My last post was on Monday, February 8, 2010. Almost a decade ago.
If you read my last post, you'll know why it was my last post -
I got into a bit of trouble with that post. And though I was stubborn enough to refuse to delete that post, I did stop blogging.
8 years later, I'm back.
After more than 60 years, Malaysia has a new government. After more than 9 years, we have a new Prime Minister. After more than 8 years, I feel I can blog again. I think it's safe.
It'd better be.
Friday, May 11, 2018
Monday, February 08, 2010
Why I'm Not a Fan of 1Malaysia
For those of you who know me or follow me on Twitter, you might notice that I spare no sympathy for the 1Malaysia cause. At the slightest provocation, I am ever-willing to share my views on why I think the 1Malaysia concept is a ridiculous one.
It's about time I put my views here on my blog.
Now please, bear in mind that I'm speaking on behalf of me here. Not the me who 'works in the industry governed by Rais Yatim'. Just me. I don't expect anyone to agree with me or applaud me for my thoughts. And I'm not getting all geared up to indulge in a debate with those of you who are great fans of the 1Malaysia concept. I'm just penning down my views for my own personal records and as a form of venting.
There.
Disclaimer done.
I understand the need of each Prime Minister to leave his mark on the nation. To carve out a place in history that signifies his leadership. Something to remember him by once he's gone.
We had Tun Mahathir's 'Wawasan 2020' and Tun Abdullah Badawi's 'Islam Hadhari'. Even Obama cheerily came up with his 'Yes, we can!' phrase (Though I think Bob the Builder beat him to it).
So now we have Najib Tun Razak and his '1Malaysia' thingamajig.
1Malaysia is a concept that attempts to 'formalize' the exisiting nature of Malaysians. A society comprised of multi-racial, multi-ethnic, multi-cultural people, co-existing in harmony.
In other words, it is just putting a name on something that already exists.
If that was the end of it, I'd have no problems with it. But it's not. It's just the beginning.
I'm sure I can't be the only one to notice that it is only AFTER the 1Malaysia campaign, that we see increasing incidences reflecting racial tension, cultural confusion and general dissatisfaction.
The sudden usage of animal heads being thrown at places of worship.
The sudden mantras of 'Us Againsts Them'.
The sudden awareness of the color of our skin.
This is what you get when you highlight our differences.
I'm sorry, but that is essentially what 1Malaysia does. It highlights our differences.
You create slogans, pin the number '1' on your lapel, pose for pictures waving your forefinger like a weird salute, compose songs that revere our unity in the face of diversity.
Although your intention may be noble and your execution may be harmless (though very lame), the impact is clear.
You are inadvertently highlighting our differences.
You talk about how we're all in this together. We eat the same food, sing the same songs, fight the same enemies, share the same holidays, enjoy the same rights... Oh wait. That last bit isn't actually true, is it?
Some of us have 'special rights' and 'special privileges', don't we? There isn't REALLY a level playing ground, is there? We're not REALLY in this together, are we?
Some of us are being sidelined. You can call it whatever you want, justify it any way you want but at the end of the day, the fact remains that some of us are being sidelined. We don't get the same rights or the same privileges.
And so, listening to you happily singing about how 'we're all in this together' is rather patronizing to us.
You sing about equality but the truth remains that there is no equal playing ground.
The hypocrisy of this just begs a reaction.
And to me, that is what 1Malaysia has done to our country.
It has become a joke.
'Nasi Lemak 1Malaysia?'
'Batik 1Malaysia?'
The latter, by the way, in my honest opinion, has lost the 'batik' identity. If you take this shirt to the Western nations, I doubt they can recognize it as 'batik'. It's just a gaudy ol' brightly colored abstract shirt.
Seriously, it's a joke.
The Government sends out directives to companies and agencies to 'support the 1Malaysia campaign'.
Thus you see a flood of Public Service Announcements and commercial advertisements showcasing at least three (3) characters; the Malay, the Chinese and the Indian.
Thus, when you call some banks or shops, when you're put on hold, you no longer hear about their promotions, but you hear repeated strains of Roy singing "Satu Malaysia, Jadi Pegangan, Rukun Negara, Teras Panduan!"; the official 1Malaysia song.
Thus, you find corporations launching products and services with the number '1' prefixed before them. And you see the same number '1' on billboards, posters, magazines, newspapers, in many many versions and many many corporate colors.
What the Gomen tells you to do, you do.
So what if everyone is laughing at you.
And then to add insult to injury, my favourite Minister comes out with a statement saying that the Ministry's KPI on 1Malaysia has been achieved becaus 62% of Malaysians 'understand' the 1Malaysia Concept'.
So what?
How is an understanding of a concept of any real value?
People 'understand' the concept of murder and how it's illegal but people still kill people.
I 'understand' that gossip journalists are just doing their jobs but I still hate 'em.
Understanding a concept is a measurement for a national KPI? Seriously?
I could go on and on and on about this issue. I know I might come across as unpatriotic or disloyal to my country but I swear to you, I love my country.
I am proud to be a Malaysian. I was born, raised and 100% educated here.
My friends come from all races and I've never felt there was anything odd about our 'multi-racial' friendship. I never even noticed it. The actual concept of 1Malaysia has always been ingrained in all of us.
We don't need to have a competition to win a car for 'Nasi Lemak 1Malaysia' to bring us together. We don't need to wear the number '1' on our shirts to prove our love for our country. We don't need to greet each other with 'Salam 1Malaysia' to solidify our unity.
Enough already. Stop making us the brunt of jokes. And stop giving us fodder to create these jokes.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I've personally had enough.
"I know that my unity with all people cannot be destroyed by national boundaries and government orders" ~ Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy [1828-1910]
It's about time I put my views here on my blog.
Now please, bear in mind that I'm speaking on behalf of me here. Not the me who 'works in the industry governed by Rais Yatim'. Just me. I don't expect anyone to agree with me or applaud me for my thoughts. And I'm not getting all geared up to indulge in a debate with those of you who are great fans of the 1Malaysia concept. I'm just penning down my views for my own personal records and as a form of venting.
There.
Disclaimer done.
I understand the need of each Prime Minister to leave his mark on the nation. To carve out a place in history that signifies his leadership. Something to remember him by once he's gone.
We had Tun Mahathir's 'Wawasan 2020' and Tun Abdullah Badawi's 'Islam Hadhari'. Even Obama cheerily came up with his 'Yes, we can!' phrase (Though I think Bob the Builder beat him to it).
So now we have Najib Tun Razak and his '1Malaysia' thingamajig.
1Malaysia is a concept that attempts to 'formalize' the exisiting nature of Malaysians. A society comprised of multi-racial, multi-ethnic, multi-cultural people, co-existing in harmony.
In other words, it is just putting a name on something that already exists.
If that was the end of it, I'd have no problems with it. But it's not. It's just the beginning.
I'm sure I can't be the only one to notice that it is only AFTER the 1Malaysia campaign, that we see increasing incidences reflecting racial tension, cultural confusion and general dissatisfaction.
The sudden usage of animal heads being thrown at places of worship.
The sudden mantras of 'Us Againsts Them'.
The sudden awareness of the color of our skin.
This is what you get when you highlight our differences.
I'm sorry, but that is essentially what 1Malaysia does. It highlights our differences.
You create slogans, pin the number '1' on your lapel, pose for pictures waving your forefinger like a weird salute, compose songs that revere our unity in the face of diversity.
Although your intention may be noble and your execution may be harmless (though very lame), the impact is clear.
You are inadvertently highlighting our differences.
You talk about how we're all in this together. We eat the same food, sing the same songs, fight the same enemies, share the same holidays, enjoy the same rights... Oh wait. That last bit isn't actually true, is it?
Some of us have 'special rights' and 'special privileges', don't we? There isn't REALLY a level playing ground, is there? We're not REALLY in this together, are we?
Some of us are being sidelined. You can call it whatever you want, justify it any way you want but at the end of the day, the fact remains that some of us are being sidelined. We don't get the same rights or the same privileges.
And so, listening to you happily singing about how 'we're all in this together' is rather patronizing to us.
You sing about equality but the truth remains that there is no equal playing ground.
The hypocrisy of this just begs a reaction.
And to me, that is what 1Malaysia has done to our country.
It has become a joke.
'Nasi Lemak 1Malaysia?'
'Batik 1Malaysia?'
The latter, by the way, in my honest opinion, has lost the 'batik' identity. If you take this shirt to the Western nations, I doubt they can recognize it as 'batik'. It's just a gaudy ol' brightly colored abstract shirt.
Seriously, it's a joke.
The Government sends out directives to companies and agencies to 'support the 1Malaysia campaign'.
Thus you see a flood of Public Service Announcements and commercial advertisements showcasing at least three (3) characters; the Malay, the Chinese and the Indian.
Thus, when you call some banks or shops, when you're put on hold, you no longer hear about their promotions, but you hear repeated strains of Roy singing "Satu Malaysia, Jadi Pegangan, Rukun Negara, Teras Panduan!"; the official 1Malaysia song.
Thus, you find corporations launching products and services with the number '1' prefixed before them. And you see the same number '1' on billboards, posters, magazines, newspapers, in many many versions and many many corporate colors.
What the Gomen tells you to do, you do.
So what if everyone is laughing at you.
And then to add insult to injury, my favourite Minister comes out with a statement saying that the Ministry's KPI on 1Malaysia has been achieved becaus 62% of Malaysians 'understand' the 1Malaysia Concept'.
So what?
How is an understanding of a concept of any real value?
People 'understand' the concept of murder and how it's illegal but people still kill people.
I 'understand' that gossip journalists are just doing their jobs but I still hate 'em.
Understanding a concept is a measurement for a national KPI? Seriously?
I could go on and on and on about this issue. I know I might come across as unpatriotic or disloyal to my country but I swear to you, I love my country.
I am proud to be a Malaysian. I was born, raised and 100% educated here.
My friends come from all races and I've never felt there was anything odd about our 'multi-racial' friendship. I never even noticed it. The actual concept of 1Malaysia has always been ingrained in all of us.
We don't need to have a competition to win a car for 'Nasi Lemak 1Malaysia' to bring us together. We don't need to wear the number '1' on our shirts to prove our love for our country. We don't need to greet each other with 'Salam 1Malaysia' to solidify our unity.
Enough already. Stop making us the brunt of jokes. And stop giving us fodder to create these jokes.
I don't know about the rest of you, but I've personally had enough.
"I know that my unity with all people cannot be destroyed by national boundaries and government orders" ~ Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy [1828-1910]
Monday, February 01, 2010
Pedestrians are Peons
I've been to countries where traffic would literally stop to allow a jay-walker to safely cross the street. Where pedestrians rule the road; at all times in all places. Where cars would ignore the sacred green light, just to allow a pedestrian to waltz across to safety.
Malaysia does not fall under one of these countries.
We don't give way to pedestrians. That would be so against our nature, our culture even. Our road-culture, that is.
If we see these 'pejalan kaki', we would usually ignore them. And honk at them if they even dare to set foot on our roads.
Because in this country, pedestrians are devoid of any right to the road. In this country, it is the taxis, and the rempits and the lorries and the Ferrari-wannabe-Kancils who are the Kings of the Road.
The pedestrians are peons. They have no wheels. For this reason, they should be punished.
They shouldn't be on the streets. How DARE they assume that they can share the road with the rest of us? They have no wheels! They're walking, for crying out loud! Kurang hajar jer nak kongsi jalan dengan kami yang berkereta nih! Korang tak bayar cukai jalan la weihh!
I've seen many instances where pedestrians are left standing in the rain while cars whizz by; none prepared to give up a mere 5 seconds to allow them to cross the road to shelter. Some even make it a point to aim at the puddles, just to get these lowly peons wet.
Yes, it's no surprise to me to see people refusing to give way to pedestrians.
But today, I witnessed something worse.
Not only do they refuse to give way to pedestrians, they refuse to allow OTHERS to give way to pedestrians.
We were driving home from lunch and the weather today was unbearably hot. As we approached the junction, we saw three middle-aged ladies waiting to cross the road. Even being in the car with the air-conditioning turned on full blast, we were still suffering from the heat and humidity. So we felt sorry for these ladies, with the sun beating directly on their tudung-clad heads.
My husband, who was driving, slowed to a stop and made hand gestures, allowing the ladies to cross the road. They hesitated for a bit, which I feel is a natural reaction of pedestrians in this country ("Yer ker dia ni nak kasi kita lalu ni...") But then they gratefully scurried across the road. God forbid they inconvenience us cars any longer than necessary, you know.
Before the last lady reached to safety, we were startled by a loud HONK from the car behind us.
What. The. Fish.
How precious is that 5 little seconds to you, you jack-ass?
Are you suffering from sembelit, or something?
Your wife waiting at home to slap you silly for being 5 seconds late?
You have an urgent need to fart but your boss is in the car?
What? What? WHAT?
It says a lot about Malaysians that we can no longer be 'good samaritans' without being condemned for it.
If we were driving an army tank, I think my dear husband would've calmly reversed and squashed that idiot. I'm sure we'd have at least three tudung-clad cheerleaders egging us on (((evil grin)))
Malaysia does not fall under one of these countries.
We don't give way to pedestrians. That would be so against our nature, our culture even. Our road-culture, that is.
If we see these 'pejalan kaki', we would usually ignore them. And honk at them if they even dare to set foot on our roads.
Because in this country, pedestrians are devoid of any right to the road. In this country, it is the taxis, and the rempits and the lorries and the Ferrari-wannabe-Kancils who are the Kings of the Road.
The pedestrians are peons. They have no wheels. For this reason, they should be punished.
They shouldn't be on the streets. How DARE they assume that they can share the road with the rest of us? They have no wheels! They're walking, for crying out loud! Kurang hajar jer nak kongsi jalan dengan kami yang berkereta nih! Korang tak bayar cukai jalan la weihh!
I've seen many instances where pedestrians are left standing in the rain while cars whizz by; none prepared to give up a mere 5 seconds to allow them to cross the road to shelter. Some even make it a point to aim at the puddles, just to get these lowly peons wet.
