Conversations with Elders

When I was a child my Dad told me to listen to my grandparents and do as they told. This discipline was expected for all elders, and over the years through listening to them my silence turned into respect. I took their word as truth and saw them as cardinal bearers of the past. Listening to their conversations with other elders and adults I noticed they enjoyed talking about the olden days. The War was a common topic that never escaped daily conversation. No food was wasted as war-time rationing was not a distant memory for them. Not diluting your glass of juice was considered thriftless. A bit of mould on a loaf of bread or piece of cheese was merely cut off for the rest was still edible. Not writing on every line and using both sides of a piece of paper was considered improvident. Food was regularly discussed and they loved to lament on the days when one could buy two pounds of apples for 15 pence or a dozen eggs for 40 pence. The good ol’ days. When children were seen but not heard. When TV was not full of rubbish and one could watch a proper newscast.

Some of their stories would make me chuckle while others, like the German bombing of London in WWII, would make me silent. War and politics took up a large share of everyday conversation. Mark Twain once said “it’s better to stay silent and look a fool, rather than speak and remove all doubt.” At an early age I quickly learnt this lesson. When I tried to enter the discussion I was either ignored or told I was too young to know what I was talking about. This was true. Their discussions on Yasser Arafat, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and the cold war made me dizzy. I was intimidated but also fascinated by their vast array of knowledge. Gunter, my step grandfather, seemed to know just about every conflict known to man since David and Goliath, could explain the revolutionary military strategies of Alexander the Great, and tell you the shoe size of Napolean and the size of Nelson Mandela’s prison cell. I absorbed their words like a sponge. Knowledge became authority. They had lived through two world wars, the Great Depression, the Suez canal crisis, apartheid and the fall of the Berlin wall. I was alive when the Berlin wall fell, but I did not understand the context that made its destruction so significant. I grew to respect these people by listening to their life stories.

Today I still feel humbled in the presence of elders and enjoy talking with them. When I moved away from my grandparents I no longer had access to their stories but I continued to acquire knowledge through encyclopaedias, history books and eventually the internet. But it was their conversations which ultimately nurtured my character, humility, and high esteem for knowledge. I saw their experiences and stories as life lessons one could not find in a textbook. Considering I decided to study history at university, I’d say they had a profound effect on me. At university I found professors that filled the void of my grandparents’ absence. Passed away, they no longer walk among us, yet their stories will be passed on.

To My Captor

by Jack Cusack

I walked miles unsure
I would reach you. On my way
I got lost on some barren moors of heath. I stumbled
I fell, I wavered
through storms of trial; and
though uncertain I journeyed on until
I found myself caught
in your field, unprepared. Yet
I’m unwilling to leave. I trust
the pacific winds that push me to and fro
against the sides of your purple heather. To
you I offer the split strands of my will;
with dulled scythe in my hand I come
to berth and the sun settles
to its bed. Blackness falls
yet I do not quail, for I trust the soft voices
that stroll your field. You kindle the timbers of my soul
with your smouldering gaze. I linger
among the ambrosial trail of your hair. A zephyr carries me
to the sweet balmy lips of the evergreens
in front of me. I’m caught
in this blooming ballad
that the eternal voices have sown.

Papa

by Jack Cusack

I couldn’t tie my shoe laces
without your hand
I couldn’t resist rolling and howling with glee
when you tickled my sides

you taught me how to bow my hands outward from my chest
kick my feet like a frog
you filled my belly with towers of French toast
and mountains of spare ribs

you walked me to the market
to visit the toy shop and bookies
I walked back carrying a toy gun
you holding a ticket and tobacco

you would sit in your armchair
read your paper
I would build castles with lego and
listen to you hum the little drummer boy

you called me your wee man
I called you my Papa
you smiled at me.
Pa rum pum pum pum.

Catholic School as Vicious as Roman Rule

I was talking with a friend the other week about the Death Cab for Cutie song, “I Will Follow You into the Dark.” I remarked that the song itself sounds somewhat bleak and flat, but I’ve always enjoyed listening to it. I said I wasn’t sure why but I’ve always been fond of that verse, “Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule; I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black.” This led my friend to describe a scene in the novel, “Anne of Green Gables” when a teacher wields a yardstick at her pupils in a late Victorian era classroom. I thought the scene was interesting but I didn’t think much of it until I went home later that evening and recalled something that happened to me as a child. When I was 4 years old, I went to a traditional Catholic school in Hong Kong. The school was taught by Chinese people, in Chinese tongue, for Chinese children. I’m half Chinese, half white. In Hong Kong, they have a name for caucausians: gwai lo, which translates white devil. Still, like I mentioned, this was, ironically enough, a Catholic school – and a very strict one at that. In addition to my obvious tainted contamination by the white devil, I was also born to be left-handed. In China, those who write and use chopsticks with their left hands are traditionally scorned upon. I’m not sure if an English interpretation of left-handedness for being sneaky, treacherous, tricky, or untrustworthy is the same in the Chinese language. Naturally, I wrote with my left hand, so my teacher would beat my left hand with a bamboo stick until I could no longer write with it. Of course, I quickly became right-handed. Anyway, I now realize why that verse, “Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule” always resonated within me, even though I had never actually pinpointed the origin of my song association. Listened in its entirety, that song does make me feel sad… well, gentle sadness. Oddly enough, most of my favourite songs have this sad or dark feeling about them.

