by You Jin
She was able to dissipate her unhappiness through a unique humour. One of her relatives was a greedy woman, Auntie Hu, who always asked my mother-in-law to buy loads of items when she made a short visit to Singapore. In fact, all of those items could be bought in Ipoh, but her excuse was that the things in Ipoh were not as fresh as those in Singapore. Once, seeing the things on my mother-in-law’s list for this Auntie Hu, I was afraid she wouldn’t be able to carry it all on the train, so I advised her to ignore the list. I never imagined she would simply say, “If this Auntie Hu knew a lizard or cockroach were coming to Singapore, she’d say, ‘Lizard, will you buy a duck for me?’ and ‘Cockroach, can you buy prawn paste for me?’ Think about it—ducks and prawn paste are so heavy, how can the lizard and cockroach carry them. So, I have to help her.”
Hearing her utter such a funny excuse, I burst out laughing.
To her generation, a daughter-in-law has no status. Her own mother-in-law was never kind to her, but when James’ mother gained this new status, she not only did not think of getting her revenge, but went to great pains to treat her daughters-in-law well, cherishing us as if we were her own children.
What really touched me about my mother-in-law was how she wholeheartedly plunged herself into life’s pleasures. She was always happy, no matter what she did. And she always kept busy, leaving not a single moment idle. She brought up seven children by herself. Except for her oldest daughter, who showed a complete lack of interest in studies, the others all went overseas to study. Three became architects, and the other three engineers.
Though my mother-in-law never went to school, she had a wealth of general knowledge. She was extremely capable and completely fearless. She used to live in Hainan Island, and there she would help deliver babies. She also had special ways of dealing with epileptic children and stroke patients, and even helped her neighbours sterilise their dogs. She was like a village doctor who was praised and respected for miles around for the help she offered to so many others.
There is one thing that many people still enjoy talking about up until today, though no one has yet been able to explain it. Once, when my husband’s second brother was in his early teens, he suffered from a strange eye problem that almost blinded him. Worried sick, my mother-in-law took him all over to see doctors, but none of them could help. He tried all sorts of medications and treatments, but none were of any use. Watching her son’s eyesight deteriorating every day, she was so anxious that she took matters into her own hands. Based on the theory that the ear and eye were somehow connected, she made an incision in one of the veins behind his ear and drained the blood. After that, this boy, by now nearly blind, suddenly regained his sight, returning to complete health. After this, my mother-in-law told others, “Well, the doctors said they couldn’t do anything, but if I didn’t treat it, he would go blind. I figured there was at least some hope if we tried to cure it this way.”
When the young fellow had grown up, he became a professor of engineering. When he mentions that his mother performed surgery on him with her own hands, he always shudders and says, “I bled a lot.”
When my mother-in-law and I entered the relationship we were fated to share, her children had all finished their studies and started working, and she lived in comfort in a six-bedroom house. But she never grew lazy, instead busying herself with various tasks. She loved to cook, sew, garden and engage in all sorts of activities that filled up her days all through the year. And she especially loved taking care of her noisy, playful, rambunctious grandchildren.
She never let life overcome her. Instead, she calmly and appropriately organised her days. She never let trivial things enslave her, but instead used them to decorate her life, making it brighter and more vibrant.
Every day, she came up with different dishes, so her family members looked forward to the scrumptious fare she prepared. On every holiday, she enthusiastically cooked all the seasonal specialties.
For Chinese New Year, she prepared her own sausage. When she had marinated the meat in rose wine and other condiments to add flavour, she stuffed it into a very thin skin and hung each length on a bamboo rod to dry. When the sausages were cooked, the fragrance of the rose wine wafted in the air and, when eaten, made you forget your own identity. She would also buy live prawns to make her own prawn crackers. When they were fried, they were not only crispy, but would fill your mouth with a strong prawn flavour. She also prepared homemade snacks such as peanut biscuits, rice crackers, nian gao, love letters and little cakes, all of which were very appetising.