Yes, it's no surprise to me to see people refusing to give way to pedestrians.
But today, I witnessed something worse.
Not only do they refuse to give way to pedestrians, they refuse to allow OTHERS to give way to pedestrians.
We were driving home from lunch and the weather today was unbearably hot. As we approached the junction, we saw three middle-aged ladies waiting to cross the road. Even being in the car with the air-conditioning turned on full blast, we were still suffering from the heat and humidity. So we felt sorry for these ladies, with the sun beating directly on their tudung-clad heads.
My husband, who was driving, slowed to a stop and made hand gestures, allowing the ladies to cross the road. They hesitated for a bit, which I feel is a natural reaction of pedestrians in this country ("Yer ker dia ni nak kasi kita lalu ni...") But then they gratefully scurried across the road. God forbid they inconvenience us cars any longer than necessary, you know.
Before the last lady reached to safety, we were startled by a loud HONK from the car behind us.
What. The. Fish.
How precious is that 5 little seconds to you, you jack-ass?
Are you suffering from sembelit, or something?
Your wife waiting at home to slap you silly for being 5 seconds late?
You have an urgent need to fart but your boss is in the car?
What? What? WHAT?
It says a lot about Malaysians that we can no longer be 'good samaritans' without being condemned for it.
If we were driving an army tank, I think my dear husband would've calmly reversed and squashed that idiot. I'm sure we'd have at least three tudung-clad cheerleaders egging us on (((evil grin)))
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Domestic Goddess: A New Breed of Snobs
At this day and age, we find a glamour name for every job.
The ol’lorry driver is now a ‘freight logistics facilitator’ and the toilet cleaner is a ’sanitation consultant’ (I don’t usually require much consultation while in there but… nice to know a professional is available for when I do).
Then, there’s the housewife. Oops. Home-maker. What’s that?
Oh, sorry, I mean, 'Domestic Administrator'…
I am not trying to generalize here, or stereotype them even. My beloved mother is a Domestic Administrator and she’s a wonderful woman.
But some women make me wish to bring out my inner-biatch and call a spade, a spade. Their contempt for women with careers are made clear to all who bother to listen. They accuse such women of shirking their “Godly Duty” to take care of the husbands and children.
They tell such women that a career is not something a woman should strive for. They indulge in stereotyping career women as distracted wives who never cook and absent mothers who hire others to do the mothering.
Then they go on to gloat about how noble they are in “shouldering the biggest job on earth”.
Lady, you are a house wife. A wife who stays in the house.
You spend your days being farmers in Farmville and surfing gourmet recipes for you to whip-up in the kitchen. You kick a hissy-fit when your Astro service is disrupted because you’ll miss the next episode of American Idol. You devour celebrity gossip with glee and derive great pleasure from other people’s pain.
How’s that for stereotyping?
Maybe it stems from their own insecurities, I don’t know. But they brag about their homemade organic gourmet meals and their spotless Dettol-scrubbed house and how they treat their husbands like Kings.
Don't get me wrong, I respect all that; admire it even.
But when you gloat and then proceed to compare it with working-women's alleged fast-food eating, sloppy-housekeeping lifestyle; I take offense. Yes, you should be applauded for creating a good home for your family but you certainly don’t deserve a pedestal to perch upon and look down on the worker-bees.
You can call yourself a housewife, a homemaker or a Domestic Goddess. Whatever your heart desires.
I don’t comment about how you spend your time; tinkering about all day, counting the seconds till your Master comes home. I don’t judge you when you huff and puff because you ‘lost presents’ in Farmville (I don’t even know what that means). I honestly don’t care what you do.
But please, do working women a favor and refrain from commenting about how they’re self-centered and selfish for deciding to have a career.
They may not be at home 24-7 but that certainly doesn’t make them lesser wives or lesser mothers.
The ol’lorry driver is now a ‘freight logistics facilitator’ and the toilet cleaner is a ’sanitation consultant’ (I don’t usually require much consultation while in there but… nice to know a professional is available for when I do).
Then, there’s the housewife. Oops. Home-maker. What’s that?
Oh, sorry, I mean, 'Domestic Administrator'…
I am not trying to generalize here, or stereotype them even. My beloved mother is a Domestic Administrator and she’s a wonderful woman.
But some women make me wish to bring out my inner-biatch and call a spade, a spade. Their contempt for women with careers are made clear to all who bother to listen. They accuse such women of shirking their “Godly Duty” to take care of the husbands and children.
They tell such women that a career is not something a woman should strive for. They indulge in stereotyping career women as distracted wives who never cook and absent mothers who hire others to do the mothering.
Then they go on to gloat about how noble they are in “shouldering the biggest job on earth”.
Lady, you are a house wife. A wife who stays in the house.
You spend your days being farmers in Farmville and surfing gourmet recipes for you to whip-up in the kitchen. You kick a hissy-fit when your Astro service is disrupted because you’ll miss the next episode of American Idol. You devour celebrity gossip with glee and derive great pleasure from other people’s pain.
How’s that for stereotyping?
Maybe it stems from their own insecurities, I don’t know. But they brag about their homemade organic gourmet meals and their spotless Dettol-scrubbed house and how they treat their husbands like Kings.
Don't get me wrong, I respect all that; admire it even.
But when you gloat and then proceed to compare it with working-women's alleged fast-food eating, sloppy-housekeeping lifestyle; I take offense. Yes, you should be applauded for creating a good home for your family but you certainly don’t deserve a pedestal to perch upon and look down on the worker-bees.
You can call yourself a housewife, a homemaker or a Domestic Goddess. Whatever your heart desires.
I don’t comment about how you spend your time; tinkering about all day, counting the seconds till your Master comes home. I don’t judge you when you huff and puff because you ‘lost presents’ in Farmville (I don’t even know what that means). I honestly don’t care what you do.
But please, do working women a favor and refrain from commenting about how they’re self-centered and selfish for deciding to have a career.
They may not be at home 24-7 but that certainly doesn’t make them lesser wives or lesser mothers.
There's No Place Like Home...
... and in the blogosphere, this is my home.
After only 2 posts in my 'new home', I have decided to go back to where I belong.
Here. At "Maverix Musings"
Welcome back, me!
After only 2 posts in my 'new home', I have decided to go back to where I belong.
Here. At "Maverix Musings"
Welcome back, me!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Maverix has Moved to a New Home
I still haven't decided what to do with this blog though...
((( Thinking )))
((( Thinking )))
Friday, January 09, 2009
Vent & Rant: Office Pests
I'm usually not very aware of my surroundings.
A tree can fall but if it doesn't fall ON me, I may not notice it.
But I've come to realize that there are some pests in the office that I just can't seem to ignore; even though I try. And therefore, for the sake of my sanity, I am going to vent and rant here. Hopefully, it'll be theraupatic enough to prevent me from committing murder in the office. Astro does not need more bad press...
The Cavewoman
You are not a member of my department. I do not understand why they placed you so near to me. Do they hate me? Is that why?
I have not been introduced to you, I have not had a single conversation with you and yet, I know every single miniscule detail of your personal life.
Why?
Because you use a crass, piercing voice that no civilized human being would ever use... and you make repeated personal calls every single hour and have no qualms about airing your tedious domestic dramas to everyone within your vicinity.
Listen, I do NOT need to know about your daughter and how she is dying from the disease called 'school'. I have not met the poor girl but from your side of the conversation, I've formed the opinion that she is a whining, irritating, spoilt little brat who cries at the drop of a hat. Even if the teacher so much as sneezes her way, she calls you to whine about it. And I don't even understand why she does that because you always say the same thing.
"Aiyooo girl, stop that. You either cry or talk. If you want to cry, don't waste my time, you cry first then you call me back. If you want to talk, then talk. Okay girl? Are you listening ah girl?"
The brat might as well just get a tape recording of that and play it back the next time her teacher commits another injustice.
The Humming-Bird
Sometimes, we like to go early to work to get some serious work done before the hustle and bustle of office life begins. But you are a permanent early-bird. You're always THERE no matter how early we come in (Do you even go home, I wonder...)
But you being early does not offend us.
You being early and HUMMING, offends us.
You being early and humming OFF-KEY offends us more.
You being early and humming off-key LOUDLY offends us to the brink of insanity.
Do you not notice that when you hum, we turn our tv's on really loud?
Are you not aware of the fact that when you hum, we all eventually end up going down to the cafe for breakfast instead of doing the work that we intended to do?
This woman's humming habit is so terrible, that most of the early-birds have joined the night-owls instead.
The-Woman-Who-Can-Make-A-Side-Income-By-Perching-On-Top-Of-An-Ambulance-And-Making-Enough-Noise-To-Clear-Traffic
You.Are.Loud.
The people who sit around you all reach for their headphones the second you start one of your incredibly long and insanely loud telephone calls. (By the way, everyone knows how much you owe your credit card people and how strongly you argue for them to waive their late payment fees.)
When you have conversations with people in your cubicle, we can only hear your side of the conversation because the other party is trying so hard to speak softly, hoping in vain that you might follow suit.
The cubicle next to yours have changed owners more than 5 times and no one even bothered to ask them why they asked for a reassignment.
EVERYONE knows that you are loud.
WE know that you are loud.
YOU know that you are loud.
And YOU know that WE know that you are loud.
And WE know that YOU know that you are loud.
Yet we find you constantly bragging about your loudness.
We don't get it.
Please tell me... WHAT perverted sense of accomplishment do you get by being known as the LOUD-MOUTH of The 3rd Floor? Is there a special quarterly bonus for this achievement that we don't know about?
"Tyra Banks"
Yes, I realize that you are a fashionable and stylish woman.
Yes, I note that all your clothes are from high-end boutiques and your bags are all branded. And I appreciate your kindness in sharing the price of each item. How lovely that you bought that nice little FENDI purse for RM3K.
And yes, we ALL have heard your speech about how one should 'dress glamorously to work in order to look and feel good'.
That's all well and fine.
I don't begrudge you or resent you for your loveliness.
I appreciate your beauty (store bought as it may be) and I salute you for your exquisite style.
But please... spare us from your unsolicited and smarmy fashion advice.
T does not need to know that the pleated skirt makes her hips look wide.
D does not like being told that she should lose a couple of pounds before she can wear those jeans.
E does not want your input about how pale and washed-out she looks in her new beige jacket.
And I would have preferred to be spared from the knowledge that I only own ONE pair of shoes that you deign acceptable to be worn anywhere near your royal highness.
The Molestor
I am not married to you.
I am not a lesbian (and even if I were, I am not attracted to your type)
I am not related to you.
I am not your friend.
We just WORK together, so please... don't touch me.
And for heaven's sake, don't caress me!
I notice you only do it when you're delivering negative news or asking me for a favour.
The crappier your statements are, the more you touch me.
Stop it. It does not help. The bad news is not made better by you molesting my arm.
It's bad enough that I have to listen to shit, I don't like being fondled by it.
There are a few more office pests that I can think of, but given the fact that a lot of my colleagues know about this blog, prudence tells me that I should stop now. None of them are among these pests but knowing my workplace... word gets around.
And I'm not ready to face an angry mob of loud, humming, fashionable women who will fondle me to death.
Thanks for letting me vent.
A tree can fall but if it doesn't fall ON me, I may not notice it.
But I've come to realize that there are some pests in the office that I just can't seem to ignore; even though I try. And therefore, for the sake of my sanity, I am going to vent and rant here. Hopefully, it'll be theraupatic enough to prevent me from committing murder in the office. Astro does not need more bad press...
The Cavewoman
You are not a member of my department. I do not understand why they placed you so near to me. Do they hate me? Is that why?
I have not been introduced to you, I have not had a single conversation with you and yet, I know every single miniscule detail of your personal life.
Why?
Because you use a crass, piercing voice that no civilized human being would ever use... and you make repeated personal calls every single hour and have no qualms about airing your tedious domestic dramas to everyone within your vicinity.
Listen, I do NOT need to know about your daughter and how she is dying from the disease called 'school'. I have not met the poor girl but from your side of the conversation, I've formed the opinion that she is a whining, irritating, spoilt little brat who cries at the drop of a hat. Even if the teacher so much as sneezes her way, she calls you to whine about it. And I don't even understand why she does that because you always say the same thing.
"Aiyooo girl, stop that. You either cry or talk. If you want to cry, don't waste my time, you cry first then you call me back. If you want to talk, then talk. Okay girl? Are you listening ah girl?"
The brat might as well just get a tape recording of that and play it back the next time her teacher commits another injustice.
The Humming-Bird
Sometimes, we like to go early to work to get some serious work done before the hustle and bustle of office life begins. But you are a permanent early-bird. You're always THERE no matter how early we come in (Do you even go home, I wonder...)
But you being early does not offend us.
You being early and HUMMING, offends us.
You being early and humming OFF-KEY offends us more.
You being early and humming off-key LOUDLY offends us to the brink of insanity.
Do you not notice that when you hum, we turn our tv's on really loud?
Are you not aware of the fact that when you hum, we all eventually end up going down to the cafe for breakfast instead of doing the work that we intended to do?
This woman's humming habit is so terrible, that most of the early-birds have joined the night-owls instead.
The-Woman-Who-Can-Make-A-Side-Income-By-Perching-On-Top-Of-An-Ambulance-And-Making-Enough-Noise-To-Clear-Traffic
You.Are.Loud.
The people who sit around you all reach for their headphones the second you start one of your incredibly long and insanely loud telephone calls. (By the way, everyone knows how much you owe your credit card people and how strongly you argue for them to waive their late payment fees.)
When you have conversations with people in your cubicle, we can only hear your side of the conversation because the other party is trying so hard to speak softly, hoping in vain that you might follow suit.
The cubicle next to yours have changed owners more than 5 times and no one even bothered to ask them why they asked for a reassignment.
EVERYONE knows that you are loud.
WE know that you are loud.
YOU know that you are loud.
And YOU know that WE know that you are loud.
And WE know that YOU know that you are loud.
Yet we find you constantly bragging about your loudness.
We don't get it.
