;

It’s been exactly a month since I’ve arrived to the United States for exchange now; it has not been easy adjusting to the new environment. I miss my $3 hawker food, I miss 24-hour eateries, I miss the convenience of Singapore’s public transport. And above all, I miss being “one of them”—the feeling that you belong at home.

I don’t know why it feels so important to feel at home. Maybe because I need affirmation of my belonging? Maybe because I need affirmation that I am welcome? Maybe because, having belonged to the majority ethnic group in Singapore all my life, I am overwhelmed that I am suddenly not “one of them”? Because I talk funny? Because for the first time in my life, I suddenly have an “accent”? Because I need to consciously slow myself down when I speak, just so that I don’t accidentally collapse into Singlish in exchange for funny and quizzical looks? Because I have to try so hard to be another version of myself that I’m not accustomed to? Because I am not in a place where I can be “myself”?

But it’s okay. I have made a number of friends here that I have become comfortable to hang out with. I like how we share about our own countries, I like learning about what “normal life” is to them. I like how we share our similarities through our differences. I like how everyone thinks their accent here is weird, so much so that no one’s accent is weird anymore. I like how the canteen tries to diversify their food options, even though the Asian food is subpar; but what matters is that they try.

And in the blink of an eye, a month has gone by. The humid gust of air in Changi Airport sends me off, and the crispy coolness (soon to be chilly coldness) of Minneapolis-Saint Paul takes me in. One goodbye awaits another’s hello; and life is all about hellos and goodbyes.

I miss, I miss, and I miss home food. I miss my char kway teow, my mini hotpot, my chicken rice, prawn noodles, sambal stingray and authentic curry chicken rice. What on earth is a “Singapore noodles” in an American menu anyway”? Do you mean lor mee, char kway teow, bak chor mee, hor fun, or mee hoon kway? No, no, no. A budget haircut is $15? What do you mean? What about my $3.80 Snip Avenue cuts with noisy aunties questioning me “ah girl, want to rebond or not ah?”

Everything’s new, but that’s okay! Because eventually, nothing is new anymore.

 

 

At midnight, I am ready to go to bed; but then, my phone lights up with your text. Never mind, sleep can wait.

Your text is innocent as ever, just like how you are in person—innocent, genuine, and straightforward. I chuckle, because you have made a funny grammatical error, but then again English is not your primary language, so I have always found your grammatical errors quite adorable. And what’s with the usage of random abbreviations? I’m very sure they’re inappropriately used, but then again, all these little errors in your texting only add a genuine innocence to your character, making you even more precious.

You are not good at texting. Sometimes, you take 2 hours to reply, and others, you take days, or not at all. In person, I thought I could read you; but online, I think I do not understand you at all. What’s on your mind? What do you mean? And above all, how are you?

Your texting is hot, and then suddenly it is cold. I think I cannot keep up with the change, so I distance myself away from you—slightly. But I know you mean no harm, you are too nice to mean any harm, so I keep my distance—but am always within reach. Just in case.

I like to think that you are a special gift planted in my life, though I do not yet know what the purpose is. I approach with caution, but really, should I be less careful with you? What is this even? I try to exercise patience, but sometimes that is precisely the most difficult thing to do. I don’t want to mess anything up.

At midnight, we hold a somewhat nice conversation, though very brief and not much content was exchanged. But I felt your presence, and perhaps that is all that I needed.

Suddenly, your online status went offline in the middle of an unfinished conversation. And I smile to myself, because you truly are the best version of yourself like this—completely carefree, innocent, and genuine. And that is what I admire about you.

Live, to feel. Feel, to live. Emotions, they make or break you; they build you or they crumble you. To feel, is the biggest gift there is to living. Do not be afraid, my dear, do not be afraid to feel; do not be afraid to fall, darling, because one day, one day you will soar.

I have been told that I am a walking heart. I feel deeply, I love tremendously, I hurt devastatingly; but I am brutally authentic, painstakingly genuine, and I am fearlessly unapologetic for who I am.

Yes, there are times when I think too much; such is the inevitable. Yes, there are times when I crumble and hit rock bottom, heart and dreams completely shattered. There are times when I am blinded by darkness, unable to find the light, groping around helplessly as I bleed, encapsulated by desertion and despair.