For the Dragon Boat Festival, the dumplings she made were famous. Each was an oblong of eight or nine centimetres long. Inside, the glutinous rice was cooked to just the right softness, filled with fatty meat, flavoursome mushrooms, shredded cuttlefish and millet that melted with each bite, so delicious it took one’s breath away. When it got close to Dragon Boat festival season each year, several of my friends would try to curry favour with me, hoping to secure a few of my mother-in-law’s dumplings to taste.
When she was not cooking, she was sewing. She loved to sew patchwork blankets for her grandchildren. Rags were useless on their own, but would miraculously come together to form light blankets through my mother-in-law’s stitching. Her grandchildren called these “grandmother blankets”. The grandmother blankets were amazing. Covering up with one on a cool day would keep you warm, but the feel on your skin on a warm day seemed cool. Hugging it to sleep every night seemed to bring sweet dreams too. Once when we were moving house, I accidentally lost my second son’s grandmother blanket. Though he had always been a compliant child, when this happened, he cried and complained. Weeping until his eyes were swollen as big as peaches, he refused to be comforted. Later, I called his grandmother in Ipoh and told her what had happened, asking if she could make another blanket for him. It happened that a relative was coming to Singapore the next day so, without saying a word, my mother-in-law stayed up all night and sewed another blanket for him. The night it was delivered, my second son hugged his grandmother blanket to sleep and, though his tear stains were still there, at the corners of his mouth was a fragile smile.
To my three children, their grandmother blankets were a symbol of their grandmother’s hands, heart, and love. From the time they were born, when I would travel three or four times a year, I would take the children to Ipoh for my mother-in-law to take care of them. The big house in Ipoh was filled with their joyous laughter, and was a comfort to their sorrowful tears. When they were happy and exulted, their grandmother would reward them with sweets and snacks to deepen their pleasure. When they were upset or angry, she gently rubbed their cheeks with her broad forehead and told them that, even if the sky fell in, their grandmother would protect them, so there was no need to fret.
In helping me care for the children, my mother-in-law enabled me to fulfil my dream of seeing the world. When I look back on this now, so many years later, I am filled with gratitude.
She never stopped learning new things on her own. Every day when she had finished her housework, she put on her reading glasses and read the newspaper. If she came to a word she did not understand, she asked, then committed what she learnt to memory. In this way, learning as she read, she gradually came to a point where she could read and understand on her own.
My mother-in-law was a great woman. Of course, some people will think that she was just an illiterate, traditional woman, and she could not be compared to great people. But I think a great woman and my mother-in-law have one thing in common: they both have the symbol of love; they love life, love everybody, and love everything they do. A great woman writer will embed love in her text, spreading it to every corner of the earth. My dear mother-in-law inlaid love into her daily life, spreading it to everyone who knew her. Both treat life seriously, and life in return repays them in different ways.
CHAPTER 8
In the Journalism Field
A Reporter’s Life
THE MIDDLE-AGED MAN sitting in front of me had dark skin and b
right eyes. His name was Goh Seow Poh, Assistant Editor of the Nanyang Siang Pau. After reviewing my CV, he asked, “Why do you want to be a reporter?”
A million words crowded my mind, but I was so nervous that all that I could manage to say was, “I like writing, and am interested in all sorts of new things. If I can be a reporter, I will do my best to dig up little-known phenomena in society to report.”
Mr Goh nodded, then asked, “Do you know the duties of a reporter?”
I quickly said, “To report the news, and to keep one’s civic duties in mind in everything she writes.”
He nodded again, then looked at me pointedly and said, “To be a reporter, competence in both languages, Chinese and English, is a definite requirement. You need a good base of general knowledge, and quick responses. Are you able to do this?”
I answered wholeheartedly, “I will certainly do my very best.”
Then Mr Goh took out an English article he had prepared and put it on the table. He said, “Now, translate this article into Chinese.”
Saying this, he left the office, leaving me alone in the room with the unfamiliar trial article. Thinking of how my future fate hung on every word that would flow from my pen now, I was very anxious about making even the smallest mistake.