Please tell me... WHAT perverted sense of accomplishment do you get by being known as the LOUD-MOUTH of The 3rd Floor? Is there a special quarterly bonus for this achievement that we don't know about?
"Tyra Banks"
Yes, I realize that you are a fashionable and stylish woman.
Yes, I note that all your clothes are from high-end boutiques and your bags are all branded. And I appreciate your kindness in sharing the price of each item. How lovely that you bought that nice little FENDI purse for RM3K.
And yes, we ALL have heard your speech about how one should 'dress glamorously to work in order to look and feel good'.
That's all well and fine.
I don't begrudge you or resent you for your loveliness.
I appreciate your beauty (store bought as it may be) and I salute you for your exquisite style.
But please... spare us from your unsolicited and smarmy fashion advice.
T does not need to know that the pleated skirt makes her hips look wide.
D does not like being told that she should lose a couple of pounds before she can wear those jeans.
E does not want your input about how pale and washed-out she looks in her new beige jacket.
And I would have preferred to be spared from the knowledge that I only own ONE pair of shoes that you deign acceptable to be worn anywhere near your royal highness.
The Molestor
I am not married to you.
I am not a lesbian (and even if I were, I am not attracted to your type)
I am not related to you.
I am not your friend.
We just WORK together, so please... don't touch me.
And for heaven's sake, don't caress me!
I notice you only do it when you're delivering negative news or asking me for a favour.
The crappier your statements are, the more you touch me.
Stop it. It does not help. The bad news is not made better by you molesting my arm.
It's bad enough that I have to listen to shit, I don't like being fondled by it.
There are a few more office pests that I can think of, but given the fact that a lot of my colleagues know about this blog, prudence tells me that I should stop now. None of them are among these pests but knowing my workplace... word gets around.
And I'm not ready to face an angry mob of loud, humming, fashionable women who will fondle me to death.
Thanks for letting me vent.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Of Nerds and Nursery Rhymes
I was at Bangsar Village last week during lunchtime; browsing around in the MPH Bookstore. I was in the Children’s section, trying to find a good ‘Potty book’ for my son (don’t ask) when I heard the stifled guffaws of young boys. I looked up and saw a group of five Malay boys, dressed in their school uniform, joining me in the Children’s section of the bookstore. They looked around 13 or 14 years old and in their high-school uniform, they looked rather out-of-place amongst the picture books and Barneys.
I continued browsing and doing some serious contemplating (Do you have any idea how much a children’s book can cost these days?) when my ears picked up snatches of conversations from the where the boys were seated.
“Buku ni la best! Korang, korang! Tengok lah nii. Cerita dia yang macam dalam TV tu lah!”
“Wooo! Tebal gila buku ni. Mana sempat nak baca weiii”
“Yang ni lah, woi... Ada gambar la... Cepat laaa weiii”
I sneaked a peek to see the five boys congregate around a wooden bench. Two of them were seated while the other three crowded around them. I couldn’t see what book had grabbed their attention but in a minute, I was pleasantly surprised to find out.
“One, Two, Buckle my shoe…”
I looked up from the Little Einstein book in my hands.
“Three, Four, Shut the door…”
I smiled at the sight of five gangly teenage boys, sitting in the middle of the Children’s section of the bookstore, reading a nursery rhyme out loud.
I remembered how I got started with a passion for books. My mom used to gather us around for story-time before bed. No matter how tired she was from work, she never failed to read us a story, or recite one from her imagination. And because she was telling the story to a little girl and two little brats – eh, I mean boys; she had to skew the tale to suit us all. Hence there were princesses and pirates in those stories, along with an assortment of animals; from fluffy kittens to snakes with fangs…
Then as I got older, I read my own books before bedtime. Once a month, we would be taken for a visit to the bookstore where we’d be given the choice of a book (or two) each. I remember spending almost an hour trying to narrow down my choices, sniff in disgust when my two brothers begged to use their allotment to buy sticker-books or (gasp!) connect-the-dots puzzle books.
“Five, Six, pick up sticks…”
My family and friends used to say that I didn’t READ books, I DEVOURED them. I saved up my allowance to purchase books, begged to borrow books from my friends and bugged the librarian at school to stock up new books. The darling librarian was very kind to me and gave me first choice for all the new books that came to her counter. When I bumped into her a few years after I left school, she told me that she was always amused by the fact that I had read all the books in the library… at least twice.
My family still regales the story of our trip to London, when my dad had to lug my heavy suitcase only to discover later that I had surreptitiously packed the Britannica Children’s Encyclopedia…
I know a lot of people didn’t understand my obsession with reading. Some would’ve called me a nerd if I had also not been a jock in school. And when I got older and started working, I used to bring a book to read during my ride in the LRT. I remember getting a lot of weird looks from certain fellow commuters. I thought I was being perasan or paranoid, but then came one day when two women my age didn’t bother to hide their disdain. “Baca buku omputeh konon...” "Entah... kena ke baca depan orang? Berlagak siott...
“Seven, Eight, Lay them straight…”
These days, I am delighted to see that reading has become an ‘acceptable’ hobby. During my childhood, the bookstore was often empty, with only a few patrons browsing through the shelves. These days, the bookstores are packed with people. Young adults, children, seniors… Families with kids… It’s gotten a lot more ‘meriah’.
I’m hoping that Mikhail will inherit my love for reading. It’s looking that way, since he loves his books as much as (if not more than) his toys. And I’m emulating my mom by making sure that he gets his bedtime story before we turn off the lights.
Reading has given such pleasure to me and I really hope it has the same effect on my son. And given the fact that our society has now embraced the ‘nerds’, I’m sure Mikhail will have an easier ride.
“Nine, Ten, A big fat hen!”
.....................
“A big fat hen?”
“Ayam betina yang besar dan gemuk…”
“Apasal pulak ada ayam nih”
“Entah…”
“Apa punya buku yang kau pilih ni weiiii!!”
“Nanti laaa, aku cari yang lain…”
I continued browsing and doing some serious contemplating (Do you have any idea how much a children’s book can cost these days?) when my ears picked up snatches of conversations from the where the boys were seated.
“Buku ni la best! Korang, korang! Tengok lah nii. Cerita dia yang macam dalam TV tu lah!”
“Wooo! Tebal gila buku ni. Mana sempat nak baca weiii”
“Yang ni lah, woi... Ada gambar la... Cepat laaa weiii”
I sneaked a peek to see the five boys congregate around a wooden bench. Two of them were seated while the other three crowded around them. I couldn’t see what book had grabbed their attention but in a minute, I was pleasantly surprised to find out.
“One, Two, Buckle my shoe…”
I looked up from the Little Einstein book in my hands.
“Three, Four, Shut the door…”
I smiled at the sight of five gangly teenage boys, sitting in the middle of the Children’s section of the bookstore, reading a nursery rhyme out loud.
I remembered how I got started with a passion for books. My mom used to gather us around for story-time before bed. No matter how tired she was from work, she never failed to read us a story, or recite one from her imagination. And because she was telling the story to a little girl and two little brats – eh, I mean boys; she had to skew the tale to suit us all. Hence there were princesses and pirates in those stories, along with an assortment of animals; from fluffy kittens to snakes with fangs…
Then as I got older, I read my own books before bedtime. Once a month, we would be taken for a visit to the bookstore where we’d be given the choice of a book (or two) each. I remember spending almost an hour trying to narrow down my choices, sniff in disgust when my two brothers begged to use their allotment to buy sticker-books or (gasp!) connect-the-dots puzzle books.
“Five, Six, pick up sticks…”
My family and friends used to say that I didn’t READ books, I DEVOURED them. I saved up my allowance to purchase books, begged to borrow books from my friends and bugged the librarian at school to stock up new books. The darling librarian was very kind to me and gave me first choice for all the new books that came to her counter. When I bumped into her a few years after I left school, she told me that she was always amused by the fact that I had read all the books in the library… at least twice.
My family still regales the story of our trip to London, when my dad had to lug my heavy suitcase only to discover later that I had surreptitiously packed the Britannica Children’s Encyclopedia…
I know a lot of people didn’t understand my obsession with reading. Some would’ve called me a nerd if I had also not been a jock in school. And when I got older and started working, I used to bring a book to read during my ride in the LRT. I remember getting a lot of weird looks from certain fellow commuters. I thought I was being perasan or paranoid, but then came one day when two women my age didn’t bother to hide their disdain. “Baca buku omputeh konon...” "Entah... kena ke baca depan orang? Berlagak siott...
“Seven, Eight, Lay them straight…”
These days, I am delighted to see that reading has become an ‘acceptable’ hobby. During my childhood, the bookstore was often empty, with only a few patrons browsing through the shelves. These days, the bookstores are packed with people. Young adults, children, seniors… Families with kids… It’s gotten a lot more ‘meriah’.
I’m hoping that Mikhail will inherit my love for reading. It’s looking that way, since he loves his books as much as (if not more than) his toys. And I’m emulating my mom by making sure that he gets his bedtime story before we turn off the lights.
Reading has given such pleasure to me and I really hope it has the same effect on my son. And given the fact that our society has now embraced the ‘nerds’, I’m sure Mikhail will have an easier ride.
“Nine, Ten, A big fat hen!”
.....................
“A big fat hen?”
“Ayam betina yang besar dan gemuk…”
“Apasal pulak ada ayam nih”
“Entah…”
“Apa punya buku yang kau pilih ni weiiii!!”
“Nanti laaa, aku cari yang lain…”
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Puff Medi
I haven’t written since May?
Dang... I’m such a procrastinator.
Procrastinator Diha.
You can call me, P-Didi.
Anyway, I’ve decided to STOP procrastinating and start writing again.
So here I am.
Writing.
No longer procrastinating.
So don’t call me P-Didi.
I'll be back!
(With something longer and better than this, I promise)
Dang... I’m such a procrastinator.
Procrastinator Diha.
You can call me, P-Didi.
Anyway, I’ve decided to STOP procrastinating and start writing again.
So here I am.
Writing.
No longer procrastinating.
So don’t call me P-Didi.
I'll be back!
(With something longer and better than this, I promise)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Worthy of a 'Huh?' Award
Extracted from The Star 20th May 2008
Information Minister Datuk Ahmad Shabery Cheek said it seemed like history was repeating itself.
He said leaders like Umno founder Datuk Onn Jaafar left the party due to differences with the leadership at the time. He added that former prime ministers Tunku Abdul Rahman and Tun Hussein Onn did not join Umno Baru after the old Umno was deregistered in 1988.
“The three of them died without being Umno members and Tun (Dr Mahathir) must not do this too,” he said, adding that the former premier might regret his move later.
Yeah...
At the Gates of Heaven, God will ask us,
"My child, were you an UMNO member?"
Information Minister Datuk Ahmad Shabery Cheek said it seemed like history was repeating itself.
He said leaders like Umno founder Datuk Onn Jaafar left the party due to differences with the leadership at the time. He added that former prime ministers Tunku Abdul Rahman and Tun Hussein Onn did not join Umno Baru after the old Umno was deregistered in 1988.
“The three of them died without being Umno members and Tun (Dr Mahathir) must not do this too,” he said, adding that the former premier might regret his move later.
Yeah...
At the Gates of Heaven, God will ask us,
"My child, were you an UMNO member?"
Monday, January 14, 2008
My Wira
It’s weird how people can get emotional over things.
Things as in, objects…
Things that are itself incapable of emotion.
I don’t often get emotional over things, but the day my old Wira was sold off, was a day of sorrow for me.
The Wira started out as my mom’s car.
Then when I got my driving license, it became MY car.
My very first car.
I remember the mixture of pride, fear and pleasure that I felt the first time I drove the car to tuition (I was facing my SPM that year… being a February baby had the perk of giving me an early driver’s license, so I could chauffeur myself to tuition classes).
I LOVED that Wira.
It started out jet-black and I took great pleasure in washing it every Sunday and watch it gleam.
It felt good to be the only girl in my group of friends who could drive and actually had her own car to drive!
And boy did I love driving.
Apa? We’re out of garam. Never fear, Diha is here! And off I’d drive to the neighborhood kedai mamak. Apa? You forgot to tell me that you’re also out of santan? Takper takper… And again, I’d speed off to the mamak store.
Speed.
That’s something I learned about by driving a car.
I was in the track team at school. A sprinter. Soo very perasan that I was fast.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess that I had a thrill for speed so imagine what happened when I got behind the wheel of a car…
When I was still schooling, I was careful. Still cautious and wary of the traffic.
Then I went to university.
After a few years behind the wheel, I gained confidence. A bit too much, in fact.
So I sped.
I had numerous speeding tickets.
I had my own personal list of excuses to offer if stopped by a policeman.
(My favourites:- “Sakit perut, Tuan. I really really really need to get to a toilet... NOW!” and “OH MY GOD! I was speeding? Mintak maaf tuan… saya… saya tak perasan… Saya... (sob!) saya baru saja (insert insanely boring problem and go on and on and on about it)”)
Then I got involved in a four-car pile up on the NKVE.
I was car No.2.
To make a long story short, it was all caused by a stupid Kancil driver who cut-off the guy in front of me who promptly stepped on the brakes and I did the same but was then hit in the rear by a 4WD which was then hit by a Volvo.
My darling Wira was totaled.
My most vivid memory of that accident was me sitting on the curb of the highway.
A sweet old lady from a house nearby had handed me a glass of water.
Wan had just arrived with his buddies and was trying to fend off the tow-truck drivers who were pestering me.
Several of my university friends who recognized my car stopped by to see if I was okay.
And I just sat there and stared at my Wira.
The front end was banged up pretty badly.
The headlights were smashed, the windscreen shattered…
The rear end was… not there anymore.
The impact had smashed it in.
It didn’t look like a car anymore. It was a wreck. A really bad one.
I couldn’t imagine ANY mechanic being able to fix it.
I was sitting there on the curb, pining and mourning the death of my Wira…
The days went by in a blur.
My parents were kind enough not to nag me much, knowing that I was already being punished with my own guilt.
My dad asked me what color I wanted to paint the car, since it was already in the workshop and all.
