by You Jin
I narrated the story enthusiastically while my children listened. I concluded after the story, “Now, every time you fail an examination, you can use the idiom ‘my name falls behind Sun Shan’ to describe the situation.”
I followed up this idiom with a life lesson: “If your ‘name falls behind Sun Shan’ in the examinations, what do you think your mother will do?”
My hyperactive oldest child, expressed the fear in his heart: “Make me stand in one spot for a long, long time.”
My humorous middle child said, with laughter in his eyes, “Mum will take the next examination for us.”
My lively and clever youngest child repeated my famous warning wholesale like a parrot: “You will spank us until we become zebras, with black and white stripes on our behinds.”
For days after this, I intentionally let the idiom “my name falls behind Sun Shan” slip from my mouth, using it repeatedly, nagging them with it unceasingly, until it became imprinted into their minds.
There are many lively ways to teach with idioms. Once, I casually told my children, “Come, let’s play a game.” Their faces showed their excitement and expectation. I said, “Extend your hand.” They obeyed. I said, “Turn your hand to the other side.”
Even though they did not know what was going on, they happily followed my orders, since it was a game. Then, my face turned serious as I asked, “Is this action easy?”
They nodded their heads in unison as they replied, “Easy!”
I said, “Anything that’s easy to do, we can use the idiom ‘easy as turning your hand’ to describe the situation, do you understand?”
They said, “Understood.”
As this game ended, a new idiom entered my mind. After a while, Fung Teck wanted to eat canned longans. As I opened the can, I said, “Opening the can is a task as ‘easy as turning your hand’. You can do it yourself. After you learn how to do it, you can open a can whenever you feel like eating longans, and you don’t have to depend on mum to do everything for you.”
After the can was opened, I asked him, “See, isn’t it as ‘easy as turning your hand’?”
He nodded, popping big chunks of syrup-soaked longan into his mouth.
I was always racking my brain to incorporate idioms into their practical lives. In order to put the learning to use, I purposely chose idioms appropriate to their living experiences. For example, I would teach them idioms like “too stingy to pull out a hair”, “at a loss what to do”, “a promise is weightier than one thousand bars of gold”, but I would not teach them idioms that would not apply to their daily situations, such as “a narrow strip of water”, “a single leaf before the eye obstructs one’s vision”, or “a fleeting illusion”. I would teach them “paint a snake with feet”, “bring the painted dragon to life by putting in the eyes”, “draw cakes to sate one’s hunger”, but I would not teach them less practical idioms like “the mirror Qin hung on high”, “close ties for generation through matrimonial diplomacy”, or “Qin Qiong sells horses”. If we cannot find an opportunity to use an idiom or other part of language in our practical lives, learning it is fruitless.
Books Like Air
Since my childhood, I knew that when my stomach felt hungry, I looked for food to eat, and when my eyes were hungry, I looked for books to read. Every inch of our house held traces of the smell of books. They were piled high and low, stacked closely together, spread out loosely, and arranged neatly in rows. Books and house were transformed intimately into one perfect body. Even though our material life was meagre, books created a sparkling world for me.
My parents did not teach us through words, but through personal example. My father always bought reading material, not book by book, but pile by pile. When he carried the books into the house, my mother, who was usually busy with housework, would quickly wipe her hands dry and very reverently receive the pile of books like a treasure, going through them with joy. In the quiet of the night, my mum would often read by candlelight, burying herself happily in the mysterious, unpredictable world of words, a world I longed for.
When I got married, I filled the whole house with books. I read while standing, sitting or lying down, and my children joined in the activity with their own books. It made me so happy to see the entire family reading together quietly.
On Sundays, my children shopped at the bookstores with me like they were hunting for treasure. We would spend the whole day there, poring over paperbacks and hardcovers on literature, theory, special topics, and autobiographies. During those years before the Internet, those books were our best source of information.
When I was a young girl, my pocket money was limited. If I wanted to buy books, I would have to save up. Once, I was attracted by a Chinese translation of Pearl S. Buck’s novel, The Good Earth; I flipped through it several times and could not put it down, but I had no money. For a couple of weeks, when I went to the bookstore, the first thing I did was to check if the book was still there. I would pick it up and gently stroke it all over, then reluctantly put it back in its place. When my examinations came around, I was too busy studying to visit the bookstore; after they were over, I raced to the bookstore, having saved enough money to buy the book, but it was gone! I combed through the shelves in a panic, then rushed to ask the store clerk if she had another copy. She said, “If it’s not on the shelves, it’s been bought already.” I felt an indescribable pain in my heart as I lingered by the bookshelves like a lost soul. The pain was like a hook, tugging at my heart.
