In a pure coincidence of timing, I believe, rather than national pride, Tiger Beer sponsored it's Second Annual Tiger Beer Singapore Chilli Crab Festival in DUMBO, Brooklyn, on Sunday, August 7th, and Singapore itself celebrated its 40th birthday today, Tuesday August 9th. In another remarkable coincidence, I, a Singaporean, was born on a Tuesday.
In March.
Not so much hung over as exhausted and day-dreaming a la fluffy-clouds-with-a-little-bit-of-naughty about a cute boy from the night before, I nevertheless trekked via three differently colored train lines to fulfill the "false consciousness" of my national identity. Nothing would stop me from eating Chilli Crab in New York. Not Anna's last days in town. Not the M.I.A. concert in Central Park. Not Meredith Tsumba, who happily came along instead of going home to Philly to rockclimb. Thank God for Meredith.
We arrive via a stinky cobblestone street to jugglers, an inflatable jungle gym, and an elevated boxing ring. Meredith and I both have raised eyebrows questioning the "authenticity" of this "Singaporean" fair, but then I am quick to relate to Meredith that if the tinny music from the live band at the other end of the street sounds like cheesy import, this event is very much of my country. Welcome home. What time was that M.I.A. concert again?
But a Singaporean cannot deny her stomach. Or her own forceful boxing match with death, which is what the Chilli Crab experience is, occuring in your mouth which can only occasion the odd inhaling "tssss" and exhaling "ahhhh" at extreme moments of pleasurable pain. Here, I was reminded of my childhood memory of wondering if my father would survive another East Coast evening, bowl and bread in one hand, assuaging handkerchief to forehead in the other. I am also made soon aware of the fact that I am happy they did not give us larger bowls despite the $4 price tag. "Death by Chilli Crab," along with "Love in Ice Kacang," are part of the larger poetry of Singapore's deep existential and sensual affinity with its dishes.
So "tssss" and "ahhhh" I did, sucking and slobbering and getting crab shell stuck inbetween my teeth. Of course, too, I am sweating, and of course, with oily, chilli-bloodied fingers, I use the backs of my hands if not my wrists to wipe the droplets away. Now THIS is what I call "Singaporean." My also $4 Tiger Beer served in a plastic cup, my friends, is NOT. But what can you do: glass in the customer's hands is fine, I suppose, in a country where a fistfight cum bottle-brawl is about as likely as a cold front 3 degrees north of the equator. Were I telling you this live, now is when I would shrug my shoulders -- fingers face-up, of course, to avoid any sauce-drippage from my Chilli Crabbed hands.
On the occasion of "our" 40th year of independence, what does it mean to be Singaporean? Evidenced from this event, to be Singaporean is to be:
(1) painfully but necessarily bureaucratic. My $10 meal required -- OF COURSE -- me to wait in FOUR separate lines: one, to buy the food and beverage tickets that would enable me to purchase food, and one for each food or beverage item. (dessert was pulut serikaya, which they called something else, which is a two-layer "cake" of sweet sticky rice and steamed pandan-flavored coconut milk -- almost like flan)
(2) shamelessly syncretic. This event was not the "Singaporean street market" I was promised. Or was it? Hamburgers, corn on the cob, and Vietnamese summer rolls were about the only other food offerings to those who dared not the slobberingness of the admittedly authentically spiced Chilli Crab (I've venerated it so much, I seem unable to pronounce its name without capitalizing it). Oh, and there was roti prata with thin curry. OK. But where was my satay man? Where was my Indian mee goreng? Where was my whatever-it's-called, those little pyramid-shaped steamed desserty things wrapped in banana leaf? Teary-eyed (haha), I am getting nostalgic now for my "real" Singapore hawker centres and street markets, like Clarke Quay, like Lau Pa Sat ... ... ... which are all constructions of the Tourism Board in the first place. None is so manicured as Singapore. None is so artfully and intentionally designed. The absence of hamburger or corn on the cob in a real Singapore food-venue would actually represent a failure in product diversification. There's always money to be made on novelty, not to mention from the visiting tourists who "tah boleh tahan" (cannot withstand) our insane penchant for killer spice. Then again ... could someone from Tiger Beer please explain to me why there was a mini-faux-WWF match going on in the boxing ring? According to Meredith: "I like that they're shirtless." Still, what is that, for the double-nipple-pierced "Red Dragon" to be nothing more than a body-slamming Caucasian in YellowFace?