I nonchalantly said ‘silver’. Still unable to imagine anyone could fix my poor, destroyed Wira.
A couple of weeks later, my dad drove it home
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There wasn’t a single sign to show that it used to be the wreck that it was on the NKVE a few weeks before.
The silver paint gleamed under the sun and even its wheels were shining.
I know this sounds freaky, but it almost felt like my Wira was forgiving me and was enticing me to come drive it.
Heheheh… So I did.
For five more wonderful years :)
The Wira saw me grow up.
It saw me:-
• Running errands for my parents and occasionally having them in the passenger seat, wringing their hands and hissing “Not so fast, not so fast!”
• Sending my little sister to kindergarten and watching her bop to the music with a lolly in her hand.
• Picking up my smelly brothers from wherever the heck they were and telling them to wipe their feet before they came in the car.
• Cruising around KL with my gang of friends, singing along with the radio, checking out guys without looking like we were checking ‘em out, being checked out by guys and pretending not to notice.
• Ferrying my friends around town while they made frantic wardrobe changes in the backseat.
The Wira was also my great companion whilst I was getting my law degree…
It saw me:-
• Talking to myself at a red light; in my attempts to memorize the hundreds of case law we were required to regurgitate during tutorials.
• Speed (albeit cautiously) back home to pick up a statute that I needed for my crucial finals.
• Poring over my notes in the car, while waiting for the doors to the exam hall to open.
• Bang the steering wheel in frustration when I suddenly recalled a crucial piece of information I should have used in my exam answer.
• Fervently argue with my imaginary opponent while driving to a debate tournament venue.
• Lovingly fondle my debate trophy or ranting about the stupid judge who made us lose.
• Sleep curled up on the seat in exhaustion after a day of debating.
The Wira was also the vehicle that witnessed my courting days with Wan.
It saw me:-
• Checking out my make-up in the rearview mirror a million times before I finally open the door to meet my date.
• Gaze out the passenger window while Wan drove the Wira… I was too freakin’ shy to make eye contact with the dude then.
• Gradually open up to Wan and have decent conversations with him.
• Trying very hard not to blush or giggle when his hand inched to hold mine.
• Having deep, meaningful heart to heart talks with the man that I would marry in a few years time.
You see, my Wira wasn’t just my car.
It was my buddy.
Yes, I realize it’s a pile of metal but it’s a pile of metal that had seen me through my formative years.
After graduation, my parents generously bought me a graduation gift; the car that I’m driving now. And the Wira was unceremoniously handed to my brother, Irfan.
With my new wheels, I no longer gave the Wira a second look. I mean, it was there. Irfan was driving it around, making his own bunch of memories with it. I didn't really bother with it anymore. I knew it was ... you know... there.
Then the day came when my parents decided to sell it.
When I first got whiff of the news, I promptly went outside to where my brother parked the car and walked around it.
I was amused to see the dead mini-cockroach still stuck inside the dashboard (don’t know how it got there; don’t know how come it has not disintegrated after more than 10 years!)
I peered in at the backseat and smiled to myself, thinking of how messy and cluttered it was during my uni days; with books, notes, pens, shoes, clothes, CD’s, scarfs and other stuff.
I glanced at the rooftop and remembered the day I was silly enough to leave my file on top of it and drive off; only to be greeted with a rain of notepaper scattering in the road in front of me (picking ‘em up was a traffic hazard…but the final exams were looming and I HAD to save ‘em!)
They can’t sell this car!
They can’t sell my memories!
Of course, I didn’t voice this out loud to my parents, lest they felt that their firstborn was losing her mind.
It took some time for them to find the best buyer.
And I only heard about it from my brother.
By the time I got home, my Wira was gone.
I think Irfan was even more upset than I was.
Yes, he was getting a new car to replace the Wira, and he was very excited about his new wheels.
But like me, he had a lot of memories with the Wira.
We spent some time reminiscing about the Wira, sharing anecdotes and sighing wistful sighs.
Yes, it’s weird how people can get emotional over things.
Maybe it’s because a lot of emotions were spent over those ‘things’…
Or maybe it's just because these people are weird :)
Farewell dear Wira…
I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you off.
I hope your new owner will treat you well…
And maybe, you never know, we might bump into each other in the streets of KL.
(Though not LITERALLY bump, I hope)
I told Wan that if we come across my Wira (oh, sorry… not MY wira anymore…), I’ll demand that he stop the car for me to rush over and greet it.
He looked at me as though I was nuts.
And maybe I am.
Things as in, objects…
Things that are itself incapable of emotion.
I don’t often get emotional over things, but the day my old Wira was sold off, was a day of sorrow for me.
The Wira started out as my mom’s car.
Then when I got my driving license, it became MY car.
My very first car.
I remember the mixture of pride, fear and pleasure that I felt the first time I drove the car to tuition (I was facing my SPM that year… being a February baby had the perk of giving me an early driver’s license, so I could chauffeur myself to tuition classes).
I LOVED that Wira.
It started out jet-black and I took great pleasure in washing it every Sunday and watch it gleam.
It felt good to be the only girl in my group of friends who could drive and actually had her own car to drive!
And boy did I love driving.
Apa? We’re out of garam. Never fear, Diha is here! And off I’d drive to the neighborhood kedai mamak. Apa? You forgot to tell me that you’re also out of santan? Takper takper… And again, I’d speed off to the mamak store.
Speed.
That’s something I learned about by driving a car.
I was in the track team at school. A sprinter. Soo very perasan that I was fast.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess that I had a thrill for speed so imagine what happened when I got behind the wheel of a car…
When I was still schooling, I was careful. Still cautious and wary of the traffic.
Then I went to university.
After a few years behind the wheel, I gained confidence. A bit too much, in fact.
So I sped.
I had numerous speeding tickets.
I had my own personal list of excuses to offer if stopped by a policeman.
(My favourites:- “Sakit perut, Tuan. I really really really need to get to a toilet... NOW!” and “OH MY GOD! I was speeding? Mintak maaf tuan… saya… saya tak perasan… Saya... (sob!) saya baru saja (insert insanely boring problem and go on and on and on about it)”)
Then I got involved in a four-car pile up on the NKVE.
I was car No.2.
To make a long story short, it was all caused by a stupid Kancil driver who cut-off the guy in front of me who promptly stepped on the brakes and I did the same but was then hit in the rear by a 4WD which was then hit by a Volvo.
My darling Wira was totaled.
My most vivid memory of that accident was me sitting on the curb of the highway.
A sweet old lady from a house nearby had handed me a glass of water.
Wan had just arrived with his buddies and was trying to fend off the tow-truck drivers who were pestering me.
Several of my university friends who recognized my car stopped by to see if I was okay.
And I just sat there and stared at my Wira.
The front end was banged up pretty badly.
The headlights were smashed, the windscreen shattered…
The rear end was… not there anymore.
The impact had smashed it in.
It didn’t look like a car anymore. It was a wreck. A really bad one.
I couldn’t imagine ANY mechanic being able to fix it.
I was sitting there on the curb, pining and mourning the death of my Wira…
The days went by in a blur.
My parents were kind enough not to nag me much, knowing that I was already being punished with my own guilt.
My dad asked me what color I wanted to paint the car, since it was already in the workshop and all.
I nonchalantly said ‘silver’. Still unable to imagine anyone could fix my poor, destroyed Wira.
A couple of weeks later, my dad drove it home
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There wasn’t a single sign to show that it used to be the wreck that it was on the NKVE a few weeks before.
The silver paint gleamed under the sun and even its wheels were shining.
I know this sounds freaky, but it almost felt like my Wira was forgiving me and was enticing me to come drive it.
Heheheh… So I did.
For five more wonderful years :)
The Wira saw me grow up.
It saw me:-
• Running errands for my parents and occasionally having them in the passenger seat, wringing their hands and hissing “Not so fast, not so fast!”
• Sending my little sister to kindergarten and watching her bop to the music with a lolly in her hand.
• Picking up my smelly brothers from wherever the heck they were and telling them to wipe their feet before they came in the car.
• Cruising around KL with my gang of friends, singing along with the radio, checking out guys without looking like we were checking ‘em out, being checked out by guys and pretending not to notice.
• Ferrying my friends around town while they made frantic wardrobe changes in the backseat.
The Wira was also my great companion whilst I was getting my law degree…
It saw me:-
• Talking to myself at a red light; in my attempts to memorize the hundreds of case law we were required to regurgitate during tutorials.
• Speed (albeit cautiously) back home to pick up a statute that I needed for my crucial finals.
• Poring over my notes in the car, while waiting for the doors to the exam hall to open.
• Bang the steering wheel in frustration when I suddenly recalled a crucial piece of information I should have used in my exam answer.
• Fervently argue with my imaginary opponent while driving to a debate tournament venue.
• Lovingly fondle my debate trophy or ranting about the stupid judge who made us lose.
• Sleep curled up on the seat in exhaustion after a day of debating.
The Wira was also the vehicle that witnessed my courting days with Wan.
It saw me:-
• Checking out my make-up in the rearview mirror a million times before I finally open the door to meet my date.
• Gaze out the passenger window while Wan drove the Wira… I was too freakin’ shy to make eye contact with the dude then.
• Gradually open up to Wan and have decent conversations with him.
• Trying very hard not to blush or giggle when his hand inched to hold mine.
• Having deep, meaningful heart to heart talks with the man that I would marry in a few years time.
You see, my Wira wasn’t just my car.
It was my buddy.
Yes, I realize it’s a pile of metal but it’s a pile of metal that had seen me through my formative years.
After graduation, my parents generously bought me a graduation gift; the car that I’m driving now. And the Wira was unceremoniously handed to my brother, Irfan.
With my new wheels, I no longer gave the Wira a second look. I mean, it was there. Irfan was driving it around, making his own bunch of memories with it. I didn't really bother with it anymore. I knew it was ... you know... there.
Then the day came when my parents decided to sell it.
When I first got whiff of the news, I promptly went outside to where my brother parked the car and walked around it.
I was amused to see the dead mini-cockroach still stuck inside the dashboard (don’t know how it got there; don’t know how come it has not disintegrated after more than 10 years!)
I peered in at the backseat and smiled to myself, thinking of how messy and cluttered it was during my uni days; with books, notes, pens, shoes, clothes, CD’s, scarfs and other stuff.
I glanced at the rooftop and remembered the day I was silly enough to leave my file on top of it and drive off; only to be greeted with a rain of notepaper scattering in the road in front of me (picking ‘em up was a traffic hazard…but the final exams were looming and I HAD to save ‘em!)
They can’t sell this car!
They can’t sell my memories!
Of course, I didn’t voice this out loud to my parents, lest they felt that their firstborn was losing her mind.
It took some time for them to find the best buyer.
And I only heard about it from my brother.
By the time I got home, my Wira was gone.
I think Irfan was even more upset than I was.
Yes, he was getting a new car to replace the Wira, and he was very excited about his new wheels.
But like me, he had a lot of memories with the Wira.
We spent some time reminiscing about the Wira, sharing anecdotes and sighing wistful sighs.
Yes, it’s weird how people can get emotional over things.
Maybe it’s because a lot of emotions were spent over those ‘things’…
Or maybe it's just because these people are weird :)
Farewell dear Wira…
I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to see you off.
I hope your new owner will treat you well…
And maybe, you never know, we might bump into each other in the streets of KL.
(Though not LITERALLY bump, I hope)
I told Wan that if we come across my Wira (oh, sorry… not MY wira anymore…), I’ll demand that he stop the car for me to rush over and greet it.
He looked at me as though I was nuts.
And maybe I am.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Maverix Sux
Okay.
I suck at maintaining this blog.
I admit it.
And yes, I make an effort for my baby's blog but I seem to have abandoned this one.
I know, I know.
But this is my azam tahun baru (a month early).
I vow to maintain this blog and post updates at least as much as I do for the baby blog.
Yeahhh....
Let's see how this goes.
I suck at maintaining this blog.
I admit it.
And yes, I make an effort for my baby's blog but I seem to have abandoned this one.
I know, I know.
But this is my azam tahun baru (a month early).
I vow to maintain this blog and post updates at least as much as I do for the baby blog.
Yeahhh....
Let's see how this goes.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Menceceh'ing in the Parliament
THE STAR Wednesday July 18, 2007
Speaker warned against using ‘menceceh’
MALACCA: Speaker Datuk Wira Mo’min Abdul Aziz was told not to use the word menceceh (chatter aimlessly) or a police report would be lodged against him for sexual harassment.
Betty Chew (DAP – Kota Laksamana) was about to ask a question on the issue of parking lots when Abdul Ghafar Atan (BN – Gadek) tried to cut in at the state assembly yesterday.
When Chew argued that Mo’min had agreed to let her speak first, the latter told her to go ahead and make it fast, and not “menceceh”.
At this point, Chew told Mo’min to be careful when using such a word on women as it could be deemed a degrading term for the female gender.
“Please be careful when using such a word as that can be considered sexual harassment and I can lodge a police report on that,” she said.
Full Article: http://www.thestar.com.my/news/story.asp?file=/2007/7/18/nation/18335374&sec=nation
Sexual harassment???
"Menceceh" is a degrading term for the female gender??
WTF??
So if Dato' Wira Mo'min had said that to a MAN, it wouldn't be degrading but to a WOMAN, it is...
Why why tell me WHY?
According to the Kamus Dewan Edisi Tiga:-
ceceh II; menceceh (cécéh)= bercakap kosong (bkn perkara yg bukan-bukan dll), merepek, mericau a.k.a "talking too much about nothing"
Therefore, anyone who accuses a woman of 'bercakap merepek' can also be sued for sexual harassment lah ya?
Since when are those terms considered an insult to the female gender?
Since when are those terms incorporated into the category of "verbal sexual harassment" like asking for sexual favours, obscene name-calling etc?
MENCECEH was never isolated to be an insult to women.
So... I'm thinking that:-
a) this lady is making 'menceceh' a 'gender' issue because she herself has the opinion that women are associated with 'talking too much about nothing'.
b) she is extra sensitive and defensive because she knows SHE is perfectly capable of 'talking too much about nothing'.
c) she's one of those 'fanatic feminists' whom I find greatly annoying; those who jump and bleat at every single imagined insult or discrimination.
