice/dishes serves on a Malay wedding day).

State of Mind

A couple of days ago I received another e-mail from my sister KN. Besides updating me with my niece's school acitivity, her three newborn kitten and her little garden, she told me about our neighbor Mr. I. Mr. I and his family live two houses away from my mother's house. I know Mr. I as a quiet man. He didn't talk to anybody unless it was a matter of life and death. When he came home from work, we wouldn't see him again until the next morning when he left his house on his Raleigh bicycle at 6:30 a.m to go to work. That was the only time I saw him in a dim light. His face uliminating by the front porch light of our house.

When my parents bought a piece of land thirty seven years ago and built a house on it, Mr. I and JM's house was one of a dozen or so houses on our Street #15. Unlike Mr. I, his wife is an opposite character from her husband. People say, they are like night and day, or like earth and sky.

I wasn't surprised reading three lines about Mr. I my sister wrote me. He tried to commit suicide by slashing his throat in his bathroom. There are many things have been going on back home that leave me unfazed and undazed anymore. News about little girls being raped and killled, news about an illegal immigrant Indonesian maid was gang raped by four local cops, news about a 65 years old grandfather repeatedly raped his nine years old granddaughter, news about a fourteen years old boy raped his 16 years old sister. Rape, incest and commited suicide are news I hardly read or heard of twenty or thirty years ago.

I couldn't say those things didn't exist twenty or thrity years ago, but to read about this horrible things as I read a daily weather forecast make me wonder: What happen to Malay people now?

Is it the way they show a resistence to Islamic law enforcer? When I was a young girl, nobody (Malay men and Malay women) batted an eye to uncovered head Malay women. As long as she dressed modestly, nobody would give her a sarcastic remark. Nobody would've had asked her in arrogant tone, "Islam ka?" (Are you Muslim?).

Head covered has become a number one issue as there is no other important issues to be addressed.

More.................