The song has a beautiful music video:
deathcab I will follow you into the dark

Déjà Vu

My Dad wasn’t the most talkative person. When he and Ricki, my step-mother, separated, our meals at the dinner table would be anything but gregarious. During most dinners neither of us would utter a word. Looking back I don’t think I made it easy for him. Although, don’t we all when we’re going through teenage angst? During high school I was a brooding teenager who moped around the halls with head held down and hands tucked in pockets. I’d come home from school, go straight to my room, shut the door, escape to my cd collection, come out for dinner, then head back to my room and close the door behind me. My self-imposed exile to my room was largely consequential of my penchant for solitude and meticulous self scrutiny. In isolation, I would observe my actions, thoughts, desires, hopes and fears. Even on a packed bus or a bustling street I would withdraw from my surroundings and climb the inner synaptic walls of my narcissistic neurosis. If I was asked how my day at school was, I replied “Fine.” And if I was asked what I did or what I had learned, I’d say “Nothing.” My withdrawn silence used to drive Ricki up the wall. She would say “Really? You did nothing? So you just sat at the desk and did absolutely nothing all day?” To which I’d respond with a scowling glare.

Today, I’m still fond of the occasional brooding days. I’m unsure of what provokes these pensive moods. The weather, olfactory memories and certain songs will put me in an introspective state. Rainy days always put me in a reflective mood. I think mostly due to the fact that the rain forces me indoors. If you’re staring out the window and all you see is grey skies and colourless puddles, how can you not be put into a state of melancholy? Vancouver is notorious for this kind of weather so it isn’t uncommon to find yourself arrested in a brooding mood for a whole week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m gloomy for a week. I actually enjoy brooding now and then. I get to catch up on all my deep thinking.

I think my olfactory moments are closely tied with déjà vu experiences. A certain smell, or even a particular sound will remind me of something from the past. It could be at the most unexpected moment too. It could be the way the morning mist smells on a particular day, or the song of a bird chirping away outside, or even insignificant background noise. I’ll pause at these moments and reflect. Sometimes I feel it reminds me of something from my past but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Very déjà vu at times.

Sometimes songs invoke certain memories and feelings that can be even more tangible than physical stimuli. Depressing songs affect me the most too but they don’t define me. I’m not a dark person – although I’m sure this post is painting me in that light – but I would say I’m very sentimental. When I was younger, my Dad used to frequently go on trips and be away for months at a time. I remember one day, he was going on an overseas trip and I was playing his Annie Lennox cd (“Medusa”) in my room. I didn’t change the cd in the stereo the entire two months he was gone because I didn’t want to forget the day he had left. This probably sounds strange, as I was already in grade 9 at the time. To this day when I hear a song from that album, I always think about that memory. I suppose this partly explains why sad songs affect me in ways that happy songs cannot.

Note: Certain prose and poetry can also put me into deep thought, but I think that subject deserves its own post. For another day.

The Outsider

“The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”