It's ironic that women are expected to be 'sensitive' to the word 'menceceh'... since it was initially popularised by the late P.Ramlee in his movie "Bujang Lapuk", about three unmarried MEN.
"OWHH!
Menceceh, menceceh, menceceh, menceceh MENCECEH...
Bujang lapuk... loyar buruk
Sana sini hai bikin sibuk
Naik basikal semacam beruk
Tak ada kerja tolak habuk"
(MENCECEH BUJANG LAPUK) by P.RAMLEE
Speaker warned against using ‘menceceh’
MALACCA: Speaker Datuk Wira Mo’min Abdul Aziz was told not to use the word menceceh (chatter aimlessly) or a police report would be lodged against him for sexual harassment.
Betty Chew (DAP – Kota Laksamana) was about to ask a question on the issue of parking lots when Abdul Ghafar Atan (BN – Gadek) tried to cut in at the state assembly yesterday.
When Chew argued that Mo’min had agreed to let her speak first, the latter told her to go ahead and make it fast, and not “menceceh”.
At this point, Chew told Mo’min to be careful when using such a word on women as it could be deemed a degrading term for the female gender.
“Please be careful when using such a word as that can be considered sexual harassment and I can lodge a police report on that,” she said.
Full Article: http://www.thestar.com.my/news/story.asp?file=/2007/7/18/nation/18335374&sec=nation
Sexual harassment???
"Menceceh" is a degrading term for the female gender??
WTF??
So if Dato' Wira Mo'min had said that to a MAN, it wouldn't be degrading but to a WOMAN, it is...
Why why tell me WHY?
According to the Kamus Dewan Edisi Tiga:-
ceceh II; menceceh (cécéh)= bercakap kosong (bkn perkara yg bukan-bukan dll), merepek, mericau a.k.a "talking too much about nothing"
Therefore, anyone who accuses a woman of 'bercakap merepek' can also be sued for sexual harassment lah ya?
Since when are those terms considered an insult to the female gender?
Since when are those terms incorporated into the category of "verbal sexual harassment" like asking for sexual favours, obscene name-calling etc?
MENCECEH was never isolated to be an insult to women.
So... I'm thinking that:-
a) this lady is making 'menceceh' a 'gender' issue because she herself has the opinion that women are associated with 'talking too much about nothing'.
b) she is extra sensitive and defensive because she knows SHE is perfectly capable of 'talking too much about nothing'.
c) she's one of those 'fanatic feminists' whom I find greatly annoying; those who jump and bleat at every single imagined insult or discrimination.
It's ironic that women are expected to be 'sensitive' to the word 'menceceh'... since it was initially popularised by the late P.Ramlee in his movie "Bujang Lapuk", about three unmarried MEN.
"OWHH!
Menceceh, menceceh, menceceh, menceceh MENCECEH...
Bujang lapuk... loyar buruk
Sana sini hai bikin sibuk
Naik basikal semacam beruk
Tak ada kerja tolak habuk"
(MENCECEH BUJANG LAPUK) by P.RAMLEE
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Melting-Pot Bubbling Over?
The PM’s recent speech to newly-appointed members of the National Unity Advisory Panel received a standing ovation.
Bravo to him.
I’m rather amused (and slightly sad) that we found a need for a ‘National Unity Advisory Panel’.
Our darling Pak Lah seems to have a real passion in setting up committees, commissions, working-groups and advisory panels, doesn't he?
I guess that's cool.
I mean, those are great indications of his hard-work, his efficacy and his wonderful contribution to the nation. Yeah… Go Pak Lah.
Right.
Back to the real world.
I don’t know if it’s just me, but I think ‘national unity’ in schools is in dire need of reformation these days. I’ve left school 10 years ago (and that’s not THAT long ago, people) but the changes I’ve seen are pretty obvious.
Why do you think the government is suddenly making policies and creating campaigns to ‘integrate’ the school children so that they don’t ‘segregate’ further?
I remember my school days, we all had gangs/cliques whatever you want to call it. But these gangs were not formed on the basis of race. Most of my buddies were non-Malays. In fact, there was a period where I was the only Malay in a group of Chinese and Indian girls. It never occurred to me that such a thing would be strange. We shared the same interest, spoke the same language (English + pasar Malay) and so what if our skin color was different. Big deal.
We had recess together without the Malay girls wrinkling their noses at Siew Mei's Tupperware and whispering “Eee… mesti makan babi tu…”.
I heard this line when I was eaves-dropping at my sister’s school. Muncung-muncung mulut dia, juling-juling mata dia jeling at the Chinese girl tucking into her lunch.
Why la, adik? You cannot eat next to a Chinese girl because she may be eating pork? Sheeshh...
Bukan dia paksa awak makan pork tu pun. You eat la your nasi lemak, she eats la her fried pork. Salah ke? Haram ke?
If you go to hotels and your Mat Saleh friend sips on a glass of wine, do you wrinkle your nose and move away? No, you don’t.
Why?
Sebab wine tu gold-colored and pretty to look at tapi babi tu gemuk, pink and hidung besar?
BOTH the babi and the wine are haram, you know.
Whoops.. Went out of topic there for a bit.
It’s just that it has always irked me that some Malays are completely disgusted by pork and will go out of their way to shun establishments with pork but are absolutely fine with wine and beer. There was one fella at my old office who went berserk when he found out our Chinese colleague was eating pork in the office pantry. But this same fella kept chugging down mugs of beer after work. Our obsession with the haram’ness of pork is just so weird. Other haram stuff are tolerable, but not the dreaded B.A.B.I. So weird.
Back to racial unity.
I had an eye-opening conversation with a bunch of schoolgirls about ‘being friends with other races’. I was quite stunned at the racism that they nonchalantly spouted from their Lip-Ice smeared mouths.
When did this happen?
During my time, and like I said, that was just 10 years ago, we were all friends.
There were many BFFs (Best Friends Forever) who belonged to different races. It was not uncommon to see a Chinese girl and a Malay girl holding hands on the way to the school canteen. It was not weird for Afifah to be giggling away with Punitha behind the bookcase in the library. No one blinked an eye when Haryati shared Yin Wei’s bottle of water. We were all just schoolgirls in the same school (I went to an all-girls school).
And we were all really close.
There was no need for political correctness.
No need to cater to ‘extra sensitiveness’.
We could joke and josh around and call each other names like “Melayu malas”, “Keling gila” and “Cina mulut busuk” without causing any damage whatsoever. It made our friendship stronger. We were THAT open. We knew no one meant any harm.
We were just being the cheeky kids we were.
Our different races and religion were subjects of curiosity but not animosity.
Joanne, a good friend of mine and a devout Christian, could ask me candid questions about Islam without having me jump and accuse her of ‘insulting my religion’.
We could question Devika “Kenapa tuhan kau banyak tangan?” without having her mother attack the school the next day.
We could ask our Christian friends about the authenticity of the Bible without having them scream that we were trying to convert them.
It was just us friends having friendly conversations. No big deal.
According to my parents, this was the way it was during their time too. My mom’s best friends were Chinese and my dad tidur-bangun with his multi-racial group of lads in RMC. These friendships have withstood the test of time and have never been sullied by the stain of racism.
Now I see most of the younger generation sticking to their races in forming groups and gangs.
When words like ‘keling’ are used, it’s said with malice and in a derogatory manner, not in humor or with affection, and thus, are never received as such.
We see fights and arguments being initiated by people who hold their race or religion high above others and stubbornly refuse to learn about other races or religions for fear of... of... of what, really?
It’s no wonder that we need governmental intervention to create and maintain peace in our multi-racial community… things have gotten pretty bad.
When was the seed of segregation and racism planted in our community?
How come the younger generations are so aware of the color of their skin?
Why is it so difficult for us to see the ‘integration’ that we are so fond of?
What happened?
I don’t have any theories. Just questions.
I’m really, honestly wondering what happened.
What can the man of good will do to combat deeply rooted prejudice? He must have the courage to set an example by words and deed, and must watch lest his children become influenced by racial bias.
Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)
Bravo to him.
I’m rather amused (and slightly sad) that we found a need for a ‘National Unity Advisory Panel’.
Our darling Pak Lah seems to have a real passion in setting up committees, commissions, working-groups and advisory panels, doesn't he?
I guess that's cool.
I mean, those are great indications of his hard-work, his efficacy and his wonderful contribution to the nation. Yeah… Go Pak Lah.
Right.
Back to the real world.
I don’t know if it’s just me, but I think ‘national unity’ in schools is in dire need of reformation these days. I’ve left school 10 years ago (and that’s not THAT long ago, people) but the changes I’ve seen are pretty obvious.
Why do you think the government is suddenly making policies and creating campaigns to ‘integrate’ the school children so that they don’t ‘segregate’ further?
I remember my school days, we all had gangs/cliques whatever you want to call it. But these gangs were not formed on the basis of race. Most of my buddies were non-Malays. In fact, there was a period where I was the only Malay in a group of Chinese and Indian girls. It never occurred to me that such a thing would be strange. We shared the same interest, spoke the same language (English + pasar Malay) and so what if our skin color was different. Big deal.
We had recess together without the Malay girls wrinkling their noses at Siew Mei's Tupperware and whispering “Eee… mesti makan babi tu…”.
I heard this line when I was eaves-dropping at my sister’s school. Muncung-muncung mulut dia, juling-juling mata dia jeling at the Chinese girl tucking into her lunch.
Why la, adik? You cannot eat next to a Chinese girl because she may be eating pork? Sheeshh...
Bukan dia paksa awak makan pork tu pun. You eat la your nasi lemak, she eats la her fried pork. Salah ke? Haram ke?
If you go to hotels and your Mat Saleh friend sips on a glass of wine, do you wrinkle your nose and move away? No, you don’t.
Why?
Sebab wine tu gold-colored and pretty to look at tapi babi tu gemuk, pink and hidung besar?
BOTH the babi and the wine are haram, you know.
Whoops.. Went out of topic there for a bit.
It’s just that it has always irked me that some Malays are completely disgusted by pork and will go out of their way to shun establishments with pork but are absolutely fine with wine and beer. There was one fella at my old office who went berserk when he found out our Chinese colleague was eating pork in the office pantry. But this same fella kept chugging down mugs of beer after work. Our obsession with the haram’ness of pork is just so weird. Other haram stuff are tolerable, but not the dreaded B.A.B.I. So weird.
Back to racial unity.
I had an eye-opening conversation with a bunch of schoolgirls about ‘being friends with other races’. I was quite stunned at the racism that they nonchalantly spouted from their Lip-Ice smeared mouths.
When did this happen?
During my time, and like I said, that was just 10 years ago, we were all friends.
There were many BFFs (Best Friends Forever) who belonged to different races. It was not uncommon to see a Chinese girl and a Malay girl holding hands on the way to the school canteen. It was not weird for Afifah to be giggling away with Punitha behind the bookcase in the library. No one blinked an eye when Haryati shared Yin Wei’s bottle of water. We were all just schoolgirls in the same school (I went to an all-girls school).
And we were all really close.
There was no need for political correctness.
No need to cater to ‘extra sensitiveness’.
We could joke and josh around and call each other names like “Melayu malas”, “Keling gila” and “Cina mulut busuk” without causing any damage whatsoever. It made our friendship stronger. We were THAT open. We knew no one meant any harm.
We were just being the cheeky kids we were.
Our different races and religion were subjects of curiosity but not animosity.
Joanne, a good friend of mine and a devout Christian, could ask me candid questions about Islam without having me jump and accuse her of ‘insulting my religion’.
We could question Devika “Kenapa tuhan kau banyak tangan?” without having her mother attack the school the next day.
We could ask our Christian friends about the authenticity of the Bible without having them scream that we were trying to convert them.
It was just us friends having friendly conversations. No big deal.
According to my parents, this was the way it was during their time too. My mom’s best friends were Chinese and my dad tidur-bangun with his multi-racial group of lads in RMC. These friendships have withstood the test of time and have never been sullied by the stain of racism.
Now I see most of the younger generation sticking to their races in forming groups and gangs.
When words like ‘keling’ are used, it’s said with malice and in a derogatory manner, not in humor or with affection, and thus, are never received as such.
We see fights and arguments being initiated by people who hold their race or religion high above others and stubbornly refuse to learn about other races or religions for fear of... of... of what, really?
It’s no wonder that we need governmental intervention to create and maintain peace in our multi-racial community… things have gotten pretty bad.
When was the seed of segregation and racism planted in our community?
How come the younger generations are so aware of the color of their skin?
Why is it so difficult for us to see the ‘integration’ that we are so fond of?
What happened?
I don’t have any theories. Just questions.
I’m really, honestly wondering what happened.
What can the man of good will do to combat deeply rooted prejudice? He must have the courage to set an example by words and deed, and must watch lest his children become influenced by racial bias.
Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)
Friday, June 22, 2007
Prejudice is the child of ignorance. Voltaire (1694 - 1778)
Don’t you just hate how people have preconceived ideas about other people?
Make judgments or form opinions by mere sight without having had the opportunity to get to know the subject of their opinions.
As a Malay woman who wears a tudung (headscarf), I’ve been subject to several ‘preconceived ideas’ and funnily enough, once they’ve gotten to know me, these people tend to confess their initial prejudice.
A recent situation reflects this situation clearly.
At the end of an induction program, team members were asked to say something positive about one another. A young Malay fellow said this to me:
“You’re very friendly and intelligent. And you speak very good English. Biasalakan, bila kita tengok perempuan pakai tudung, mesti kita ingat English dia tak terror kan.”
Uh. What’s with the ‘kita’?
You mean, bila YOU tengok perempuan pakai tudung, YOU ingat English dia tak terror, okay.
Don’t go ‘kita’ pulak, speak for yourself.
But actually, I’m not being fair to the guy.
He was actually a nice fellow and it's not like I’ve never had lots of comments like these.
