pulling through, you know it is worth every bit.

"I don't think anyone knows how to appreciate home
as much as when they are away from it."

Just within the span of less than a month, and I have witnessed two friends breaking down in front of me because they were lonely and missed home and their family very much.

In the first case, I was just talking random stuff with a friend, and she was telling me about all her problems, and how much she missed her mother, and there I was sitting there quietly listening as she talked, and then before I knew it, there were the first sign of tears. And, then, a whole stream of tears began falling down.

In the second case, I was happily singing Britney Spears 'Lucky' (please don't ask why) at K-Box when tears started streaming down my friend's face suddenly. Mariah Carey's 'Hero' made it worse.

Isn't it ironic how the people who have the most number of friends and the largest social circle are the same ones who cry themselves to sleep every night because they are so lonely?

The truth is, which foreign student doesn't miss their home? Which one doesn't suffer from bouts of loneliness? Which one truly can say that they don't miss their family or friends back home one bit?

I've been so homesick before that I even was prepared and willing to give up all my journalistic dreams, just to return to the place that I was so familiar with. I've been in a position where I hated myself so much for my dreams, blamed myself for it, and would do anything, everything to turn the clock back. I've been in a position where I regretted my decision so much, that I was willing to give myself the short end of the stick by signing up for a local university if I had a second chance. I've been in a position where I miss home so much and where everything doesn't seem right and I seem so lonely, and I walk around feeling empty and lost, and I would give up the whole world just to be back home.

I've been in a position where the biggest dream I've ever harbored was an air ticket back home on the earliest flight.

I've lost count of the number of times where I've regretted my decision to go for overseas studies, where three years seem to sketch out into an infinity, I've lost count of the number of times I've cried because I was so homesick, of the number of times when the light goes off, and I stare at the ceiling and think about home, and when I finally doze off and dream that I was back home only to wake up and have that rush of disappointment pour over me like wet rain.


But, I'm really glad.

Because I made it through. I pulled it through.

I can't say that I've fully gotten over that phrase, and I know it will get worse the moment I return home and have to say goodbye once again sometime next year, but at the very least, I know and I'm very clear, that my dream is worth it, that my dream is worth so much that three more times of the experience I went through is worth every bit.

And, that is when I truly realize, that I can't turn back.

我不可能再回头
我只能一直往前走

please remind me again why.

The Brownlow event might not ring a bell, but in Australia, it is a huge media event where star footballers congregate together to receive awards. Interestingly, none of these are the highlights in the Australian media, instead it is the footballers' wives who are getting all the limelight, because they are beautiful and young creatures with great fashion sense. Krusla attended the red carpet event, dressed up in a mocking caricature of one's footballer wife, and received so much media attention (including the Herald Sun) that she didn't shy away from admitting that she even upstaged the footballers' wives - with her low cut mini-top, fake tan and five-inch stilettos.

Holly might be only 20 years old this year, but she worked for 8 months as a nanny in Germany. The family she worked for was extremely rich, both parents having their own companies and their own personal villa for family vacations. Just one problem: Their 3 young children hardly ever see their parents. 4, 7 and 11 years of age, they have grown up to be young, angry boys. So full of pent-up anger that one might easily mistake for an adolescent phrase, but really, lack of parental care and concern has gravely affected their emotional and mental well-being. The boys have a new nanny every year, which means 11 nannies in total thus far, which also means that every time they grow attach to their 'surrogate mother', she packs up her bags and leave. Raising a very interesting case of why the hell people procreate, Mandy said that she once worked as a nanny where the young child had a fractured bone in his skull all because a nanny dropped him on the floor when he was six-months-old. Finally, sick of all that drama, a teary-eyed Holly set her mind on leaving. When she made up her mind to leave, it wasn't only a job that she had chosen to abandon, but the hearts and minds of three crushed souls.

Chevron might look like the sweet and unassuming girl-next-door. But the 20-year-old does charity work on pilgrammes trips to India. During her last trip to India, she was invited to an event, which had nothing to do with beer or partying. Instead, it was an event where demons are exorcised from the bodies of the human beings of whom they reside in.

Just one hour.

Same time to yawn through a boring lecture on economics. Same time to sit through yet another half-session of the tutor droning on about the communications industry. And, yet, what I sat through, was one of the most interesting tutorials ever, with some of the most colourful human stories being told in vivid imagery and details.