After becoming a mother, I was determined for my kids to not feel that same pain, so I let them freely pick out the books they liked, and however many they wanted, even if that meant five, eight, ten, or even more. Allowing the words to settle in my children’s minds would make them sparkle and dazzle like a gem. Many parents in Singapore look at the practice of reading pragmatically, wanting their kids to read books related only to their schoolwork. Any others are seen as useless recreation. Reading is a multi-functional immersive activity, which exerts a subtle influence on one’s character.
The famous Taiwanese cartoonist, Cai Zhizhong, once told a thought-provoking true story. Many mothers had told him, “My child doesn’t like to read, and instead only likes to draw cartoons. I used to be very worried, but since I know that you became famous just by drawing cartoons, I don’t worry about my child’s future any more.”
Cai Zhizhong said gravely, “Actually, this thinking is wrong. To become an outstanding cartoonist, you have to like reading. Drawing is just a technique, but an outstanding cartoon comes out of the imagination. If one is not interested in reading, it shows a lack of curiosity. How can such a person come up with brilliant cartoons?”
When my daughter was studying in the UK, she wrote me a letter:
When I first arrived in London, I was dazzled by the riot of colours. I went to the opera houses and movie theatres, completely neglecting my leisure reading. I forgot how crazy I was about reading, and how I had absorbed so many rich nutrients from my books. But recently, I’ve started shopping at the bookstores again. My god! I can only use one word to describe the feeling of browsing books and leisurely reading them—delightful! Even though it is very entertaining to go to an opera or watch a movie, I feel that is purely sensory. Reading belongs to the level of the mind, and is an activity one can be engaged with for the rest of one’s life.
My dear daughter hit the mark with a single comment. Using just one word, “delightful”, she described the irresistible charm of reading.
I never forced my children to read, but they saw my huge joy in it; my silent example was a model for them. Under the long-term nurture of books, my three children all became avid readers. As adults, books have become the subject of their discussions. Sometimes they will share ecstatically what they gotten out of their reading; sometimes, they will hold opposing views and argue endlessly. Either way, their common love of books brings their hearts closer together, making their relationship more harmonious.
Books have become
a strong, gelling power in our family. One of my biggest accomplishments is using books as seeds to plant a tree of happiness in my children’s hearts. It is an eternal tree that will never wither.
Family Heirloom
The peacock stood in the soft, green grass at the zoo in Australia, its colourful tail spread out in impeccable dazzling fullness. In its free and easy way, it displayed a confident beauty and charm. I was breathless with amazement.
All parents hope their children will make something of themselves, like the peacock’s display. We have two types of “weapons” in our hands: one is praise and encouragement, and the other is criticism and attack. Parents who are willing to grow with their children will naturally choose the former; they transform praise into the seeds of fresh flowers and spread them everywhere, letting the children bloom. Parents who have blind faith in the supremacy of authority will not hesitate to choose the latter “weapon”, using “spare the rod, spoil the child” as their standard, and high-handedness as their trump card. When their children perform well, they force them to go a step further; when their children’s performance drops a little, they fly into a rage, using their hands to force the peacock’s tail open. Children who have the ability and qualities to spread their tails lose the power of self-motivation under the shadow of punishment from their parents, their long tails becoming useless brooms.
When I first joined the education circle, I taught my students to write about people in their lives. One boy wrote about his father, and his words shocked me:
I’m already sixteen this year. However, nobody would believe me if I told them my father has never said a kind word to me. Everyone says he is a good father, because he’s out the door very early and comes home late at night, working hard to earn a living for his family. He also doesn’t have any bad habits. But I feel a huge gap between my father and me. I don’t like to talk to him, because he criticises me all the time. His mouth seems to be full of needles, hurting me all over. Last year, I worked very hard and was third in my class. My auntie said I was very clever, but my father answered, “If he was truly clever, he would be first in class. Third is nothing to be proud of!” When I heard those words, I cried. I really want to hear my father say a kind word to me. It’s been sixteen years, but my simple wish is still not fulfilled. Sometimes, I feel that life is meaningless; everything is just emptiness…
This was a meek, quiet, hardworking student, but because of his father’s long-term no-praise-all-criticism teaching method, the boy’s inner world was full of gloom, when it should have been full of dazzling sunshine.
Looking back at my own growing-up years, I am full of gratitude towards my father. Everyone saw me as an inferior, ugly sparrow, but my father was full of confidence that I was a colourful phoenix, encouraging and praising me, cheering me on endlessly, even though he did occasionally resort to tougher parenting methods too. When I was in primary school, my results were poor, but he never gave up on me, thinking of ways to boost my confidence. If there was the slightest improvement in my results, my father’s face would light up. I would give it my all to spread my beautiful feathers for my father.