Little do you know, that these build up to better things. Little do you know, the most crippling heartaches create the most euphoric hallelujah; little do you know, those once blinded now see the brightest of light. Little do you know, darling, your struggles will not go to waste.

I want you to be brave, be bold, be fearless. I want you to dare to feel, to immerse, to absorb all the raw emotions. They may break you, my love, but it is my greatest faith that you will heal and rise again.

Be unapologetic, be firm, be rooted. You are a rare soul, a true gem, an angel sent from above. Not everyone will appreciate you, and some might detest you; but my love, you must always remember that you will be loved deeply, and this love will completely annihilate all your doubts, regrets, and scars. Be patient, keep the faith, and you will be rewarded.

Next time, don’t let anyone tell you that you feel too much. Never treat your loving, raw, beating heart as a flaw or imperfection that needs to be corrected or rectified. Be confident, my love, be bold. You are perfection in your own beautiful way; you are priceless, you are unique, and above all, you are only human.

Be patient, and keep the faith.

Three years ago, you stopped talking to me. I received no explanation, I watched you leave; slowly, but surely.

I want you to know that I still think of you. How can I ever forget you? We’ve had so many memories together—the good, the bad, and the ugly—you’ve seen so much of me; and I, you.

I want you to know that I still care for you. How can I stop? Even though I don’t know what you’re up to any longer, I don’t receive updates from your social media, I want you to know that if you ever reach out to me again, I will be there for you.

I have slowly come to accept that I am not going to receive answers to my questions I have for you; I have come to respect that these are answers you do not want to provide me with.

Still, I have always remembered you. I have walked out of one of the most difficult periods of my life, and I will never forget how I would never have done it without you.

I write this not to seek you; I write this to celebrate you, to remember you.

I write this to remind myself, I still do care for you. There are many things I’d like to leave behind in the past; but you, I’d like to carry my memory of you with me forever.

I am done with my second year of university. This means, I am halfway done with university; two more years to go. I’d like to think that I am doing alright, I’m scoring relatively decent grades and I am thankful that I don’t have to worry about being called up by the administrators because of poor grades. In fact, I have even been praised several times for my academic work.

Next semester, I am going on a semester long overseas exchange in the United States, something that my physics teacher once advised all of us to do in junior college. Go overseas and expose yourselves to another culture during University, he said. It will be a once in a lifetime experience, he said.

Right now, I’m lucky to be able to say that going on exchange seems like a no brainer—I am fully qualified, equipped with the necessary criteria to do so. A more than sufficient GPA, a wide variety of school options to choose from thanks to the relative prestige of my university, and of course, a very close friend to go on exchange with. Everything is good. All is well. I don’t have to worry about anything.

But three years ago, I almost thought I wouldn’t make it to university.

Despite my comfortable grades now, I will never forget how it felt like to suffer every single day in junior college. I will never forget how it felt like to fail almost every single paper, scoring a grand total of 30 rank points out of 90 for my prelim exams right before A levels. I will never forget how, when I went up to receive my physics prelim paper with my table mate, who was quite a high-flyer, my teacher asked her why she had done so badly for her paper when she had scored nearly double my marks, and yet my teacher said nothing to me—like it was almost normal that I was going to fail anyway. I will never forget how I was called out to attend every possible remedial, and how my name, along with others, was flashed on the auditorium screen in front of the entire cohort to see the year master. That shame, that embarrassment, but above all, that crippling sense of internal devastation. I will never forget how, when I was overseas during the school holiday when I was supposed to be attending remedial (the plane tickets were booked a year in advance, so it was not purposefully booked to avoid the remedial), my physics teacher texted in the entire class chat that “if you can even make it to university” when I mentioned that I happened to be at Cambridge during that time. And I will never forget how, when I went back to visit my junior college during my first year at university and bumped into my then year master, I was doing my university school work but she thought I was still trying to apply for university.

Because some impressions don’t change. Because people are quick to form judgments about one another. Because most people are not so charitable, not so understanding, not so willing to believe. I wanted to give up on myself, and it didn’t help that one of my teachers so openly expressed doubt in me. But honestly, in retrospect, I don’t really blame him. I can’t. This is what the education system has shaped us into.