- Friedrich Nietzsche

I noticed certain groups and cliques in high school. Kids banded together based on tribe, race, and popularity. This trend started in late primary school but the bonds solidified in high school. I think for the most part, I was usually an outsider because I would only be in a school for less than a year (I was always moving to new cities and countries) and never shared the same history and inside jokes with my fellow classmates. I used to switch back and forth between groups of friends. I never liked to belong to only one group. I think I was happy to not get caught up in the drama that went on in each group. Thankfully, being an outsider, I never had enough emotional investment to be included in the drama. I always found the high school spectacle of popularity contest and gossip to be overrated, to say the least. I noticed some kids would band with certain groups just to prevent themselves from falling to the bottom of the social food chain. Let’s face it. Who wants to be the freak sitting alone in the corner of the lunch room? And when I say freak, I mean the kid who doesn’t appear to have any allies or belong to any tribe, thus, in the theatre of war that is high school, is considered no other than a freak. I may have been considered an outsider, but never an outcast. I much preferred to have close friendships with a couple of people. Looking back, I realize in each school I had one or two best friends, but never a small group of friends I could call my group. Even though I have a group from grade 11/12 high school in Canada, I’ve still never felt a huge bond with that group. I’ve continued to make new friends through work and Uni. I think whenever I hang out with that high school group in the group environment – when we’re all in attendance – it feels almost ritualistic and somewhat formal. I’m probably not making sense. I just find I won’t have a real conversation with them in the group environment because our dialogue merely consists of inside jokes and social pleasantries like “How have you been? What’s new?” interspersed with counterfeit laughter. I’ve never been one for small talk. I’d rather stick my head in an oven a la Sylvia Plath. But whenever I’m spending time with one of my friends from that group, one on one, I find the conversation to be much more enjoyable. In an earlier post I likened myself to the stubborn black sheep of the herd, but I think it would also be accurate to say I’m the lone wolf out of the pack. The outsider. The loner. Am I a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

Oi! ching chong china man! Go back to your bloody country!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
I’m fortunate to have only experienced racism firsthand once in my life. I was in grade 8 and living on my step-grandfather’s farm in Melbourne, Australia. I still remember the 30 min walk from the farm house to the main road where I’d catch the school bus. I would talk with my friend, John, on the 40 min bus ride to school. There was an older kid in grade 10 who would come on the bus and tease me, taunting, “Hey, ching chong china man! Go back to your bloody country!” Hands raised to his cheeks, he would mock an Asian slanty-eyed expression. A fairly quiet and passive kid, I chose to ignore him. Actually, at first I was slightly amused and confused because I didn’t even consider myself to look Asian. To be honest, I never looked particularly Asian or white. I am half Chinese, half Scottish, but people often mistook me for Italian, Spanish, South American or Hawaiian, but never Asian. I was shocked that he could even tell I was Chinese – well, half. While I had chosen to ignore his taunts, two weeks passed, and one day on the bus ride back home, the emotions inside took me over. Getting on the bus at school, he did his usual ching chong china man routine. Inside I became incredibly angry. Although I must have done a very good job at hiding my anger because the whole bus ride to my bus stop I was chatting away normally with my friend, John. As John and I started to walk down the bus aisle to the exit, I stopped right in front of the bully, and without a word, unloaded a few punches to his face. I then walked quietly off the bus. John was ahead of me so he never knew what happened. Actually, it all happened in a matter of seconds, so I don’t think anybody on the bus caught the flurry. I remember as we were walking away from the bus stop, I looked back at the bus as it drove away and saw it stop suddenly in the middle of the road, but I didn’t take much notice of this at the time. By the time I walked from the main road to the farm house, my step-mum, Ricki, was waiting for me. She told me she had been on the phone with the police and that apparently I had broken the kid’s nose and blood had stained the entire bus seat. I was a very sensitive kid so I immediately broke down in tears. The only thing I kept thinking was that I would be sent away to this island prison surrounded by the killer sharks (I had visited this prison on a tour the previous summer), where I’d eventually die and be buried with all the other old dead inmates. I had a wild imagination. My step-mum was furious with me. Luckily, the police said the family wasn’t going to press charges but my school did suspend me for two weeks. On my last day of class before my suspension, I had to ask all my teachers to sign the suspension form. I still remember my english teacher looking at me with a surprised look on his face when I passed him the suspension form. In a puzzled voice, he said, “Jack, what on earth are you being suspended for? This must be a mistake, mate. You’re such a great student.” I told him what had happened. Nodding his head, he told me in the straightest voice, “Good on ya, mate” and then signed the suspension form. My Dad and everybody on Ricki’s side of the family, except Ricki, all said I did the right thing for standing up for myself. I don’t regret it. That bully never spoke a word or even glanced in my direction ever again.

That is my only encounter with the ugly truth that is racism. While I did live on the outskirts of the city, far remote from metropolitan Melbourne, I was still shocked by this experience. This was 1997, not Rosa Parks circa 1955. I can’t even imagine the outcome if I was of a much more visible minority. Would I have been strung up and lynched? Would the school board thought better to expel me? The issue of race certainly seemed to be swept swiftly under the rug in the meeting room when they decided my troubling, violent actions warranted a two week suspension. They dismissed my protests that I had been racially harassed, and instead focused on my “uncivilized” response. I’m sorry. Was I being uncivil when I retaliated against the boy who cussed me with racial slurs? Perhaps quipping back with some racial slurs of my own would have been more civil of me. True, raising my fists was perhaps not the best form of conflict resolution but it certainly did the job. A harassment complaint would have probably given me further ridicule from the bully – and perhaps even more from those who learned I had tattled. I should be thankful that my racial pedigree went largely unnoticed in that school. As unsettling as it was, this encounter with racism remains one of the oddest experiences – I am tempted to call it an anomaly – of my childhood. I just never considered myself to look Asian nor be teased for it. While I still love Australia and still believe Australians have a great outlook towards life, I’m still disappointed that a significant proportion of Australians remain quite prejudiced.

