How amusing a language learning

Heute möchte ich eine ganz lustige Blogpost schreiben. Seit ich Deutsch lerne, habe ich immer viel Spaß, Englisch direkt von Deutsch zu übersetzen. 

Today wish I a totally funny Blogpost to write. Since I German learn, have I always a lot of fun, English directly from German to translate.

Es gibt auch einige sogenannte "falsche Freunde", d.h., das gleiche Wort hat total verschiedene Bedeutungen in Englisch und in Deutsch. Eine gute Beispiel ist das Wort "Gift". Gift is das deutsches Wort für "poison". "Brav" bedeutet "well-behaved". "Bald" heiß "soon". 

There are also several so-called "false friends", that is, the same word has totally different meanings in English and in German. A good example is the word "gift". "Gift" is the German word for poison. "Brav" means "well-behaved". "Bald" is "soon". 

Ein witzige Satz, den ich einmal hörte, ist "I work hardly". Der Sprecher möchte "I work hard" sagen, aber er stattdessen "I hardly work" gesprochen hat. 

A funny sentence, which I once heard, is "I work hardly". The speaker wish "I work hard" to say, but he instead "I hardly work" spoken has. 

Ich finde Deutsch eine mehr direkte Sprache als Englisch, weil man ein deutsches Fremdwort einfacher vermuten kann. 

I find German a more direct language than English, because one a German foreign word easier to guess can. 

Hast du ein bisschen Deutsch gelernt? 

Have you a little German learnt? 

A Bona Fide German Experience

I'm a sucker for anything that screams 'yes, I'm true blue!'. During the same visit mentioned in an earlier post, the Mister's friends invited us to join in an annual Village Festival that was happening coincidentally on the Sunday we were spending together. I couldn't believe my luck. It feels almost like receiving an invitation to see Santa check his list. 

N*'s parents stay in the little village, Oldendorf, 30 km from Bremen. (By the way, a German village resembles remote parts of Sembawang more than Africa, where there is running water and Internet connection.) The Mister swears by the cream and butter churned at the farm by her parents. During breakfast, we had a variety of homemade jams. 'Homemade' is a foreign concept to many urbanites. The 'best' homemade stuff are, thanks to brilliant marketing, produced according to a talented grandmother's recipes, but at factories in Jurong. I tried my hand recently at making my own mango jam. It was apparently not too bad an attempt. I think it's great to be able to control the amount of sugar and other junk you add to make preserves. The mango jam I made had only mango and sugar and lasted more than a month. 

[Digression]Having said all that, I read something about Julius Maggi. Here is yet another misconception cleared. Maggi is not Malaysian. I grew up thinking Maggi is a Malaysian brand because of the successful 'So Sedap!' marketing campaign and the word itself sounds so part of the Malay vocabulary. Maggi is in fact born Italian but grew up in Switzerland. The company Maggi was founded when he experimented with ways to dehydrate soups and readymade meals, during the war period, when an increasing number of women left their kitchens to work in factories. Maggi is still immensely popular in Germany, with an entire section of soups, sauce mixes and one-meal-in-a-pot cans in most supermarkets. Still, his best creation has to be the good old 'Maggi Seasoning Sauce'. Interestingly, you'll see such a bottle on the counter tops of fastfood outlets here and cafe tables even in Amsterdam. All I know is that, there is no substitute for Maggi Seasoning Sauce with a fried egg on top of rice. How easy it is to starve home-sickness eh? 

And so, we arrived at the village after the first parade has passed. What to do then? Drink beer of course. It's fascinating how a beer stand appears out of nowhere at such carnivals. But of course, it takes a bratwurst (a favourite local snack of grilled sausage) stand to complete the carnival feel. We stood around and waited half hour for the procession to come round again. I started on my first, but not last, drink of the day. 

Before I recovered from my last swig of beer, N* asked if I could run to help release the cordon in order to allow the vehicles to come through. So, for the first time in German village history, a yellow girl officiated a traditional parade! 

I was speechless as I contemplated the painstakingly decorated 'floats' pulled by tractors. There is a running competition for the best float and N*'s parents have won for a number of years consecutively. You wouldn't wonder why when you see their float. The entire cart was decorated with fresh flowers, each bud pinned firmly to the board. The family made their own psychedelic costumes even, to match the float's theme. No doubt they came in first again this year. 

N*'s dad is the man on the extreme left; 

a jolly deep-voiced uncle with a great sense of humour

The Mister and I were invited to hop onto one particular cart to join in the procession. There started another long round of drinks. People around me were taking shot after shot while I tried not to sip so often from my plastic cup of wine. Nonetheless, all I could hear was, "Drink up! Drink up! Woohoo!" So I drank, and drank, and... finally the Mister and I had to jump off the cart, run into the bushes, not to puke but to...pee! I was half drunk before 2pm.

The procession ended finally at a huge grass patch where there were the usual stands for more beer and more bratwurst. Right before the Mayor of the area announced the winner of the float contest, I leaned heavily on the Mister and next moment, my limps gave way. When I gained some consciousness, I felt myself being carried off somewhere. The embarrassment was forgotten, but for a moment. The scene must have been pretty hilarious. A yellow girl, lying on the ground, with her own pink sock, wetted, on her forehead! N* was so kind in trying to get me up and about again. 