(3) it is finally, and fundamentally Singaporean, to be absent.
I was outnumbered in my own street fair. Yes, it was interesting for once to have the faces behind the Asian ladles white. Yes, we are, all fantasies aside, in Brooklyn. Yes, it is difficult for a combined population of 4 million to have any sort of critical mass at any diaspora event. But where are the Singaporeans in this patchwork event? And will someone please get them to turn the 60s music down a notch?
***
Why don't we ask a "real" Singaporean while I sob away my disappointment and cultural isolation into a bowl of ...
Why don't we ask my mother. Hi Mum -- did you expect to be quoted here?
My mother sends me a lovely email with pertinent -- Biblical, as well as non-Biblical -- pick-me-ups to have me appreciate our 40 years, and who I am on that spectrum.
She writes:
We're really a nation of immigrants, and still receiving new immigrants each day into our ranks. Your heritage is from that stock. Opa's grandfather came from China to Malacca; his father moved to Singapore. Oma found Opa's marriage proposal very attractive as it would mean, among other reasons, she could leave Indonesia, the adopted land of her parents. Kong-kong's parents came from China, while Ma-ma had a longer run as a descendant of immigrants! Of your parents' generation, 50% of Dad's siblings made a life elsewhere (A. Soo Bee, A. Kim, A. Julie)!!! I've recently met several people our age, and their grown-up children are mostly settled or working in other countries!!!
Methinks our "affinity" with America and many things American comes from the same immigrant-stock mentality and heritage. It's the spirit of venturing out to make a new and better life, a "can-do" attitude and spirit, seeking new opportunites, carving out/pioneering niches, etc. And see what they've become in a short span of 200 plus years!! We've just finished 40!!!
Dad used to quote me pithily "Home is where your heart is" whenever I baulked during our early married life overseas in Bangkok, however even now, I think I can still venture elsewhere if there's a purpose for it...!
Firstly: I love you Mummy!
Secondly: "pithily" -- now there's a word that is somewhat awkward to use in daily speech. My mum is quite a good writer, only she doesn't really have the patience for it. But "pithily" and "baulked" -- which, for all you Yanks, has a 'u' in its British variant -- in one sentence do much to explain how it is my mother has won every - single - family - Scrabble - match in living memory. Even when I got a seven-letter 50-pt bonus for something beginning with 'V' that I can't remember. Seems impossible, but true!
Thirdly: So what does it mean to be Singaporean.
How can I continue to be one if I stay longer and longer away.
Does being one require being recognized as such by other Singaporeans -- which I already am not. I can "act" Singaporean," much in the same way that I "act" American, only -- not as successfully. If these countries were people, I could say that I have learned their senses of humor -- which I think, on the level of personality, is an instant indicator and therefore, point of access.
Somehow, Evita runs through my head: "Don't cry for me (insert) SINGAPURA ...!!! THE TRUTH IS I NEEEEH-VER LEFT YOU ... all through my wild days ... my mad existence ... I kept my promise .... donch kipp yaw distansss ..."
It's 12:07 now, August 10th. Singapore's 40th birthday, well-over on that little island, is now officially over for one of her furthest children: me. I'm going to let go the tragicomedy that is my identity crisis and suck my fingers to sleep in memory of a saucy, spicy, moment of "home".
.......................
.... or of a similarly saucy, not quite so spicy boy who still hasn't called me now three days later.
.... isn't there something else they say about Singaporeans? That we're sexually repre---
*THIS BLOGPOST HAS BEEN TERMINATED BY THE SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT UNIT CENSORY BOARD. WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVINIENCE CAUSED, AND HOPE THAT YOU WILL ENGAGE YOUR SEXUALITIES AS MUCH AS IS NECESSARY TO GET MARRIED AND HAVE 2.7 CHILDREN -- THAT IS, IF YOU ARE CHINESE AND HAVE A TERTIARY EDUCATION, BECAUSE YOU ARE LAGGING BEHIND.*
*THANK YOU. TERIMAH KASIH. XIE XIE. (~~~?~~tamil?~~~~)*
*P.S. LAST TO ROBERTSON'S ANNUAL SALE IS A DURIAN-HEAD!*
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