Writing and translating are two completely different things. In writing, one has all the space in the world to express and create. Translating means adhering closely to another person’s thoughts, respecting her or his opinions and expressing her or his words. It is much more constricting.
Of course, like writing, translating also has many layers. The first and most basic layer is mirroring the two languages, bringing the meaning of the original into the translation. If the writing is stiff, it is easily recognised as translated work. At the highest level of translation, the writing is vivid and smooth, with no trace of translation, and yet retaining the content and style of the original work, a lively form of re-creation.
I love to write, but I do not love to translate. Still, I was trying to turn my dream into reality, so I put everything I had into completing the task. When I had finished, I respectfully handed it to Mr Goh, then tried to settle my anxious mind as I made my way home to wait for news of the outcome.
The opportunity to work as a reporter at Nanyang Siang Pau had come about through an introduction from my editor, Xie Ke. He had long been working with me in a “Literary Garden”, and he really took care of me. He was a mentor to me, and he knew that what I most wanted to do when I graduated from university was to be a reporter, so when the newspaper needed someone, he recommended me.
I did not have to wait long for news: I was made a field reporter for Nanyang Siang Pau. I was half crazy with delight.
I asked Mr Goh what my working hours were each day. I did not anticipate his answer: “You don’t have set work hours.”
I thought I had misheard, so I repeated the question. He answered patiently, “Your work is scheduled around the demands of your job. When there is news to report, you need to be available. Day or night, or even midnight, can be your work hours.”
This answer surprised me, but then, being a reporter was my greatest dream. Even if Mr Goh had said I was to work 23 hours a day, I think I would have accepted the terms.
In May 1976, I left the library, where I had worked for three years, and became a cub reporter. Though many years have since passed, I can still picture my first day at work clearly in my mind.
At eight o’clock sharp, I arrived at the office, which was then at Alexandra Road. I reported to the chief reporter, Mr Feng Weiying. On his desk was a huge, thick notebook containing the daily assignments. Clearly written next to each interview was a reporter’s name, and when and where the interview was to take place.
My assignment for the day was to report on the Telecommunications and Mass Media Exhibition. The VIP at the exhibition was then-Minister of Communications, Ong Teng Cheong.
I took my reporter’s notebook and set out for the exhibition venue, my emotions in a jumble. I felt the joy of fulfilling a dream, but at the same time I was at a bit of a loss as to how to handle things.
Before I put on a reporter’s hat, I had never had any professional training, but here on the first day of work, I was thrown into the foray without anyone to guide me. As I went to do the interview and reporting, I was a nervous wreck.
That day, Mr Ong did not deliver a speech. So I interviewed the Director of Public Relations of the Office of Telecommunications and recorded the exhibition’s theme, content, motives, and so forth in detail. After this, I toured the whole exhibition carefully, then headed back to the press room. On the bus, I felt a dull consistent ache in my stomach. I looked at my watch and saw that it was two in the afternoon. I had not eaten breakfast or lunch, and my stomach was now rumbling. At three, I went to a coffee shop and ordered a bowl of noodles, but could not get any of the food down. I stared mutely at the steam rising from the noodles.
When we were really busy, it was not unusual to cram three meals into one and, when I did eat, I just gulped the food down without any notion of flavour. Sometimes I stuffed bread into my mouth as I wrote an article, dry bread that was hardly any better than eating grass. Other times I was busy running here and there under the hot sun; when lunchtime came, even if a feast had been presented, I had no appetite. Or, perhaps I worked until very late and, as soon as I got home, I went straight to bed, only realising that I had had no dinner when I got up the next morning.