And for you, my loyal blog follower

- an exclusive photo of a bloated drunk yellow girl (Peace)

According to the Mister, I may have been the first to have gotten so drunk, but I wouldn't be the last. Drunk uncles and aunties staggering home much later in the evening is but a given of such carnivals. It was so Singaporean of me, to want the complete experience, albeit in the shortest possible time. Nonetheless, I must say I am proud to have had the experience in its entirety, what with my dramatic fainting act! 

Being A Macar(l)oonie

Lemon-green tea, rote Grütze (mixed red berries) and classic Choc macarons,

a gift for my most dedicated German teacher

An earlier try of Pierre Hermes' Choc Macarons recipe. 

The most chocolatey macarons, I must say. 

The same maracons, albeit dissected "a la TPJC Bio Lab"

The very first batch of decent-looking Vanilla macarons 

with hazelnut choc filling, baked in my new home

My obsession with macarons started a year ago. I know what got me hooked - a writer's explanation of the intricacies of making them. Challenging baking processes fascinate me. I'm the best example of the ironies of things - I continue to bake them because I am still not sure that they would look like how they are supposed to. I have definitely exaggerated the difficulties of making macarons to myself, because I still get a high whenever I see the macarons perform their levitation acts in the oven. 

Macarons anyone?

Chinese Food Adventures

Having never lived outside Singapore for longer than a comfortable stretch, I experienced for the first time of my life "hawker chow withdrawal symptoms". Other than going environment-imposed cold turkey, the only other thing I could have done to lessen the effects of the syndrome is to put on my own straw hat and fry my own carrot cake. 

The first obstacle to the wok was finding the main ingredient - radish. It takes staying in a four-seasonal country to realise that vegetables and fruits are indeed 'seasonal'. Radishes are uncommon during the early part of summer. They were not available at the local supermarkets then. I chanced upon them during a morning fresh produce market. They are also now in autumn cheaper here than in Singapore. Also, just like their predators, the radishes are upsized. The smallest piece I could find weighed almost a kilo! In one sitting, I made enough carrot cake to last through the winter. 

Never one to be as observant as is truly necessary to DIY things, I realise I didn't know which pack of preserved vegetables in the asian supermarket here can be a good substitute for local chai poh. Thankfully, all I had to do was to mince the strips and wash away the salt. 

As I finally got to frying the dish, the smell of home was so intense, my heart pounded as excitedly as if I was at Bedok Interchange Hawker Centre once again. 

All thanks to Prima Taste Packs, laksa, mee rebus, chicken rice et al. are within attainable cravings. Laksa was tremendously satisfying; I would wait till I'm back home to fix the deprivation of Mee Rebus though.

 

A Weekend's drive away

A favourite weekend pastime of The Mister is to pack some clothes and drive a couple of hundred kilometers to visit friends. Sometime in September, we visited his college mate, who now stays in a 120-year-old house somewhere between Bremen and Hamburg. 

The urbanite in me expected actually something less stable looking, having known how the older blocks in Chinatown tend to look a little slanted when you're looking from the right angle. The house is surprisingly very sturdy and definitely doesn't look quite its age. 

The couple is currently renovating the second storey themselves (!) with the help of some friends. By the time we were there, the floor has already been constructed but the rooms not. Apparently, house-building is a huge hobby here. This friend's not the only one building a new storey or refurbishing the roof. If you get really bored here, you could make a trip to one of the many huge "Baumarkt" (huge store with hardware and building materials). It could occupy you for a good number of hours. 

The back of the house leads to a huge apple tree orchard. I've no idea how far it stretches exactly, but there are probably enough apples for the whole village for the winter. 

Below is my favourite photo of this trip. We simply crossed the empty main road and went up  a small flight of steps for this view. Sadly the serenity of the moment could not be captured by a camera. I'm still amazed that such a scene is within a hundred kilometers of the town where I live.

'Welcome to London!'

The word 'Sommerferien' (Summer holidays) has been buzzing around my ear like an irritating fly for the past two months. I was still waking up early and going for classes while the kids coloured their faces and put on their most hideous outfits to roam the streets. 

If you notice a shop here closed for a couple of days, don't assume that it has closed down. As much as the Spanish are well known for siesta hours, most small shops and companies here can remain completely closed for up to three weeks! The institute that I'm attending my German class at is taking a modest 2 weeks off. Even though I'm no longer teaching and feeling the constant need to struggle for breath, the conditioned stimulus to the word 'holiday' is 'taking a flight'. Days before the Sommerferien, I put on another layer of skin and invited myself to London. Juvena (my NIE friend) and her husband Kelvin put me up in their chic Docklands apartment for four days. I saw London once again, albeit from a very refreshing angle. 

How can I not have at least one kitschy photo with a Tube station sign... Canary Wharf should also be known as the station for bankers since it's most probably where you can spot some very smartly dressed men. *winks* But oh well, The Mister probably put it down in the divine plans that I should visit during a Bank Holiday. ... 

