What's In a Name?
The only thing remotely "Peranakan" about me is my Chinese name, Soon Neo. What's in a name? Plenty. I had the dubious honour of being the elder child of the elder son in a traditional Baba family. All my cousins from my Dad's side had a "Soon" in their Chinese names. My brother had it worse - he was named as a fish - Soon Hock.
Ironically, the name is a sure giveaway for my heritage ( or lack of it ). It means "lady". Being anything but ... it seemed like someone is having a private joke at my expense. I've been sorely tempted to deed poll it permanently away, but sentimentality prevailed and I'm glad I retained it, although I substituted the Chinese characters for a less cringe-worthy meaning.
One day I asked my mom " How did we get our names?" She said that Grandpa ( Kong Kong )gave us our Christian names and Grandma ( Mak )gave the Chinese names. " Don't you have a say in our names?" I persisted...Mom said that she and Dad could exercise a limited choice based on a few prescribed names, but mine was non-negotiable. " How did my brother end up being a fish...?" I wonder to this day.
Anyway, I am very grateful to my Kong Kong for giving me my "Christian" name ( when he wasn't one ) and I could speak for my brother for being "Ronald" and not "Donald".
Early Years
In my growing up years, I lived with my maternal grandmother and parents in a 2-room HDB flat in Balam Road, Macpherson Estate. My parents occupied the bigger bedroom. My grandmother had her own bed in the other remaining bedroom, and the rest of us sort of made do on mattresses on the floor. My mom's sister and their family lived next door and it was like one big happy family. My cousin, A ,was like the sister I never had. Together, we had a mischievous past, and a childhood well spent. My brother came too late - 5 years on, and we never had much in common.
My maternal grandma ( Por Por ) was a chain-smoking, occasionally swearing, matriarch who loved mahjong. Her mood barometer varied according to the fortunes of the day. She had a particularly soft spot for me despite a stern demeanor. I must be one of the rare few who looked forward to exams because there would be a sure reward from Por Por afterwards for good results. Life was simpler then - I had a good childhood and enjoyed school. Woe betide anyone who dares to cross her - we were dealt with a form of cruel and unusual punishment: she would pinch our armpits and man, that hurt. When she was stricken with cancer and became a pale shadow of her old feisty self, it was heart-rending. I loved my Por Por before she fell ill and treasured fond memories of her afterwards.
When Por Por passed on, we moved out of her HDB flat to live with Mak.
Fleeting Images of Peranakan Life
Kong Kong died when I was too young to remember him. We would visit our paternal grandparents once a week on Sundays.
Mak was a true-blue Nonya. She lived, breathed, spoke and dressed Peranakan. I did not understand many of the nuances of the culture then, or why she acted the way she did. Wisdom and understanding descends on even the hard-core, some decades later.
There was the biggest altar I've even seen occupying centre-stage in the living room. Mak was the exact opposite of Por Por. She was soft-spoken, genteel, always impeccably groomed in her baju panjang , kerosang, and coifed hair. She would pay homage religiously to the ancestors of old, the kitchen god, and other gods with rather ugly faces.
Mak was always careful not to incur the wrath of the "gods" by not doing things which are pantang. I was careless to break many of these "taboos", inadvertently or otherwise. One time, I broke a mirror while kicking a ball around. Her face registered deep consternation and I heard her muttering under her breath " Alamak, 7 years' bad luck for this anak." Happily, it did not come to pass...
A long list of pantangs follow...Do not wash your hair or sweep the floor on the first day of Chinese New Year; always finish your rice; do not take the last piece of food; do not stick your chopsticks into your rice; do not place your bowl on top of your plate... I was not very good at the dining table.
Mak was particular about dates. Every significant date has to be consulted with the almanac or with the medium in her temple. Sometimes it went further. She brought me once to the temple where the medium murmured something unintelligible, wrote something equally illegible on a piece of paper, which was burned and dipped in water. I was told to drink it. I took a sip and spat out the rest. It was the end of temple visits for me. It was also clear that I was not to be the favorite grandchild.
The cooking was something else. Each dish, rempah, sauce and relish, was prepared with meticulous devotion. Mak pooh-poohed the use of the grinder, preferring to pound the chilli and blachan mixture in a mortar and pestle. I enjoyed the sight and sound of her kitchen activities. To this day, I love Peranakan cuisine that way my Mak used to cook it. Sedap!
In my twenties, I began to appreciate more of my rather paltry Peranakan roots - I started collecting kebayas. In my thirties, I bought and lived in a Peranakan House. In my forties, I ate more Peranakan food...
I am looking into more ways to be Peranakan as I teeter on the wrong end of my forties....
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