We got into pairs for a mock interview session. Normally, I am very relaxed when interviewing people, but not this time round, with ten pairs of eyes around the room trained on me, my every word, my every gesture, my every slip-up. Turns out that the class was pretty impressed with my interviewing techniques. The leaning forward and pointing of toes towards my interviewee was partly out of nervousness, but was mistaken to be a show of interested concentration, which made the interviewee want to ramble on and divulge more revealing information. So, that was good, because I am a great pretender. The tutor even got so far as to observe our body language, freezing the moment of my crossed legs, and then bringing up the topic on whether females should cross their legs when interviewing someone. (Interestingly, at that very moment that subject was brought up, all the females in the room had their legs crossed.) Fyi, the answer is no, but our tutor advises us to get into any position we are comfortable with.

For every single bad thing that's been said about journalism, for every bad cloud of omen that hangs or negative thing that's been said about the profession like the recent negative publicity that 550 job cuts in the Australian journalism industry garnered, today's journalism class renewed my passion for the craft. In my tutor's words, which other job in the world gives you the privilege of reporting to work expecting something different everyday, affording you the license of getting people to share with you their most interesting life stories, for getting the taste of something so exciting and exhilarating?

"No matter what it takes, how long it takes you, let me tell you, it is worth it. It is worth every bit."

p.s./ I totally heart my tutor. She's the best journalism teacher ever.

homeless?

I turned the door knob again. NO. This is not happening to me. It can't be. This must be a joke. All I have to do is to try again and the door will open naturally.

Unfortunately, my optimism (or rather, desperation) didn't help things one bit. So, great, this is what I get for being a hardworking nerd, staying in the uni computer labs until 11.30 at night to study. (Actually, it was because I was feeling guilty, because I had been busy having fun going out the whole week, and it's alright to have fun, but not when you have 3 major assignments due soon.)

So, great, now I was left with my wallet. My handphone, bag and everything else was locked inside the room. I immediately headed to the security centre and walked around campus for a while looking for any security guards. Drunkard teenagers strolling the streets peered at me curiously and then I was reminded that it was Friday. Who the hell stays in uni on a Friday night studying their ass off, except for a nerd like me?

Was beating myself up for being such a nerdy ass, before finally realizing that all I could do now was to make my way home and come back again early next morning to retrieve my belongings. And, then suddenly, a thought struck me like lightening, and I went, 'OMG, my house keys!!!'

And, that is the story of how I came to spend one night homeless, out on the streets, with no house to return to. Reduced to the same state as the other 23,000 homeless people in Australia, out in the winter cold, not catching a single wink, and returning home with panda eyes the next day.

Nay, kidding. Good thing I have a habit of leaving my house keys in my pocket, because I realized that people can steal your bag, but not your pants. Well, in most ordinary circumstances, that is.

random ramblings

Four more weeks till school ends. Four more weeks till I officially graduate from First Year in university. Time is one sneaky thief, I don't know where all the weeks went to. All I know is that by the time Monday rolls by, I've programmed myself like an automaton, ready to report back to uni again.

Booked my flight back to Singapore, so will be flying back with Dad, Mum and Sis. But, Mum's keen on a trip to Tasmania, because she thinks she will rot spending 7 days in Melbourne. I've been planning for a holiday trip to Tasmania with my friend forever but it's freaking expensive. And, in the end, we gave up on that idea. Too much moolah to pay for fantastic scenery.

I've been thinking a lot about where my degree is eventually going to lead me to. It's hard not to when everyone around me keeps asking me if I'm going to stay on after three years. At first, I thought the last place I would want to work in was the country where I grew up. But, then, I realize that my first love is still the entertainment industry. I've never lost touch on that, no matter how far away I am. I still know every artiste who sets foot in Singapore, which artiste and which drama is currently being filmed in Singapore. Friends back home are amazed that I know more about what's going on in the local entertainment industry, than all of them. Sometimes, I get angry and upset, because artistes who I have been waiting for many, many years finally decides to come to Singapore when I have decided to leave. No matter what, two years is a short time, and even with 95% international students applying for PR status, it holds zero appeal for me. My dream country to work in might not be Singapore, but it is definitely not Australia. This is only a stepping stone, and time will eventually demand an answer from me. New York, nonetheless, remains my first love. And, my ultimate dream.