There were situations where people seemed to shun me because they thought they wouldn’t be able to have a nice conversation with a tudung-wearing Malay girl. They probably thought all I could talk about was Mawi or the best way to cook masak lemak cili padi. The prejudice is that Malay girls in tudung are crazy about celebrities and always exchange recipes. God forbid they know ANYTHING about current affairs.
Even in professional situations, I’ve found myself being sidelined. I’d step into the meeting room with my secretary (who has long, curly hair and wears short black skirts) and the clients automatically turn towards her for consultation. And once they are introduced to me, their actual lawyer, you can practically HEAR their heart sink.
How could this tudung-wearing girl possibly be our lawyer?
I’d often just grit my teeth, give them a smile and start the meeting. The moment they hear me speak, SUDDENLY they’re interested in this tudung-wearing Malay girl. Their wary looks turn to relief and also barely hidden astonishment.
Oh My GOD, she actually can speak English!
And Oh My God, she actually KNOWS stuff about law.
And OH MY GOD, she’s actually quite funny!
It really irks me how people automatically assume that a ‘very Melayu looking Muslim girl’ can’t speak proper English.
My personal favourite is this conversation I had with a fellow I met at a legal convention.
“Eh, your English very good ah.”
“Thank you”
(I’ve found that this is the easiest and most polite answer. I tried sarcastic remarks but it just sounded rude. And most of the time, they never got it anyway.”
“You born in Malaysia ah?”
“Yup.”
“Oh. You study overseas ah?”
“Nope.”
“Where you study?”
“UIA”
“Oh... So your father or mother mixed ah?”
Here I am with my utmost Melayu look and this guy asks if my parents are of mixed race just because he needs to justify why this Malay girl speaks ‘good English’.
For the record:
- I was born and raised in Malaysia.
- I was fully-educated here in Malaysia.
- My parents are both Malays; Dad from Johor, Mom from Perak.
- My husband is not a Mat Salleh, he is from Kelantan.
My “English is very good” probably because I was exposed to the language at a very young age. I spent most of my childhood reading books in the English Language and watching children shows in the English Language. Enid Blyton and Sesame Street get some of the credit. And my mother spoke to me in proper English from birth. And in school, I hung-out with friends who were from different races and the language that connected us was, you got it, English.
I know most of you mean “Wahhh, you speak really good English” as a compliment and I thank you for it but sometimes, the amazement in which you utter that compliment diminishes it’s worth, for some reason.
I don’t need to have blond highlights in my hair, wear short skirts, wear peach lipgloss and have a glamour name like Sasha in order to speak good English.
I can be a simple, tudung-wearing Malay girl who speaks good English.
It is never too late to give up our prejudices.
Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862), 'Economy,' Walden, 1854
Note: I have had to do away with my old Haloscan commenting system. It was too much trouble to maintain. Although I'm sad to have had to sacrifice all the old comments, it's just one of those things that just HAD to be done. As always, I welcome comments so please, help yourselves :)
Make judgments or form opinions by mere sight without having had the opportunity to get to know the subject of their opinions.
As a Malay woman who wears a tudung (headscarf), I’ve been subject to several ‘preconceived ideas’ and funnily enough, once they’ve gotten to know me, these people tend to confess their initial prejudice.
A recent situation reflects this situation clearly.
At the end of an induction program, team members were asked to say something positive about one another. A young Malay fellow said this to me:
“You’re very friendly and intelligent. And you speak very good English. Biasalakan, bila kita tengok perempuan pakai tudung, mesti kita ingat English dia tak terror kan.”
Uh. What’s with the ‘kita’?
You mean, bila YOU tengok perempuan pakai tudung, YOU ingat English dia tak terror, okay.
Don’t go ‘kita’ pulak, speak for yourself.
But actually, I’m not being fair to the guy.
He was actually a nice fellow and it's not like I’ve never had lots of comments like these.
There were situations where people seemed to shun me because they thought they wouldn’t be able to have a nice conversation with a tudung-wearing Malay girl. They probably thought all I could talk about was Mawi or the best way to cook masak lemak cili padi. The prejudice is that Malay girls in tudung are crazy about celebrities and always exchange recipes. God forbid they know ANYTHING about current affairs.
Even in professional situations, I’ve found myself being sidelined. I’d step into the meeting room with my secretary (who has long, curly hair and wears short black skirts) and the clients automatically turn towards her for consultation. And once they are introduced to me, their actual lawyer, you can practically HEAR their heart sink.
How could this tudung-wearing girl possibly be our lawyer?
I’d often just grit my teeth, give them a smile and start the meeting. The moment they hear me speak, SUDDENLY they’re interested in this tudung-wearing Malay girl. Their wary looks turn to relief and also barely hidden astonishment.
Oh My GOD, she actually can speak English!
And Oh My God, she actually KNOWS stuff about law.
And OH MY GOD, she’s actually quite funny!
It really irks me how people automatically assume that a ‘very Melayu looking Muslim girl’ can’t speak proper English.
My personal favourite is this conversation I had with a fellow I met at a legal convention.
“Eh, your English very good ah.”
“Thank you”
(I’ve found that this is the easiest and most polite answer. I tried sarcastic remarks but it just sounded rude. And most of the time, they never got it anyway.”
“You born in Malaysia ah?”
“Yup.”
“Oh. You study overseas ah?”
“Nope.”
“Where you study?”
“UIA”
“Oh... So your father or mother mixed ah?”
Here I am with my utmost Melayu look and this guy asks if my parents are of mixed race just because he needs to justify why this Malay girl speaks ‘good English’.
For the record:
- I was born and raised in Malaysia.
- I was fully-educated here in Malaysia.
- My parents are both Malays; Dad from Johor, Mom from Perak.
- My husband is not a Mat Salleh, he is from Kelantan.
My “English is very good” probably because I was exposed to the language at a very young age. I spent most of my childhood reading books in the English Language and watching children shows in the English Language. Enid Blyton and Sesame Street get some of the credit. And my mother spoke to me in proper English from birth. And in school, I hung-out with friends who were from different races and the language that connected us was, you got it, English.
I know most of you mean “Wahhh, you speak really good English” as a compliment and I thank you for it but sometimes, the amazement in which you utter that compliment diminishes it’s worth, for some reason.
I don’t need to have blond highlights in my hair, wear short skirts, wear peach lipgloss and have a glamour name like Sasha in order to speak good English.
I can be a simple, tudung-wearing Malay girl who speaks good English.
It is never too late to give up our prejudices.
Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862), 'Economy,' Walden, 1854
Note: I have had to do away with my old Haloscan commenting system. It was too much trouble to maintain. Although I'm sad to have had to sacrifice all the old comments, it's just one of those things that just HAD to be done. As always, I welcome comments so please, help yourselves :)
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Abandoned Post on Why Maverix Left Law
Lawyers are not getting the best of publicities in the news these days...
As a former practicing lawyer, I share the pain and shame of having our brethren being dragged through the mud by headlines such as "Lawyers Wanted for Crimes" and "25 Lawyers Hunted".
I had a chat with several former colleagues of mine just awhile ago, and they all voiced the same disappointment, that they no longer feel proud to be a member of the Malaysian Bar Council. According to them, when the walk in the streets near the courts in their lawyer garb, the public seem to stare or glare at them as if they were criminals instead of officers of the court.
That's a shame. Really, it is.
Speaking of lawyers and court etc, it reminded me of my abandoned post... the one I wrote to explain my decision to quit practicing law. At the end of the day, I posted the one titled "Law is Mind Without Reason"
But I kept the original draft, the Abandoned Post, and after talking to my buddies, I got it out and re-read it.
After much thought, I figured there's really nothing wrong with it so... allow me to share it here with you.
The never-seen-before...
Maverix's Abandoned Post on Why She Quit Practicing Law
Woww? November was my last blog entry? Phew!
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
Groucho Marx
When I told that joke to my collleagues, one guy just looked at me blankly for 2 seconds and spent the next 10 seconds laughing loudly. TOO loudly. That's how the rest of us knew he was only pretending to get it.
*sigh* What to do? Not everyone is a Marx-fan.
Aaaaanywayyy?
A LOT of things has been happening since I last wrote. As some of you might have heard, I've tendered my resignation. After almost 2 years of litigation, I have decided to hang-up my robe-n'-bib indefinitely.
No more legal practice for this little lady. I've had enough to last me a lifetime.
Don't get me wrong now. I enjoyed litigation. I loved the feeling of being in verbal combat in the court. I relished the joy of victory being announced from the grim lips of a judge. I even admit to enjoying the self-important pomposity and grandiosity of being a litigation lawyer.
But I've come to realize that it is not for me.
I started out all starry-eyed and eager, fervently hoping to change the world and make it a better place.
As a peacemaker the lawyer has superior opportunity of being a good man. There will still be business enough.
Abraham Lincoln (1809 -1865)
Abraham Lincoln's wise words are poorly adhered to in the reality of litigation.
I've realised that most of my time is spent delaying justice... and sometimes, to my chagrin, I find myself denying justice. And to my utter horror, I began to find myself actually getting to be good at it.
Lawyers spend a great deal of their time shoveling smoke.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. (1841 - 1935)
Once again, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to imply that all litigation lawyers are evil, deceiving scumbags, NO.
But to be a litigator, I feel that one needs to have stomach of steel.. and the ability to detach ones'self from common human traits like compassion or empathy.
One example.
I went to court on behalf of my client, a major financial institution. My job was to obtain an order from the judge to evict a family from a property belonging to my client.
In court, I am faced with a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face, wearing an off-the-rack suit. He is accompanied by his 9-year-old daugther. Like many other people like him, he was unrepresented by a lawyer. No money to pay the legal fees.
The minute he heard that I was the plaintiff's lawyer, he approached me with dignified appeals not to evict him and his family from the house.
His voice is hushed but his eyes spoke volumes. I explained to him that my hands were tied. He had defaulted on payment and my client wants him to leave the property so that they can auction it off.
He clutches at a bunch of papers, tied up with a rubber band. He shoves the tattered bundle into my hands and tells me that these are letters from people who owe him money. And once he has collected these monies, he can pay the bank and my client should be able to let him stay.
I explained to him that it was too late for this. My client wants the property back and there is nothing much he can do about it but leave peacefully without having a bailiff forcefully throw them out.
To my utter chagrin, this middle-aged man starts to beg. He tells me that he's a taxi-driver, a single father raising 8 children and caring for his sickly mother. He tells me that if they are evicted, there is no place else for them to go.
His pleas get more and more emotional. And I could do nothing but stand there and listen... and tell him again and again that there was nothing I could do to help him.
My frustration at the helplessness of the situation quickly turned to mortification when I saw silent tears running down his cheeks. And that's when his daughter, who was watching our exchange, burst out into tears. The sight of her father crying was too much for the little girl and she wept while clutching at his waist.
Sobbing, she turned her face upward and looked at me.
Looked at me like I was the most evil monster she could ever imagine.
And indeed I was, as a few minutes later, I effectively got the judge to grant us an order to evict her family from her home.
This is only ONE example of the many depressing things I've done in the course of being a litigator. I've bankrupted several struggling businessmen, wound-up several companies and obtained warrants of arrest for several unsuspecting sleeping directors.
If there is such a thing as karma... I am so screwed.
It got to a point where I realized that I wasn't built for this kind of work. As 'strong' as I may seem to some people, deep inside, I'm still a bit of a wuss.
So, after giving it much MUCH thought, and after talking it over with my husband and my family, I realized that there was only one thing to do.
Get out.
Thus, one week from today, I will be bidding adieu to the legal practice.
Will I miss it?
Yes.
Am I glad to have made this decision though?
Yes.
Am very much looking forward to a nice long break before I pursue my 'future undertakings' :)
And hopefully, the karma will be a lot brighter this time.
-End of Abandoned Post-
So there you go.
Of course, the post I ended up with sounded much nicer, and much more positive. And it's all true.
But the stuff in the Abandoned Post is also all true.
However, there's a lot more of the truth that I have not revealed... and I guess, will not reveal...
There are somethings that are just better left unsaid.
And to my former brothers and sisters at the Bar, don't worry too much about the bad publicity. As long as you're not one of the "Lawyers Wanted For Crimes", you'll be fine... Hehehehe!
But seriously, I have faith in our lawyers... Not all of them are bad and quite simply, most of them are good. It's just a matter of getting rid of the evil ones and building a stronger reputation among the better ones.
As for the bad press, heck!
No one ever liked lawyers before this anyway :)
The greater the loyalty of a group toward the group, the greater is the motivation among the members to achieve the goals of the group, and the greater the probability that the group will achieve its goals.
Rensis Likert
As a former practicing lawyer, I share the pain and shame of having our brethren being dragged through the mud by headlines such as "Lawyers Wanted for Crimes" and "25 Lawyers Hunted".
I had a chat with several former colleagues of mine just awhile ago, and they all voiced the same disappointment, that they no longer feel proud to be a member of the Malaysian Bar Council. According to them, when the walk in the streets near the courts in their lawyer garb, the public seem to stare or glare at them as if they were criminals instead of officers of the court.
That's a shame. Really, it is.
Speaking of lawyers and court etc, it reminded me of my abandoned post... the one I wrote to explain my decision to quit practicing law. At the end of the day, I posted the one titled "Law is Mind Without Reason"
But I kept the original draft, the Abandoned Post, and after talking to my buddies, I got it out and re-read it.
After much thought, I figured there's really nothing wrong with it so... allow me to share it here with you.
The never-seen-before...
Maverix's Abandoned Post on Why She Quit Practicing Law
Woww? November was my last blog entry? Phew!
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
Groucho Marx
When I told that joke to my collleagues, one guy just looked at me blankly for 2 seconds and spent the next 10 seconds laughing loudly. TOO loudly. That's how the rest of us knew he was only pretending to get it.
*sigh* What to do? Not everyone is a Marx-fan.
Aaaaanywayyy?
A LOT of things has been happening since I last wrote. As some of you might have heard, I've tendered my resignation. After almost 2 years of litigation, I have decided to hang-up my robe-n'-bib indefinitely.
No more legal practice for this little lady. I've had enough to last me a lifetime.
