Teochew Nang, kaki nang,
Heiyo heiyo...
Di gor liang, di gor zhor,
Di gor wu jee, di gor por.
(Old Teochew poem: sit where it's shaded, go where that is loaded.)
Teochew Nang, ka chng ang ang.
(Silly limerick: Teochew people have red behinds)
I am a Teochew. And I'm proud to be one.
Thinking back, my biggest Teochew influence would have been from my Ah ma - Pa's mother. I don't have much memories of Ah gong as he passed away quite awhile back, but my mind oddly retains pretty vivid memories of his funeral.
Anyway, Ah ma was the eldest we had around and she was often dubbed as the 'Dowager' by my youngest uncle who lived with her. A matriarch in her own rights, she was a feisty little old lady who could be demanding, domineering, unreasonable and strict in her ways of thinking and in how she wanted things done. But to us grandchildren, she was always a doting Ah ma who had loved us all. Conversant only in Teochew, I had the opportunity to practise my dialect skills each time I visited her, and it was through those experiences that I am conversant in Teochew now.
I remembered going to her house every weekend when I was younger, to a riotous rowdy mix of adults gambling and cousins hanging around. There was always food on the table and loud conversations going on. I looked forward to those weekends. We didn't converse a lot during those occasions, but she was a 'fixture' there. I would always seek her out and shout an 'AH MA!' to her and she would acknowledge me with 'Oi! Le lai liao ah.' (Oh, you've come already.)
She loved to drink 'pok chwee' (soda drinks) but couldn't drink much because of her diabetes. So whenever I could, I would offer to share a can and a few sips. "Ah ma, wa ga le gong si jik kong ai mai?' (Ah ma, I share a can with you?) and she would reply with a 'hor la' (ok).
Every time I visit, she would always demonstrate her doting ways by insisting on making me a hot cup of milo, irregardless if I wanted to drink or not. And she knew that I loved dumping 'gems' biscuits into my milo and spooning them up to eat when they were all soft and soaked, so she often bought a tin for me.
One period during my schooling days, Pa would dictate that I spend a few days of my holiday every year to stay with her. I dreaded those days because the thought of staying with her was honestly boring. But stay I did, and during those days, I would be her extra hands, accompanying her to the market in the morning, having our kway tiao soup 'jeng her yi' (only fishballs) and lugging big red plastic bags of her marketing home. There was once I remember, she wanted to buy durians. And we ended up carrying huge bags of the thorny fruits home. 'Wa lao, Ah ma. Jing dang leh,' (it's very heavy) I told her as we made our way back. I can't remember her reply then, but I was definitely relieved to rid my hands of the weighty bags once we got home.
Stays with her always made me melancholic. Initially dreadful, renewed attachments were always formed during those stays, leaving me sad and pensive whenever my stay ended. When Pa came to fetch me home, I always left with a heavy heart. Looking back, I guess this was his way of making me spend time with Ah ma and although I disliked his decisions then, I've grown to be grateful for the intentions he had, and the ties that fostered me closer to her along the years.
As I grew older, the weekend visits to her house gradually lessened and stays with her stopped altogether. In the prime of my twenties, I was occupied with everything life had going for me then and I didn't notice the transformation.
Over the years, her head of permed black hair had slowly transformed into silvery soft strands, and as her memories blurred, her once robust, feisty persona slowly toned down to a less domineering and demanding lady. I had taken for granted that my Ah ma would forever be young and healthy, and by the time I really took notice, she had withered and aged, and suffered from dementia.
When dementia hit her, it was another chapter altogether. Some incidents that happened with her are amusing now as we look back. But when we were going through it, it was certainly anything but funny. There were times when she would call up my house looking for another auntie, or worse, not remember who she wanted to call.
'Ah ma' I would call her upon recognizing her voice, 'le chweh di diang?' (Who are you looking for) 'Aiyo, wa mm gi dek liao' (I forgot) she would tell me in an angry, confused voice.