My aim right now is to get a high-paying job to fund my planned trip to Korea in January to visit Yoo Jeong, who keeps pestering me to visit her country so she can bring me to the nicest eating and shopping places. If I'm going to fly there alone, I would definitely have to fund my own trip. Well, at least I wouldn't have to worry about accomodation, since I'm staying at YJ's place.

My biggest dream right now is to catch Epik High and DBSK in a live concert in Korea.

another day in the life of a journalism student

Today's class is Reporting and Newswriting. I skipped two lectures in the morning because I couldn't wake up (what's new?) and that left me fully energetic for the practical session.

We got back our results for our in-class assignment, and I was very disappointed by my 7 out of 10 marks, and then I realized 3 marks were being deducted for style mistakes, and was very upset about it. But, at least, this time, my tutor ticked the bracket which said, 'Copy is publishable, but needs minor editing. Story is soundly reported and written." instead of 'Copy contains most information, but may need close editing. May need improvement in structure. Is publishable, but the sub might not finish his/her shift on time' which was what I got last semester, and wasn't very flattered by that comment.

So, feeling very unhappy, I approached my tutor to protest. I asked whether all my marks were being deducted solely because of style mistakes.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" my tutor asks sympathetically, "That's 1 mark each for every mistake."

I look at her very sadly.

"Well, you got 7 marks. That's very good."

I continue looking at her sadly.

"Look, the highest I would have given anyone would be an 8."

I guess I must have looked at her very very sadly, because then my tutor reviewed my work again, and realized that she had marked me incorrectly, because I had only committed two style mistakes. So, she gave me 8 marks.

I was so angry, and still am, for the two stupid mistakes I made, which robbed me of a perfect score. If I had written "8000" instead of "eight thousand" and "nine" instead of "9" I would have topped the class. So, later on, I ACCIDENTALLY peeked at the scores of everyone in my class that our tutor had recorded in her book. The highest scorers in the class were two students who got 8, one of whom which were me, which made my very angry, because of my innate competitive streak, and my desire to always be the best, best, best.

(You would think that I would have learnt my stupid mistakes, but for the next graded assignment, I went on to write five as '5', which cost me one bloody mark, grrr)

So, I decided to blame the uni bookshop which had run out of the style guide book, and also I started to blame myself for being so KIND by giving up the last copy to a friend.

So, in what I suspect was an attempt to cheer me up, my tutor told me that I had a very sharp news sense, because I had gotten the main point of the article which flew over many other people's heads. I replied that I wasn't as good as she thought I was, because I hadn't scored very well last semester. "Well, clearly, you've vastly improved," my tutor said. Another attempt to cheer me up.

And, then because we were supposed to do a group story together, and two of my groupmates had abandoned me by not turning up for class, my tutor told me that I had two choices. First, was to go ahead with the idea and do my own story, and if I was successful, I would get my own byline. Second, was to abandon the whole idea of a story altogether.

Without hesitation, I told her I would go for the former, and I would go ahead with the story all by myself. The tutor said that I had the right spirit and attitude for a journalist. But, actually, I'm selfish and I want the byline all to myself, and I didn't want to share it with anyone else. So, I was really very happy that my groupmates had abandoned me.

Met up with Sarah after class. We talked so much until the shops closed and we had no choice but to leave. That girl is a public embarrassment, and I told her so, because she drags around this humongous fluorescent pink trolley bag when grocery-shopping.

Something I thought only people like my mum would do.

when human life goes on sale

She was a young woman of Chinese nationality. Single, maybe. Married, maybe. Alone, crossing the street, probably in a hurry, probably not.

But, by the time I saw her, she was lying on the middle of the street in a bloodied mess. Minutes later, she was lifted up onto a white sketcher by two uniformed paramedics. The trams had ground to a halt, traffic was building up. Huge crowds of by-passers had gathered, police were at the scene talking on their walkie-talkies, an ambulance was parked nearby.

The crowds were speculating whether the victim was alive or dead. As she was being carried onto a higher trolley, there is an audible gasp among the crowd, and some girls moved away. There, right on the ground, was a huge mass of blood. Thick, gory, horrifying. I saw her clearly from where I was standing. Her eyes seemed to be open, but I couldn't be sure, because her entire face was soaked in blood. I wonder what she must have been thinking, if she was doing any thinking at all. And, then she lifted up a bloodied hand to touch her bloodied face.