Don't get me wrong now. I enjoyed litigation. I loved the feeling of being in verbal combat in the court. I relished the joy of victory being announced from the grim lips of a judge. I even admit to enjoying the self-important pomposity and grandiosity of being a litigation lawyer.
But I've come to realize that it is not for me.
I started out all starry-eyed and eager, fervently hoping to change the world and make it a better place.
As a peacemaker the lawyer has superior opportunity of being a good man. There will still be business enough.
Abraham Lincoln (1809 -1865)
Abraham Lincoln's wise words are poorly adhered to in the reality of litigation.
I've realised that most of my time is spent delaying justice... and sometimes, to my chagrin, I find myself denying justice. And to my utter horror, I began to find myself actually getting to be good at it.
Lawyers spend a great deal of their time shoveling smoke.
Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. (1841 - 1935)
Once again, don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to imply that all litigation lawyers are evil, deceiving scumbags, NO.
But to be a litigator, I feel that one needs to have stomach of steel.. and the ability to detach ones'self from common human traits like compassion or empathy.
One example.
I went to court on behalf of my client, a major financial institution. My job was to obtain an order from the judge to evict a family from a property belonging to my client.
In court, I am faced with a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face, wearing an off-the-rack suit. He is accompanied by his 9-year-old daugther. Like many other people like him, he was unrepresented by a lawyer. No money to pay the legal fees.
The minute he heard that I was the plaintiff's lawyer, he approached me with dignified appeals not to evict him and his family from the house.
His voice is hushed but his eyes spoke volumes. I explained to him that my hands were tied. He had defaulted on payment and my client wants him to leave the property so that they can auction it off.
He clutches at a bunch of papers, tied up with a rubber band. He shoves the tattered bundle into my hands and tells me that these are letters from people who owe him money. And once he has collected these monies, he can pay the bank and my client should be able to let him stay.
I explained to him that it was too late for this. My client wants the property back and there is nothing much he can do about it but leave peacefully without having a bailiff forcefully throw them out.
To my utter chagrin, this middle-aged man starts to beg. He tells me that he's a taxi-driver, a single father raising 8 children and caring for his sickly mother. He tells me that if they are evicted, there is no place else for them to go.
His pleas get more and more emotional. And I could do nothing but stand there and listen... and tell him again and again that there was nothing I could do to help him.
My frustration at the helplessness of the situation quickly turned to mortification when I saw silent tears running down his cheeks. And that's when his daughter, who was watching our exchange, burst out into tears. The sight of her father crying was too much for the little girl and she wept while clutching at his waist.
Sobbing, she turned her face upward and looked at me.
Looked at me like I was the most evil monster she could ever imagine.
And indeed I was, as a few minutes later, I effectively got the judge to grant us an order to evict her family from her home.
This is only ONE example of the many depressing things I've done in the course of being a litigator. I've bankrupted several struggling businessmen, wound-up several companies and obtained warrants of arrest for several unsuspecting sleeping directors.
If there is such a thing as karma... I am so screwed.
It got to a point where I realized that I wasn't built for this kind of work. As 'strong' as I may seem to some people, deep inside, I'm still a bit of a wuss.
So, after giving it much MUCH thought, and after talking it over with my husband and my family, I realized that there was only one thing to do.
Get out.
Thus, one week from today, I will be bidding adieu to the legal practice.
Will I miss it?
Yes.
Am I glad to have made this decision though?
Yes.
Am very much looking forward to a nice long break before I pursue my 'future undertakings' :)
And hopefully, the karma will be a lot brighter this time.
-End of Abandoned Post-
So there you go.
Of course, the post I ended up with sounded much nicer, and much more positive. And it's all true.
But the stuff in the Abandoned Post is also all true.
However, there's a lot more of the truth that I have not revealed... and I guess, will not reveal...
There are somethings that are just better left unsaid.
And to my former brothers and sisters at the Bar, don't worry too much about the bad publicity. As long as you're not one of the "Lawyers Wanted For Crimes", you'll be fine... Hehehehe!
But seriously, I have faith in our lawyers... Not all of them are bad and quite simply, most of them are good. It's just a matter of getting rid of the evil ones and building a stronger reputation among the better ones.
As for the bad press, heck!
No one ever liked lawyers before this anyway :)
The greater the loyalty of a group toward the group, the greater is the motivation among the members to achieve the goals of the group, and the greater the probability that the group will achieve its goals.
Rensis Likert
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Layers and Layers of Me
As a tentative foray into my long-abandoned blog here, I am now going to do something I've never done before...
One of these tag thingies.
Tagged by Izreen, the hot mamma of a pretty little cherubic princess....
Here goes....
Layer One: On the Outside
Name: Mediha Mahmood (Arabic meaning: Praiseworthy Praiseworthy)
Birthdate: 17 February1979
Chinese Zodiac – Year of the Goat,
Zodiac - Aquarius
Status: Married to a wonderful man with whom I now have a wonderful son.
Eye color: Black
Hair Color: Black
(nothing the least bit glamourous or exotic about my coloring)
Righty or Lefty: Am a bit ambidextrous... Apparently I was a lefty until my father trained me to be a righty. So now I'm a righty with lefty tendencies.
Layer Two: On the Inside
My heritage: Malay and a bit of Chinese.
Reminds me of a conversation I had a few years back.
"Are you Malay?"
"Yes"
"You don't look Malay"
"I've got some Chinese blood, I guess"
"No, aside from your eyes, you don't look Chinese"
"O...kay... so what do you think I look like?"
"I dunno. Just not Malay... or Chinese."
"What? Indian?"
"Not that either"
"Apa-apa lah"
"You look..... Asian"
"What the heck?"
"You know... Thai, Vietnamese, Burmese..."
Lovely.
My fears: Losing my loved ones... and cicaks. No, not losing cicaks, but cicaks per se. Those things are evil and gross. You can never predict where they're going and what they're gonna do. And they squash easily and they can split in two and SURVIVE. Eecchhhh.....
My Weaknesses: When provoked, sometimes my temper goes unreigned. And sometimes my tongue goes unleashed. Not a good thing.
My perfect pizza: Tons of cheese and sauce, mushrooms, green peppers, etc and a scatter of pineapples.
Layer Three: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow
My thoughts first thing when I wake up: Uhh.. what time is it? Where are my boys?
My bedtime: For now, whenever Mikhail settles down for the night and Wan is ready for bed... usually midnight.
My most missed memory: Swimming with the fishes in the ocean. The ocean is the most peaceful place to be in, really. All my troubles disappear and my little joys multiply.
Layer Four: My picks
Pepsi or Coke: Coke! Pepsi tastes like medicine to me.
Mc Donald's or Burger King: Burger King. The burgers are more burger'like than McDonald's. Though I do love McD's. Especially their Prosperity Beef Burger...
Single or Group Dates: Depends on the kind of date I'm hoping for. Romance or fun. Not that it can't be both, of course :)
Adidas or Nike: Just Do It.
Tea or Nestea: Tea. Hot hot hot HOT tea.
Chocolate or Vanilla: Chocolate … but sometimes vanilla. When I'm feeling like something pure and virgin'like. Heheh. But vanilla can be too milky or too sweet... and you really can't go wrong with chocolate so yeah, chocolate's my pick.
Cappucino or Coffee: Steaming hot, strong, black kopi Muar. Especially in the mornings... coupled with hot cakoi or nasi lemak. Best breakfast in the world.
Layer Five: Do I
Smoke: No way jose. I like my lungs pink, thank you.
Curse: Sometimes... and it's usually forced out of me against my will.
Take a shower: Yes laaaa, at least twice a day
Have a crush: Had one. Married it.
Think I've Been In love: Yes.
Go to school: Yup. Among the best years of my life.
Want to get married: No question about it. Always went for the whole happily ever after thing.
Believe in myself: Yes.
Think I'm a health freak: I know I'm not. I should be. Maybe later.
Layer Six: In the past month
Drank alcohol: No. Never have; except for that one accidental sip when the waiter wrongly served me a Long Island Ice Lemon Tea instead of a plain one.
Gone to the mall: Yes, just came back from one.
Been on stage: Nope. Not since my student days.
Eaten Sushi: Yes. Unagi... piled with wasabi... yummmm....
Dyed your hair: Never have, might try one day. Maybe.
Layer Seven: Have I ever
Played a stripping game: That's for me to know and you never to find out.
Changed who I am to fit in: Wha-? No way.
Layer Eight: AgeI am hoping to be married
I planned to get married before I turned 27. Got married when I was 26. Mission accomplished.
Layer Nine: What was I doing
1 min ago: Doing this tag thingy while chatting with my hubby and keeping an eye on sleeping baby.
1 hour ago: Eating dinner. Was planning to go get some KFC but we were too malas so we had rice with the family.
4.5 hours ago: On a movie date with Wan. Watched 'The No. 23'. Jim Carrey can actually act without his rubber face.
1 month ago: Enjoying my stay-at-home-mom status and playing with Mikhail while toying with the idea of going back to work.
1 year ago: I was around 2 months pregnant. Probably barfing my head off in the loo.
Layer Ten: Finish The Sentence
I love: My family. And pasta. And shopping. And hot coffee. And thunderstorms. And chocolate.
I feel: depressed at the thought of re-joining the workforce after 6 months of staying home with Mikhail. Yet, I'm also looking forward to it. In a nutshell, I feel c.o.n.f.u.s.e.d.
I hate: injustice and those who perpetrate it.
I hide: my feelings... sometimes. Sometimes they're too big to hide.
I need: a vacation. Somewhere far away with cool weather and great food.
Layer Eleven: Tag 5 people
Anyone who feels like doing it.
Till later, Cheers!
One of these tag thingies.
Tagged by Izreen, the hot mamma of a pretty little cherubic princess....
Here goes....
Layer One: On the Outside
Name: Mediha Mahmood (Arabic meaning: Praiseworthy Praiseworthy)
Birthdate: 17 February1979
Chinese Zodiac – Year of the Goat,
Zodiac - Aquarius
Status: Married to a wonderful man with whom I now have a wonderful son.
Eye color: Black
Hair Color: Black
(nothing the least bit glamourous or exotic about my coloring)
Righty or Lefty: Am a bit ambidextrous... Apparently I was a lefty until my father trained me to be a righty. So now I'm a righty with lefty tendencies.
Layer Two: On the Inside
My heritage: Malay and a bit of Chinese.
Reminds me of a conversation I had a few years back.
"Are you Malay?"
"Yes"
"You don't look Malay"
"I've got some Chinese blood, I guess"
"No, aside from your eyes, you don't look Chinese"
"O...kay... so what do you think I look like?"
"I dunno. Just not Malay... or Chinese."
"What? Indian?"
"Not that either"
"Apa-apa lah"
"You look..... Asian"
"What the heck?"
"You know... Thai, Vietnamese, Burmese..."
Lovely.
My fears: Losing my loved ones... and cicaks. No, not losing cicaks, but cicaks per se. Those things are evil and gross. You can never predict where they're going and what they're gonna do. And they squash easily and they can split in two and SURVIVE. Eecchhhh.....
My Weaknesses: When provoked, sometimes my temper goes unreigned. And sometimes my tongue goes unleashed. Not a good thing.
My perfect pizza: Tons of cheese and sauce, mushrooms, green peppers, etc and a scatter of pineapples.
Layer Three: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow
My thoughts first thing when I wake up: Uhh.. what time is it? Where are my boys?
My bedtime: For now, whenever Mikhail settles down for the night and Wan is ready for bed... usually midnight.
My most missed memory: Swimming with the fishes in the ocean. The ocean is the most peaceful place to be in, really. All my troubles disappear and my little joys multiply.
Layer Four: My picks
Pepsi or Coke: Coke! Pepsi tastes like medicine to me.
Mc Donald's or Burger King: Burger King. The burgers are more burger'like than McDonald's. Though I do love McD's. Especially their Prosperity Beef Burger...
Single or Group Dates: Depends on the kind of date I'm hoping for. Romance or fun. Not that it can't be both, of course :)
Adidas or Nike: Just Do It.
Tea or Nestea: Tea. Hot hot hot HOT tea.
Chocolate or Vanilla: Chocolate … but sometimes vanilla. When I'm feeling like something pure and virgin'like. Heheh. But vanilla can be too milky or too sweet... and you really can't go wrong with chocolate so yeah, chocolate's my pick.
Cappucino or Coffee: Steaming hot, strong, black kopi Muar. Especially in the mornings... coupled with hot cakoi or nasi lemak. Best breakfast in the world.
Layer Five: Do I
Smoke: No way jose. I like my lungs pink, thank you.
Curse: Sometimes... and it's usually forced out of me against my will.
Take a shower: Yes laaaa, at least twice a day
Have a crush: Had one. Married it.
Think I've Been In love: Yes.
Go to school: Yup. Among the best years of my life.
Want to get married: No question about it. Always went for the whole happily ever after thing.
Believe in myself: Yes.
Think I'm a health freak: I know I'm not. I should be. Maybe later.
Layer Six: In the past month
Drank alcohol: No. Never have; except for that one accidental sip when the waiter wrongly served me a Long Island Ice Lemon Tea instead of a plain one.
Gone to the mall: Yes, just came back from one.
Been on stage: Nope. Not since my student days.
Eaten Sushi: Yes. Unagi... piled with wasabi... yummmm....
Dyed your hair: Never have, might try one day. Maybe.
Layer Seven: Have I ever
Played a stripping game: That's for me to know and you never to find out.
Changed who I am to fit in: Wha-? No way.
Layer Eight: AgeI am hoping to be married
I planned to get married before I turned 27. Got married when I was 26. Mission accomplished.
Layer Nine: What was I doing
1 min ago: Doing this tag thingy while chatting with my hubby and keeping an eye on sleeping baby.
1 hour ago: Eating dinner. Was planning to go get some KFC but we were too malas so we had rice with the family.
4.5 hours ago: On a movie date with Wan. Watched 'The No. 23'. Jim Carrey can actually act without his rubber face.
1 month ago: Enjoying my stay-at-home-mom status and playing with Mikhail while toying with the idea of going back to work.