But amidst all the self doubt and the failures, my GP teacher never gave up on me. She constantly fought for me, because not only was I struggling with academics, I was also causing troubles with my classmates. The discipline mistress wanted to call my parents, she fought to convince her not to do that. She noticed my interpersonal problems, and she was there for me. However embarrassing they were, never once have I felt like she judged me. I was vulnerable, but she cared for me—in a tough way, but enough for me to feel her sincerity. She gave me continuous consultations, and she encouraged me. She complimented me. For the first time in a very long time, I heard a teacher tell me that I was good at something academically. She told me I was good at language in writing, that I had a strong personal voice. And if only I could improve my content, I was able to come up with a good essay. It was like seeing the light at the end of a dark tunnel, hearing that from her. I didn’t want to disappoint her; I didn’t want to disappoint the only teacher who had complimented me. I worked very hard for GP, and at the end of the day when I received my A level results, amongst the Bs and the Cs, the only A I got was for GP. And that was euphoria. Not only because I had scored the first A I have seen in my entire junior college life, but because I know it was the best way to show my teacher that her efforts in me had paid off. That I was worth believing in. In fact, I’d say that the whole reason why I managed to pass my A levels in the first place—and doing well enough to get into a good local university—was because of her. Because she didn’t just teach me how to write a good GP essay. She also taught me to believe in myself.

Fast forward to now, my residential hall in university sits directly opposite NIE, the national institute of education where all the teachers of local schools must attend to receive teaching training. There is a banner somewhere in NIE that says “Your classes may be forgotten; but your lessons never will never be.” And every single time I see this banner, I think of her. Hands down, the most impactful teacher I ever had. Hands down, the teacher I am the most indebted to. Hands down, one of the biggest reasons why I am here, now, in university and doing comfortably well. Because somewhere deep inside, she always pushes me on, even though she no longer teaches me. And now that even though I am writing 2500-word long essays for the bulk of my assessments, I still think of her harping on my 500 word GP essay. And honestly, a contributing factor as to why I chose a major (and 2nd major) in university that requires so much essay writing, was because she helped me believe in myself that I can write.

So yes. It’s been three years since I graduated junior college, and the painful times then are now history. But I will never forget how a teacher saved me from the darkness. I will never forget the moment of elation, of relief, when I saw my final results and knew that I could make it to university. Now, I receive academic compliments much more often. But your compliment will always be the one I treasure the most.

Thank you.

There is a parking crisis in school—there are too many cars, with too few parking spaces. Every morning, I ask myself if I am going to get a parking lot today. Sometimes, I refuse to drive because I am afraid to lose my parking space and never find one again, and it’s ironic because why then do I drive if I plan to walk anyway?

Today I couldn’t even successfully apply for April’s season parking, because it was fully sold out. Yet, today is the first day where the application window for season parking opens. Parking is a battle on campus, and instead of getting angry at all those who threaten my parking space, I reasoned that everyone is just like me. Frustrated, but helpless. Something needs to be done, but whatever that should happen is not going to happen anytime soon.

Anyway, that’s not the main point. The main point is that soon, I won’t be driving in school any longer. I have a few more months with this car, and then that’s it. I will never have to fight for parking with anyone again. In a sense, I am even mildly relieved. I will never have to race other drivers to the parking lot, I will never get angry at drivers who can’t do a proper parking job, and I will never need to worry about not getting my season parking anymore.

But until then, everything now is still a fight. Everything now is still a battle of parking lots, even “illegal” ones. When I’m getting the car, I can anticipate another driver eagerly waiting to take my lot immediately after I leave, and it’s not at all a nice feeling. It’s definitely a first world problem, and a problem of the privileged, but it’s a problem that has been constantly bothering me anyway.

But soon, I will bid this problem goodbye. I will miss the convenience of a car terribly, I will miss everything about it. I will miss effortless midnight suppers, dinners out of school which I am almost taking for granted. But I will be happy to be rid of the worry of finding parking in this impossible place.

Until then, it’s a fight to saying the last goodbye. Until then, every day that I painstakingly look for parking lots will be one less grumble until finally, I don’t get to grumble about it anymore. And then, I will probably miss grumbling about it.