Traffic slowly built up, as trams after trams ground to a halt. Annoyed and irritated passengers alighted from the trams. Tram drivers with perplexed looks on their faces. I know what were on their minds. What were causing the delay?

I just wonder, in this uncaring society where a dead female body can go undiscovered for six months, if they knew what happened, would they still be as annoyed, would they still be as irritated as what was causing the delay just because they were in a hurry to go home or meet their friends? And, then I imagine the media coverage splashed all over newspapers tomorrow, which would unfailingly mention how many trams were delayed as a result, and for how long. And, then I realized, how cheap human life had become, at the expense of a modern society.

return to basics

in loving memory of 阿嬷
02.09.2008

Death is taboo. We no longer say someone is dead, we use a polite euphemism of death, 'passed away', as if it makes any difference. As though by shying away from such a direct term, it would chip away at some of the harsh reality.

The memory of my grandfather's death still remains raw in my mind. I don't talk about it. The skeletons of yesteryear's memories still crusade through my disturbed mind. I still have nightmares about it, I still get startled awake by it. It seems like it happened only yesterday, when my father came up to me when I was preparing for work one morning, that my grandfather passed away that morning.

I still remember his face no longer looking back at me from behind the cold, unfeeling metal of the coffin. I still remember my auntie bawling her eyes out on the day of the burial, her hands clinging onto the side of the coffin, and before a crowd of hundreds, screaming her lungs out with utter sorrow at her father's death. I still remember all of us standing in line as we witnessed the coffin being lowered into the fire, and the burning emotions that it lit up within us. I still remember the white ashes that I let slip from my hands back into the box. I still remember, one year on, my family standing before my grandfather's grave, my mother standing beside me, my auntie standing beside my mother and saying to her, "Look, Cousin Michelle has grown so much fatter." I still remember myself thinking whether it was appropriate discussing such matters in front of grandpa's grave. I still remember two days after the burial, my grandmother sitting in the living room, in the dark. It was the first time the TV wasn't switched on. It was the first time the lights were off. I still remember my sister asking my grandmother, "Ah ma, do you want to watch TV? I can switch it on for you." And, my grandma replying, "Grandpa is dead. What's there to watch?" I still remember my sister's silence, because no words could fill the empty void. My sister's silence must have been accompanied by feelings of loss and uneasiness.

My elder sister tells me that attending a funeral is like going to church. Because you don't have to go to church to believe in God, but because you believe that you must, you go. In the same vein, you don't have to attend a funeral to grief, but because, i don't know, you go.

It's true. I think I grieved harder than if I were to be present at Grandma's funeral.

One cousin remarked that because she hadn't attended the funeral, the death of Grandma hadn't fully registered in her mind, and she hadn't really grieved. I was physically present during Grandpa's funeral, yet, not at Grandma's. And, yet when I received the news that Grandma had passed away, I grieved harder than over Grandpa's death.

Regret is a stinging sensation, an emotional wound in my heart and also the nagging sense of a guilty conscience. It suddenly struck me that no longer will there be anyone for me to ignore, for me to walk pass without saying a word, for me to rush past when I'm late in the early mornings, and for me to stroll away from because I was in a rush to sit in front of a wired-up device. And, I realize that no longer, will my father scold me with disappointment for not spending enough time with Ah Ma, no longer will he chide me for not informing Ah Ma about my whereabouts, no longer will my heart be filled with anger and bitterness at my father's scoldings all because I couldn't be bothered to say a little greeting to Ah Ma.

No longer will Ah Ma sit down with me at dinner, and tell me how much she misses my sister. No longer will she take my hand and tell me that she loves all of us so very much. No longer will she talk about how much she misses my grandfather. I still remember the times where she was so feeble to move around on her own, that I had to support her for her daily walks. And, I remember her clutching onto my arm, so tightly that it hurt. And, I remember thinking what soft, wrinkled hands she had, so delicate, like that of a fragile new-born's.

Because I've not been the best granddaughter, the tears that flood my face now seems so borrowed, the wounds that reside in me seem so hypocritical, and my mind screams out endlessly for more time, more time, more time...before a response echoes back, that time waits for no man. And, the reason why my heart aches, is because I've had so much thoughts of how to treat her better when I return home, and my sister's pain is because she never spent enough time with Ah Ma, because she was always out with her friends. I realize then that time might be our perfect excuse for procrastination, but it is also man's weakest justification.

Let me return to basics, please. Let me give up a little of my dreams, slowly.