Mixed, Raced and Confused

My mother is Chinese. My father is Scottish. Which makes me half Chinese, half Scottish. I didn’t always see it this way. As a child, I saw myself as either one or the other. How do I explain my confusion with being identified with being Chinese or being white? Would it make sense if I were to say that at certain periods and in certain places, I would try hard to fit in by being whatever others were. For example, when I lived in Hong Kong, I would call myself Chinese; when I lived in Australia, I would call myself white. Yet, in certain periods of my childhood and in particular countries, I would try hard to be different from what others were. For example, the situations would be the same, but my sentiment reversed: In Hong Kong, I would call myself white; in Australia, I would call myself Chinese. You probably have a puzzled look on your face. Like I said, I’m not sure if I’m able to articulate clearly the reasons for these clashes in sentiment.

I remember as a kid in Hong Kong, I longed to look Asian. I envied the other school kids with their jet-black hair, soft white skin, and super neat handwriting. It’s true, their handwriting looked like perfectly stencilled work next to my sloppy chicken-scratch. There was also a brief period when I thought all Asians looked the same – and I imagine some Asians think all white people look the same. When I moved to foreign countries I would start to distance myself from my Asian pedigree when I found myself surrounded by white people. I never felt ashamed of either race. I just always had this urge to fit in. At birth, I was given the name, Jack. In Hong Kong, I was called Jackie, as this was quite common there. I didn’t mind being called Jackie when I was little because Jackie Chan was in fact, my hero. But to my horror, I found out by a classmate in Scotland that Jackie was a girl name in the UK. So I immediately distanced myself from the name, Jackie, and insisted I be called Jack from that moment on. So, I was no longer Jackie, I was Jack. I was no longer Chinese. I was Scottish. I had no concept of being half Chinese, half Scottish; it was either one or the other.

But within a short span of time, I’d do a complete 180 and long for my Asian roots and cling on to anything that reminded me of Hong Kong. I would re-watch all of my mum’s old video recordings of Chinese movies and canto-pop performances (which my Dad had packed for me when we moved away). If people asked where I was from, I would say “Hong Kong” and say that I was Chinese. I would be proud of this too. I would switch back and forth between being Asian and being white multiple times. I know I’m still not explaining why this was the case, I’m just saying what I would do. The truth is, I don’t know why. At some point in my late teens, I came to accept I was of mixed race. This rigid dichotomy between being Chinese and being white seemed to dissolve. The wall was torn down. There were no life-changing moments of enlightenment or changes in character. Life resumed course at the same speed and in the same manner as it always had. I simply felt fine with being half Chinese, half Scottish. In fact, I embraced being Eurasian and felt proud for what I saw as having the best of both worlds. Granted, while moving countries continuously throughout childhood certainly gave me a worldly view, I still consider my Asian and Western genes and upbringing to give me an even greater appreciation for different cultures.

Being brought up with two different sets of value systems did mould my character. Chinese families traditionally embrace the idea of a closely-knit family. Parents reinforce the importance of close family ties by very closely looking after their children well beyond the point of adulthood, and are still very much involved in all aspects of their children’s family affairs. Western families tend to let more slack on the leash over their children, which fosters greater independence on the part of the children. Some may remark the Western family unit is less close, thus, colder. However, I find it better prepares the child for the realities of adulthood. At least, these are my views from my own experience. I was raised by my Dad from birth right through to my late teens. Since I left Hong Kong at the age of 8, I had no contact with my mother until I turned 18, so I did not truly become acquainted with Chinese family values firsthand until well past my formative years. Being raised by my father definitely made me into a much more independent person. He told me he had dropped out of high school and left the house at the age of 15. So, I always expected that once I turned 18, I would be off on my own. I started earning my own keep at the age of 14 and was out of the house at the age of 17, but that’s a different story altogether.

While I did struggle with the concept of being of mixed race growing up, I found I was able to eventually accept myself for who I was without categorizing myself by race. I think that the more of a melting point our society becomes, the less ethnicity and race are used as a category of analysis to identify with one another. My name is Jack. I am half Chinese, half Scottish. Some mornings I wake up and feel Asian and other mornings I feel white.