1 year ago: I was around 2 months pregnant. Probably barfing my head off in the loo.
Layer Ten: Finish The Sentence
I love: My family. And pasta. And shopping. And hot coffee. And thunderstorms. And chocolate.
I feel: depressed at the thought of re-joining the workforce after 6 months of staying home with Mikhail. Yet, I'm also looking forward to it. In a nutshell, I feel c.o.n.f.u.s.e.d.
I hate: injustice and those who perpetrate it.
I hide: my feelings... sometimes. Sometimes they're too big to hide.
I need: a vacation. Somewhere far away with cool weather and great food.
Layer Eleven: Tag 5 people
Anyone who feels like doing it.
Till later, Cheers!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Return of The Maverix
(sounds like a horrible B-grade movie kan...)
I haven't written in this blog since Wan's father passed away November last year.
I had no idea what to write since this blog is, more often than not, filled with my nonsensical, lame ramblings and sarcastic venting.
It seemed incredibly disrespectful for me to continue my nonsense after such a sad period of loss.
It's not like I haven't been blogging though.
Exactly 20 days after arwah Ayoh passed away, my son was born.
I've been updating on that in my other blog, 'Musings on Sesame Street'.
My son is almost 5 months now and he's wonderful.
But since I already have an entire blog dedicated to my little Wan Mikhail, I'm not going to clutter this one with my mommy-stuff too...
I'm back in Maverix Musings because 'Life Goes On'...
And since my dear husband too has resumed his blog, I felt it the right time for me to resume mine as well...
But before I move on to my usual 'musings', I have to share that when I re-read my post on Ayoh's collapse and his demise... I cried.
Ayoh was a great man.
I've never met a man who knew exactly how to deal with people from any and all walks of life.
He treated VVIP's and menial labourers exactly the way they wanted to be treated.
He always managed to make EVERYONE he met feel welcomed, feel respected... feel special.
His sense of humor was legendary.
His sincerity in helping out others was what he was famous for.
He could strike up a conversation with ANYone ANYtime and within seconds, they'd be best buddies.
My mom once described Ayoh as 'an old-school gentleman'... and that's exactly what he was.
A real gentleman to the core.
He knew how to treat the ladies and he was every man's best friend.
I know I'm making him sound to perfect to be true but I'm not fibbing.
He was exactly how I'm making him out to be.
I remember the first time Wan introduced me to his dad...
We had been 'going-out' for quite some time and one day, without warning, he took me to meet his father.
I was (as you can imagine) terrified at the thought of meeting my boyfriend's father... especially knowing that he was a retired army-man who was the ADC for the Sultan of Kelantan.
I imagined someone scarily serious and no-nonsence.
I imagined him giving me a disapproving look and sniff at how 'unsuitable' I was for his precious firstborn.
I imagined the worst.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
The second he laid eyes on me, he gave me a big warm grin.
He showered me with compliments and engaged me into a conversation about myself (my favourite topic... haha) and he listened attentively.
He treated me like I had always been part of the family.
He was a fantastic father-in-law and I'm extremely fortunate to have been his daughter-in-law for that precious 17 months before he passed away.
My heart aches that my son did not have the chance to know his Tok Ayoh.
My heart aches that Ayoh did not have the chance to meet his first grandson.
I know that they would have adored each other...
But rest assured that despite never having met his Tok Ayoh, Mikhail will know all that is to know about that great man.
His Daddy will see to that.
And may the generation of great men continue...
Amin.
A sweet thing, for whatever time, to revisit in dreams the dear dad we have lost and to tell his tales to his grandchildren for posterity.
Euripides (484 BC - 406 BC), Alcestis, 438 BC.
I haven't written in this blog since Wan's father passed away November last year.
I had no idea what to write since this blog is, more often than not, filled with my nonsensical, lame ramblings and sarcastic venting.
It seemed incredibly disrespectful for me to continue my nonsense after such a sad period of loss.
It's not like I haven't been blogging though.
Exactly 20 days after arwah Ayoh passed away, my son was born.
I've been updating on that in my other blog, 'Musings on Sesame Street'.
My son is almost 5 months now and he's wonderful.
But since I already have an entire blog dedicated to my little Wan Mikhail, I'm not going to clutter this one with my mommy-stuff too...
I'm back in Maverix Musings because 'Life Goes On'...
And since my dear husband too has resumed his blog, I felt it the right time for me to resume mine as well...
But before I move on to my usual 'musings', I have to share that when I re-read my post on Ayoh's collapse and his demise... I cried.
Ayoh was a great man.
I've never met a man who knew exactly how to deal with people from any and all walks of life.
He treated VVIP's and menial labourers exactly the way they wanted to be treated.
He always managed to make EVERYONE he met feel welcomed, feel respected... feel special.
His sense of humor was legendary.
His sincerity in helping out others was what he was famous for.
He could strike up a conversation with ANYone ANYtime and within seconds, they'd be best buddies.
My mom once described Ayoh as 'an old-school gentleman'... and that's exactly what he was.
A real gentleman to the core.
He knew how to treat the ladies and he was every man's best friend.
I know I'm making him sound to perfect to be true but I'm not fibbing.
He was exactly how I'm making him out to be.
I remember the first time Wan introduced me to his dad...
We had been 'going-out' for quite some time and one day, without warning, he took me to meet his father.
I was (as you can imagine) terrified at the thought of meeting my boyfriend's father... especially knowing that he was a retired army-man who was the ADC for the Sultan of Kelantan.
I imagined someone scarily serious and no-nonsence.
I imagined him giving me a disapproving look and sniff at how 'unsuitable' I was for his precious firstborn.
I imagined the worst.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
The second he laid eyes on me, he gave me a big warm grin.
He showered me with compliments and engaged me into a conversation about myself (my favourite topic... haha) and he listened attentively.
He treated me like I had always been part of the family.
He was a fantastic father-in-law and I'm extremely fortunate to have been his daughter-in-law for that precious 17 months before he passed away.
My heart aches that my son did not have the chance to know his Tok Ayoh.
My heart aches that Ayoh did not have the chance to meet his first grandson.
I know that they would have adored each other...
But rest assured that despite never having met his Tok Ayoh, Mikhail will know all that is to know about that great man.
His Daddy will see to that.
And may the generation of great men continue...
Amin.
A sweet thing, for whatever time, to revisit in dreams the dear dad we have lost and to tell his tales to his grandchildren for posterity.
Euripides (484 BC - 406 BC), Alcestis, 438 BC.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Farewell, Ayoh... We'll Miss You.
Wednesday, 1st November 2006, 2134 hrs.
Wan's beloved father, Mejar (B) Wan Mansor Wan Omar, passed away peacefully after almost 3 months of being in a coma.
His filial son was right beside him when he breathed his last breath.
Innalillahi wa innalil rojiuun
May Allah bless his soul...
May Allah grant his loved ones with patience and strength in this period of grieving.
Al-Fatihah
Wan's beloved father, Mejar (B) Wan Mansor Wan Omar, passed away peacefully after almost 3 months of being in a coma.
His filial son was right beside him when he breathed his last breath.
Innalillahi wa innalil rojiuun
May Allah bless his soul...
May Allah grant his loved ones with patience and strength in this period of grieving.
Al-Fatihah
Thursday, October 12, 2006
It is not flesh and blood but the heart, which makes us fathers and sons.Johann Schiller
It’s been ages since I’ve last posted anything on this blog.
My other blog, or what people might call the “Baby Blog” was updated yesterday...
It’s about time I posted something new on this one.
A lot of things have happened since I last wrote.
No, no, I haven’t given birth yet!
Besides, anything on the birth and the baby is on the Baby Blog
A couple of months ago, Wan’s father collapsed in a coma...and he hasn’t woken up. They did 2 major operations on him; brain surgery (he had an aneurysm) and an angiogram (they coiled something in his heart). Both operations went well and now there’s nothing much for anyone to do but wait and pray.
He’s sleeping peacefully in KL Hospital’s ICU and everyone is just waiting for him to wake up. He is responsive – eyes blinking, fingers moving, legs twitching... but he hasn’t really woken up yet.
Wan has always been very close with his father. They’re more like best buddies than father and son. He takes after his father a lot. In fact, his mannerisms and facial gestures are SoOOo like his father; all his father’s friends have a hard time not welling-up when they have conversations with him during hospital visits.
Wan’s father, whom we call ‘Ayoh’, was always in the habit of calling him up at anytime of the night just to chat. And more often than not, these chats would last for hours and be infused with loud guffaws and infectious laughter.
And whenever Ayoh came down to KL, they’d always get together for a meal (and usually, a very LARGE one). These meals again would be interspersed with hilarity and mirth.
So you can imagine how Ayoh’s coma has affected Wan.
It’s like someone reached into his chest and tore out a piece of his heart.
For the first few days after the collapse, it pained me to see the agony that my husband was going through. Not a man who keeps his emotions inside, Wan had tears running down his face every time he performed his prayers. But for the sake of his family, he put up a brave front. It was only in the privacy of our room did he let the tears fall.
I’ve observed and learned a lot from this experience...
I’ve learned that the government hospital staffs are not the lazybums that they are constantly accused of being.
I’ve learned that people handle grief in different ways, including running away from it, being in denial and letting their lives go on a standstill.
I’ve learned that there are many ways NOT to approach a grieving family (telling sweet anecdotes about your relationship with the patient are fine... disclosing his shortcomings are a definite no-no... DUH!)
The most memorable thing I’ve learned... is that my husband is an Amazing Man.
Okay, I’ve always known that – that’s why I married him. But I had no idea how solid and dependable he can be in times of adversity.
Wan is a pillar of strength for his mother, a distracting delight to his siblings and a responsible son to his father. And throughout all this, he never failed in his role as husband and expectant father.
He still has time to fuss over his heavily pregnant wife.
He still has time to sing to his baby (albeit through my belly) at night.
He still finds the time to indulge in my family’s requests for his presence (they love him and are constantly making sure he gets proper TLC).
He was never on depress-mode and carried on being the same jovial, cheerful man he always was.
And he never failed to visit his father in the ICU. Not once. And every time he goes, he’ll chat with Ayoh, sing to him, embrace him, pray with him, coax him to respond to his voice... and Ayoh actually does respond.
The sight of a single tear running down his cheek was enough to make me tear-up. It’s amazing... how strong a father-son bond can be.
If the relationship of father to son could really be reduced to biology, the whole earth would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons.
James Baldwin
Right now, life goes on.
Ayoh is still sleeping peacefully in the ICU.
We’re all praying for him.
Prophet Muhammad's Prayer for the Ailing
"O Allah remove the hardship, O Lord of mankind, grant cure for You are the Healer. There is no cure but from You, a cure which leaves no illness behind."
My other blog, or what people might call the “Baby Blog” was updated yesterday...
It’s about time I posted something new on this one.
A lot of things have happened since I last wrote.
No, no, I haven’t given birth yet!
Besides, anything on the birth and the baby is on the Baby Blog
A couple of months ago, Wan’s father collapsed in a coma...and he hasn’t woken up. They did 2 major operations on him; brain surgery (he had an aneurysm) and an angiogram (they coiled something in his heart). Both operations went well and now there’s nothing much for anyone to do but wait and pray.
He’s sleeping peacefully in KL Hospital’s ICU and everyone is just waiting for him to wake up. He is responsive – eyes blinking, fingers moving, legs twitching... but he hasn’t really woken up yet.
Wan has always been very close with his father. They’re more like best buddies than father and son. He takes after his father a lot. In fact, his mannerisms and facial gestures are SoOOo like his father; all his father’s friends have a hard time not welling-up when they have conversations with him during hospital visits.
Wan’s father, whom we call ‘Ayoh’, was always in the habit of calling him up at anytime of the night just to chat. And more often than not, these chats would last for hours and be infused with loud guffaws and infectious laughter.
And whenever Ayoh came down to KL, they’d always get together for a meal (and usually, a very LARGE one). These meals again would be interspersed with hilarity and mirth.
So you can imagine how Ayoh’s coma has affected Wan.
It’s like someone reached into his chest and tore out a piece of his heart.
For the first few days after the collapse, it pained me to see the agony that my husband was going through. Not a man who keeps his emotions inside, Wan had tears running down his face every time he performed his prayers. But for the sake of his family, he put up a brave front. It was only in the privacy of our room did he let the tears fall.
I’ve observed and learned a lot from this experience...
I’ve learned that the government hospital staffs are not the lazybums that they are constantly accused of being.
I’ve learned that people handle grief in different ways, including running away from it, being in denial and letting their lives go on a standstill.
I’ve learned that there are many ways NOT to approach a grieving family (telling sweet anecdotes about your relationship with the patient are fine... disclosing his shortcomings are a definite no-no... DUH!)
The most memorable thing I’ve learned... is that my husband is an Amazing Man.
Okay, I’ve always known that – that’s why I married him. But I had no idea how solid and dependable he can be in times of adversity.
Wan is a pillar of strength for his mother, a distracting delight to his siblings and a responsible son to his father. And throughout all this, he never failed in his role as husband and expectant father.
He still has time to fuss over his heavily pregnant wife.
He still has time to sing to his baby (albeit through my belly) at night.
He still finds the time to indulge in my family’s requests for his presence (they love him and are constantly making sure he gets proper TLC).
He was never on depress-mode and carried on being the same jovial, cheerful man he always was.
And he never failed to visit his father in the ICU. Not once. And every time he goes, he’ll chat with Ayoh, sing to him, embrace him, pray with him, coax him to respond to his voice... and Ayoh actually does respond.
The sight of a single tear running down his cheek was enough to make me tear-up. It’s amazing... how strong a father-son bond can be.
If the relationship of father to son could really be reduced to biology, the whole earth would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons.
James Baldwin
Right now, life goes on.
Ayoh is still sleeping peacefully in the ICU.
We’re all praying for him.
Prophet Muhammad's Prayer for the Ailing
"O Allah remove the hardship, O Lord of mankind, grant cure for You are the Healer. There is no cure but from You, a cure which leaves no illness behind."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)