Or she would call up my house and without so much of a 'hello', she would exclaim 'Oi! Wa ah buay jiak leh. Dou jing khoong. Le ga wa buay jik pao guay png. Wa ai guay twee hor.' (I have not eaten yet and I am very hungry. Buy me a packet of chicken drumstick rice). I had to call my uncle to realize that he had already bought her lunch before he left the house.
But I guess the scariest time of all was once when she called and immediately started shouting over the phone that she had slipped and fallen in the bathroom, and was now sitting on the floor. I panicked and told her to get the helper to help her up, to which she vehemently replied that she didn't want the maid to touch her. I called my uncle immediately to see if one could reach earlier than the other and made my rushing way down to her house. Huffing and panting upon reaching, I peered through the metal gates and spotted her sitting on her regular spot 'kiao kah'-ing (legs propped up). She returned my frantic calls with a genuine look of surprise and remarked 'Oi! Zho ni le gin nik ah ne wu oy lai toi wa?' (How come you so free to visit me today?) Exasperated wasn't enough of a word to describe how I felt then.
My youngest uncle probably bore the brunt of her episodes through the years of her dementia since he stayed with her. Those times were trying and exasperating, but we were all happy to see her happy; occasions that were exceeding rare. And so, I had thought that my upcoming wedding would be an occasion enough for her to look forward to. We had consulted her several times for the proper wedding customs, brought her along for the food tasting sessions, and even custom-made a 'lao ma bia' (Ah ma biscuit) for her longevity. On the day of '过大礼' (bringing over of wedding dowry), the symbolic items were happily brought over to her house.
It was a joyous occasion and I had expected smiles and happiness. But instead, a face that was very angry greeted us. I was hurt and offended by her reaction. My mind retraced, racing through everything that I had done. Did I miss on doing something or did something that was not according to the customs? I couldn't recall. When I sat down and greeted her, she rebuked me with her sternest voice and said 'Wa xiang siok le. Zho ni le geh nang bo ga wa ta.' (I dote on you the most. Why didn't you inform me that you were getting married). She left me speechless to say the least.
Thankfully, my wedding went along well and I shall always be thankful and glad to have her and Pa attend and be part of my joyous occasion. To those who didn't know, my Pa had been suffering from Leukemia then and Ah ma wasn't in her best of health. That happy occasion was the last time I had them together with me.
Not too long after my wedding, Ah ma had to be hospitalized due to water in her lungs. I would visit often and lay beside her holding her frail, small hands in mine. My Ah ma, as I realized, was really old now. She would lie on her hospital bed alert and at times, with cataract-covered seeing eyes, she would scare us with questions of 'zho ni jie joong zhor ah ne gu ah buay gao?' (Why is this boat ride taking so long to reach?)
Or 'zho ni ah ne zui huay xio?' (Why are there so many monks?)
And once she remarked to me that there were a lot of 'bee pang' (bees) flying around and that they were giving her money ('ee nang kor wa lui leh'). I told her that we should keep the money and slowly guided her hands from the air into her pockets to 'safekeep' whatever monies the 'bees were giving' her.
Shortly after, she slipped away quietly one night in her sleep. When I went to take my last look at her, she was lying there all small and frail and prim. In the times spent with her throughout my growing years, I always remembered her neatly dressed, her fingernails cut short and clean, and her hair seldom out of place. Prim in her lifetime and even in her death, I will always remember my Ah ma this way
The Matriarch of our family was given an elaborate Teochew funeral with 'big houses' and 'big cars'. Wearing only socks, we had to cross a bridge and toss out coins into a metal basin during the funeral ceremony amidst monks chanting and loud 'dong dong chiang's noisily blaring at the void deck. I cannot remember the significance of most of the procession, but it was a loud, noisy and traditionally Teochew funeral - the way that she would probably have liked it.
A can of opened 'pok chwee' stood out among all the other traditional offerings at the altar in hope that she would now be able to drink all the sodas that she liked. And on the very last night of the wake, I spotted a single bee resting somewhere near where her body was placed, I hope, still giving her money in her afterlife.
I miss her curses of 'wa bear oy!' (Omg!)
I miss her delicious fried yams.
But most of all, I miss her unifying presence in the family.
Di gor liang, di gor zhor,
Di gor wu jee, di gor por.