Once, when I was very discouraged, my father said gently, “In everything, if you believe firmly that you can do a good job, you can. But if you convince yourself that you can’t, you’ve already lost the battle mentally. In the end, you’ll surrender!” From then on, in life’s long journey, those words have become like the genie in Aladdin’s lamp. Whenever I get stuck in a path lined with thorns, I rub my lamp and his words emerge to help me.
I never pushed my children to become the best and brightest students in school, but I wanted them to challenge themselves to do better. Once my children internalised this challenge, they naturally acquired the power of self-motivation. It was like growing a garden: if the flowers were thin and weak one season, repeated hard work would guarantee flowers full, rich and beautiful the next season. Actually, in this sort of bilateral relationship, the children strove for the smiles to bloom on our faces, and I acquired the blossoming flowers in their hearts through praise. The two generations pleased each other, creating a positive cycle.
Sometimes I said, “Wow, that’s great! You’ve inherited good genes.” Which would make them smile. Praising myself while praising my children—what could be better than killing two birds with one stone?
When my daughter grew up, she wrote me one letter filled with gratitude:
Mum, no matter what I want to do, you always say, “I know you can, you definitely can.” This belief provides me great strength to overcome my difficulties, turning all the “impossibles” in my life to “possibles”. When I accomplish a task, you praise me happily. Sometimes, in order to obtain your praise, I will intentionally do something better. This sort of attitude creates an unparalleled passion for life inside me.
I think the biggest family heirloom I have given my children is making them believe they are life’s magicians, granting them a wand of confidence that allows them to create their own futures.
Philosophy of Life
My mother always used proverbs to express her thoughts, yielding twice the result with half the effort.
When she encouraged us to work hard at our studies: “A scholar is not afraid to wear torn clothes; he only fears he has no knowledge.” When we questioned her meaning: “Knowledge is something you get when you ask as you learn.” When our school results were poor: “If I raised kids who don’t like to learn, I would be better off raising a pig.” When her neighbours engaged her in gossip: “There’s always gossip, but if you don’t lend it ears, it will naturally die off.” After the gossiper left: “The person who comes to spread conflict is the conflict itself.” When prices went up: “Only when you’re in charge of the household do you understand how expensive things are.” Sometimes while she was cooking, she would discover that she needed an egg and would borrow one from a neighbours, which she would pay back the next day; if the neighbour refused the egg: “If one returns what one borrows, it can happen a thousand times more; if one does not return what one borrows, there won’t be another time.” When a friend’s daughter married the wrong guy: “Picky and choosy, she still ended up with a broken lamp.” When a certain family’s child displayed bad behaviour: “One rat dropping spoils the whole pot of porridge.” When somebody’s business failed and the wife was forced to work outside the home: “Dismount the dead horse and walk.” When another person lost everything to gambling: “After seeing a ghost, one will be afraid of the dark.” When she came into contact with boasting relatives: “If there’s musk, it will naturally smell good; there’s no need to wave it like the wind.” When she saw young parents not disciplining their kids: “It’s easy to help a young tree grow straight, but hard when the tree is already grown.” Seeing elders use foul language: “Elders who have no respect are a bad influence on their grandchildren.”
These proverbs were not only wisdom and the essence of our ancestors’ experiences, but also an enlightening philosophy of life. These proverbs went through thousands of years of survival of the fittest, passed down from generation to generation. As the saying goes: “The ancestors planted trees for the benefit of their descendants.”
As we were immersed in this sort of language with embedded philosophies, we were like plants absorbing nutrients. Unconsciously, we were deeply affected, changing how we treated people and how we behaved. This sort of influence did not happen overnight; it was accumulated gradually over time, until it became deep-rooted.
My view of life is also hidden in many idioms and poems. Many people think I live all year round in a sea of fragrant flowers, but they only see the colour and splendour, not the thorns and dark clouds. When I fall and bleed from my injuries, what do I do? Do I bawl wildly until my throat bleeds? Do I sprawl on the floor with sorrow, waiting for others to extend a helping hand? What is the point of crying, and waiting?
Under such circumstances, the two idioms, “heaven helps those who help themselves” and “one is
better off helping oneself than begging others for help”, become my protective amulets. When my peaceful life is assailed by gale and storm, what do I do? I cannot change the weather, but I can alter my mood.
“There will naturally be a road when the car arrives in front of the mountain”, “the boat will straighten itself out when it reaches the bridgehead”, and “there is another village when the path seems to end”: these famous evergreen literary phrases serve as my undying “anti-worry potion”.
Another life maxim that I honour is “contentment is happiness.” It comes with a story that has a very profound meaning:
An American soldier lost a leg during the Vietnam War. After he retired from the army, he worked as a store clerk at a small shop. Every day, he would happily hobble to work with the help of his walking stick. His boss was curious and asked him, “I’m not handicapped, and I have more money than you, but I’m not happy. You lost a leg and don’t have a high salary, so why are you always so happy?”