Even Hercules was Mortal

As a child I looked up to my Dad on the same plane as a King or Hercules. He was my hero. “My Dad could beat up your Dad” was something I’d often tout to my friends. Sadly, as I grew older, it seemed my Dad went from an invincible, mythologized figure to a middle aged man who suffers the same problems like all other mere mortals. I’d say my respect for him went down, as did my confidence in myself. In a way, his failures became my worst fears. Through his experiences I saw dreams made, and while some were achieved, some weren’t, and some were lost. I guess it was a humbling realization. It may sound depressing but I don’t see it in that way. No, I’m not a downer. I’m aware I’m sounding like some miserable nihilist at the moment. But I’m definitely not. I’ve always had this belief that I am capable of making things right or that even if things don’t look great at the moment I somehow always land on both feet. Not to say that things will land on my lap out of nowhere. Anything that I have achieved or hope to ever achieve has, and will always, come through hard work. I guess what I’m trying to say is that as a kid, I imagined my Dad as this larger-than-life figure who had all the answers in life and was never scared of anything. But as I grew older I realized he was only human like the rest of us and he too has his fair share of fears. Yet, I actually find it reassuring to realize he doesn’t have all the answers, and that actually, nobody does, so I don’t feel quite alone. Despite all this, I still look up to him and have respect for him and learn from him. But, I find I learn more from his mistakes and failures than anything else. That’s just how I see things in all aspects of life. Perhaps that explains why I like reading about people who endured impoverished and unfortunate circumstances. I expect to learn more from stories of those who overcome adversity.

Black Sheep

I have an odd thing against fads. In fact, I can be so stubborn that I’ll refuse to listen/read/do certain things when it seems everyone is following a fad. I still haven’t read Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code because I didn’t like how everyone was gushing over it. My friends in high school kept saying I “had to” read this book. I didn’t like that. It took me 7 years before I watched the Titanic movie. I used to think those Affliction shirts were cool when I saw MMA fighters wearing them, but I don’t like how it seems every tool in the lower mainland is now wearing them. I’m not sure why I don’t like fads. I just don’t like following what everyone else is doing.

I wasn’t always this way. I have this stubborn tendency to be the black sheep in the herd but I can’t pinpoint when this started. I’m not sure if it is my innate personality, but I have a feeling it was passed from my Dad and Stepmum. I always heard things like “Why would you want to be normal?” or “Normal is boring. Be different” or “Stop thinking what others are thinking and do what you want.” For a while I used to be quite frustrated with my parents for always being so different from my friends’ parents. For a start, why on earth did we have to move so much? Ever since an early age, I was never in the same school for more than a year before we jumped to a different city and/or country. I started thinking we more closely resembled a pack of Gypsies than a normal family. I longed for normality, consistency, monotony, suburbia, pop tarts, junk food, white bread, brand name clothes, MTV, and Nintendo. Instead, I was told POP tarts weren’t real food; if I were to eat instant noodles, I’d have to replace the brain cancer seasoning packets with soy sauce; if I was hungry then have some fruit; MTV was trash; video games thwart creativity; if I was bored then read a book; wearing Nike meant supporting child labour. Needless to say, I only ate brown bread, brown rice, absolutely no junk food, and having a soda was considered a treat. The idea of entertainment was considered listening to music and drawing in my room. Going out to a restaurant for dinner was unheard of. Watching TV while eating dinner was out of the question. If I ever got into trouble, my parents never ‘grounded’ me because they considered it a useless form of punishment. Instead, they just gave me more chores to do. I was always ashamed as a kid for not being ‘normal’ or not fitting in with the rest. I was very self conscious of the fact I never wore the ‘cool’ clothes other kids wore. Maybe the instability of continuously moving to new places and never knowing how long it would be until the next move made me long for what I saw as comfort, safety, predictability and consistency in other kids’ families.

I’m rambling. 

What am I getting at here? Hmm… I’m lost… I started out explaining why as a kid I always wanted to fit in but ended up rambling on about my insignificant childhood. I guess I should just finish this train of thought by saying that in recent years, despite my former tendency to conform and seek acceptance, I now catch myself saying or thinking things I heard my parents say to me when I was younger. I guess their years of unconventional parenting somehow got through to me. I now find myself reluctant to wear what everyone else is wearing, avoid wearing brand names for the sake of showing off the brand name itself, wary of books that everyone says I must read, and hesitant of doing something just because everyone else is doing it. I hope I don’t come across as a pretentious snob, which I’m sure I do. I hope that sharing my childhood experiences made sense of some of my disdain for fads. But if it didn’t, I’m not surprised, because even I can’t make sense of my childhood.