“I Remember” – by Grace Ling
I remember the first time I took a plane on my own. It was a twenty-four hours flight. The smell of heavily sanitized blankets provided on the plane reminded me of those plane rides I took with my family. I recall throwing the blankets at my brother and getting reprimanded by my parents. It felt a little odd, that now I have these blankets to my own and traveling away from home.
I remember when I paid twice the price for dumplings that are half as good as home’s. I got them from the school’s cafeteria and I expected them to be great because I saw that Japanese people were making them. I anticipated the combination of soy sauce and meat marinated in cooking wine. Being really excited for just a semblance of the taste of home, I sank my teeth into the dumpling skin, only to realize a bland flavor of canned peas in them. I really dislike peas. “Who makes dumplings with only peas?!” I thought to myself.
I remember the taste of Cabernet, suddenly I have to wait till I turn 21. I tried to get a bottle in New York on my own and I must admit that I felt a little insulted when I got carded. I had acquired the taste dark fruity flavors with overtones of bell pepper. During every little family gathering, or actually, for no reason at all, we like to pull out a bottle or two over conversations. The ringing voices of my family linger in my head all the time. Even though in Singapore, English is also our first language, people here do sound different.
I remember my mother’s cooking. I had this really great sense of accomplishment when I filled the kitchen air with the smell of fried garlic, fish sauce, and Chinese wine. It is the exact same smell that greeted me most of my early mornings, except that this time, I had actually set off the fire alarm in the apartment because of the smoke. I did not know I was supposed to close the window when cooking. It still smelt great, though. The safety building officer came to check on me, he agreed that it smelt great.
I remember when I made eye contact with a homeless person for more than three seconds, I do not see homeless people back at home. It got pretty awkward, as I had stared for too long, almost as if we exchanged a little story of ourselves. His gray hair was a little messy and his belongings were minimal. With his frail aged voice, he told me his name was Julius. I gave him a dollar and said, “Have a nice day Julius.” I do not think I would ever forget that mysterious gaze.
I remember when I tried Sour Patch for the first time, and everyone was surprised I had never tried it before. I could comprehend on some levels how this was a generic candy of people’s childhood. The familiar taste of artificial cherry, together with the texture of bad jellybeans reminded me of my own childhood candy – The Gobstopper Balls.
I remember when the crowd was louder than the jazz band. I kind of enjoyed how I had to try harder to hear the mellow, sultry and deep vibrations of the Saxophone. It felt almost as if I could hear it clearer through the crowd, and that I was alone, just me and the jazz band, and everyone.
I remember that dude that called me “ni hao” in his American accent. His voice was deep, with a tinge of mirthful undertone. Actually, I get that a lot. I am fine with it. It is kind of funny.
I remember the smell of wet market in Chinatown. I felt like I have smelt something like that before. The faint mixture of raw fish, clams, and fresh vegetables reminded me of the wet market back at home. My mother used to tell me that the fish is only fresh if its gills are crimson red.
I remember when I heard my parents’ voices through Skype. The digital interference muffled their voices, it felt like an auditory metaphor for the distance that is now between us.
I remember sniffing at the smell of fresh new plastic bathroom curtains, and suddenly getting a déjà vu. I get many déjà vus, perhaps my move here was preplanned before I even planned on planning it.
I remember the texture of red velvet fabric they use to make Chinese lanterns. I saw them selling those at Canal Street and it reminded me of how I used to run my fingers through them during Chinese New Year. They have these little feathery stubby furs that seem to only run in one direction and when you stroke them the opposite way, the colors seem to change a little.
I remember feeling the dollar note to see if it was real because everyone else was doing it. The paper seems pretty crumbled and a little powdery. There were tiny little paper pulps sticking out. I checked the reflection of the green ink under the evening sunlight. I thought it was pretty legitimate. We do not really check our notes in Singapore, there seems to be more trust back home.
I remember my dogs’ incessant barking. Their names are Angel and Eden. They had pretty high-pitched barks like those of small breed dogs. Now, I live with the incessant grumbling about life, produced unrelentingly by my roommates. The presence of noise, however, did give me this odd sense of comfort.
I remember when I saw the view of the Empire State Building from my apartment window. I thought I was living the Manhattan dream although I have yet to find time to consider if that was an over-romanticized thought. I saw those little streetlights illuminating the city, which reminded me of home. Singapore is an urban city as well and I had a studio in town with a similar view. The light streaks people created from their cars and fast-paced lifestyle made it look so familiar. I guess some things do not change.
I remember feeling pretty in my mother’s dress. I had brought it with me and it smells like her. She has always had this natural flowery scent.
I remember seeing things I can relate to, but yet feel so foreign. Time had passed, but I remember these things like it was yesterday. And I moved to a new place, it feels almost as if I have been here before, but I have not.
I remember wondering what the definition of home is. Is it the rustle of autumn leaves? Is it the sparkling street light of the city? Perhaps it is the fuzzy fresh bed sheets. Or perhaps, it is the familiarity amongst the unfamiliar.