For one period, I was assigned to report on cultural news. There were numerous exhibitions, most of which started at five in the evening. If there were any high-profile, influential people at the event, they were bound to speak. Usually, after the speeches were over and I had interviewed some people who attended the exhibitions, it would be 7pm by the time I rushed back to the office. In the 1970s, Chinese newspaper publishers wanted the news on their desks by 8pm. In other words, I had to produce my article within half an hour. At the time, there were no computers, so everything was done by hand. I wrote each article by hand, and the layout of each page of the newspapers was done by layout staff who arranged the type. Because we were in such a rush, the editor stood beside me, waiting. After every three or four lines of words I wrote, he would pick up the article, pacing as he looked at it. When he had finished looking it over, he took it to the staff in charge of layout. Then, he came back and take away the new lines I had just written. He did this until I finished writing the whole article. To put it bluntly, when I had finished writing the news in this way, I had no sense of achievement because I had no chance to look back over it and see what I had written. I did not know whether I had covered all the newsworthy points, and didn’t know whether I had made any mistakes or misquoted anyone. When I was on my way home in the middle of the night, these questions would haunt me.
When I got home, I was always very tired and in no mood to do anything, and certainly had no appetite. I just ate instant noodles, settling my dinner that way. The next day I would get up and look at the Nanyang Siang Pau and Sin Chew Jit Poh, reading the stories I had written, and also those written by others. In comparing the two, I would find that everything that was supposed to be there was in fact there, and this would be a weight off my mind.
Later, when I had been working for some time and had a greater wealth of experience, I was able to put away these misgivings. Even so, not having regular meals eventually resulted in me developing stomach problems. The lightest suffering was like something from a horror movie, as if a hand was clutching my stomach, squeezing and releasing its grip in turn. This sort of pain would hit at certain times, then continue on and on without relief. I could eat, but when I did, even if all I had was a small piece of bread, it would feel like steel inside my stomach, creating a sharp pain.
The next level of pain was like a knife. I could feel the point, more of a stabbing pain in the stomach that made me want to scream out loud.
The third sort was like a lingering death. The soft flesh of my be
lly would feel like it was being cut, bit by bit, the knife driven inch by inch into the flesh. It was an alarming sort of pain that made me want to reach into my belly and snatch whatever was inside causing the pain and throw it away.
The fourth level of pain was the most unbearable, radiating out from the stomach and consuming all the other organs. When it hit, the pain was so intense you didn’t even quite know where it came from. The whole body just became a mass of excruciating torment.
I’ve experienced all four levels of discomfort. When it was at its worst, I even had to be admitted to the hospital for treatment. After I had left the world of journalism and started teaching, I ate at more regular hours, and the gastric problem that had long tortured me gradually subsided.
Running here and there to conduct interviews, some assignments required me to stand, some to walk, and others to stand then walk. This could go on for several hours. How could anyone with weak legs survive that? I remember once when I was doing a special report, I reached the zoo at nine in the morning. It was so hot that I could see the heat waves rising from the surface of the road, and the whole time, I had to run back and forth in the zoo, looking around, asking questions and writing. It was five that evening before I completed my tasks.
At the end of the day I noticed the time, and wow! My poor legs had been holding me up for eight straight hours. To make matters worse, when I was writing that special report, I was seven months pregnant. Such similar occasions were too numerous to recount.
After sticking with this sort of job for many years, I could not only rush about like the wind, but I could tirelessly go on for any distance and any amount of time. Gaining strong legs must have been a sort of intangible compensation for the stomach issues.
Some people act like they have gold in their mouth, keeping their lips tightly sealed; the reporter has to be like a miner, digging to find those precious materials. Of course if you want that exclusive story, you’ve got to hang in there like a leech, going on to the very end. Sometimes, when you successfully dig out that precious story, you feel a special sense of satisfaction. At other times, after scaling Mt Everest, you might uncover the truth, but the other person says vehemently, “Hey, I told you that because I thought you were my friend. No matter what, you can’t go writing about that. It would be real trouble for me if you did.” At such times, your enthusiasm and intention becomes conflicted. You know without a doubt that if you print this, it will be a great story, but it will put a full stop to your relationship with your friend. You wrestle with the decision, feeling torn between two loyalties. In the end, you decide you have a moral duty to keep your mouth shut. Then, in spite of your own disappointment, you know that respecting your friend’s wishes is the right thing. In losing something, you also gain something— this person’s trust and respect, which will benefit your career in the long term.