It may sound rather like an insult that one of the most pressing reasons for this visit is food. Because I didn't go to London for fish and chips, but for Dim Sum, Laksa, Nasi Lemak and Teh Tarik!! All thanks to the temporary Londoner, Juv, I lost some culinary homesickness and gained a pound. The Laksa was tasting almost like home, only that they used normal bee hoon instead of thick bee hoon. Minus one mark (only) for lack of authenticity. 

The Dim Sum here got me wondering now whether Hong Kong cuisine in Singapore could possibly lose out. It satisfied me so much that I didn't even need second helpings. Then again, deep down within my taste buds, I probably think the Dim Sum in Singapore is the best in the world, even better than the ones in Hong Kong. This reminds me of a discussion I had once with The Mister about food experiences. He said that once, a North American crossed the borders into Mexico and tried authentic Mexican food. But because he previously had Mexican food in his hometown, he thought what he had back home tasted better than the original. I wonder if the Germans, I want to sell some cookery classes to, think likewise about the appalling selection of "Chinese" dishes at the popular buffets offered here.  

The gem of my London food adventure is the hamburger lookalike above. For the uninitiated (don't look ar me that way. Mostly when I say "macarons", I get blank looks followed by "har, what is that?"), it is French cookie creation known as a macaron. A bona fide one is supposed to be incredibly delicate, with a crunchy top and chewy insides. To say that it's my current obsession is an understatement, according to The Mister, because I can bake batch after batch, after batch, on consecutive days, just to get the frilly feet, or the right texture, or simply a round shape. It has definitely been one of the toughest baking ordeals I have thus far endured. I am close, very close recently, to making it failproof. The Mister is probably giving thanks for the money he would save on eggs in the coming month. 

Anyway, the green macaron above is a pistachio cream one. I have yet to get over the giggles of joy it has created in me while I savour every mouthful. 

The colourful ones were all of various fruit flavours. Hard to beat texture but a tad too sweet, even for the sweetest of all teeth me. 

Europeans often joke that the English are not Europeans, although politically, they belong to the E.U. It takes a trip into the accused land to realise why. I found more similarities between Singapore and London than Singapore and Bremen, for instance. That Singapore is an ex-colony is unmistakable; that the U.K. is unique from other European countries is equally lucid. Upon arrival in the passageway from the plane to the terminal in Stansted Airport, one is confronted with warning signs about illegal immigration and asylum seekers. You wouldn't see any photos here either because I didn't dare take my camera out. 

There are three different queues at the customs clearance - U.K. passes, E.U. passes, "Rest of the world". I have no idea why I was offended to belong to that last category. I suppose the term simply creates a queer sense of subordination in ethnically sensitive me. 

The sign below was amusing. Grated that it is important to warn of danger. But to remind parents to keep their children safe is crossing the line into mocking adults. That belief stayed until Juvena enlightened me to the reason behind such a sign. Apparently in the U.K., you can sue for anything and everything. Sounds like home huh, except that there, we can only complain about anything and everything. 

MRT or the Tube? It took the stale air and narrowness of the cabins to remind me of where I was. Such impressions are striking because I have yet to come across such signs in the buses and trams Bremen. Yes, I am sure. I read enough German now. 

I should be really glad I blend in with certain public objects, if not the people in Germany. The Germans have a preference for the colour  yellow and paints all telephone booths and postboxes in a bright you-can't-miss-it yellow. The Brits are their brothers in red, with red buses, telephone booths and postboxes. It seems almost as if the Europeans need to identify themselves using colours. I'm curious now to visit Ireland.

This blogpost is specially dedicated to Juvena and all other Londoners. Their tolerance of bulls**t is definitely a notch higher than the average Singaporean and probably German. Before I even arrived in London, I was prompted that a stay in this restless city should be a calm one, without perverse objectives. Juv proclaimed me to be a really lucky girl because there was a planned strike the day after I would leave the madness behind on schedule. She warned me about the unreliability of the public transport system and to prove her point, they dutifully failed for me to complete my London adventure. 

I was told that I should not expect to be ferried where I would like to go, despite paying full fare. Buses are known to end their journeys at any stop along the way and passengers file out the buses without even muttering a 'fuck'. Juv explained the procedure, "Just look out. The bus driver would shout an announcement from his seat that the ride terminates here, switch off the lights, then flicker them a couple of times and then you know that's it." True to their English promises, it happened not once but even twice during my four-day stay. 

I wondered then whether I am indeed a calm person because I was beyond irritation. In Bremen, your ticket gets checked perhaps once in three months and there is no tapping in and out of Oyster/EZ-link cards. It takes one like Juvena to survive London beceause she managed a wide smile and proclaimed, "Well, welcome to London!" 

The shoeholic strikes again

Shoe shopping has never been more pleasurable. I hate shopping for shoes in Singapore. I'm the sort who needs to try on at least ten different pairs to decide which ones I really want. When the displayed shoe is not of your size, you have to call upon Miss I-hate-selling-shoes. I think I've never asked for more than three pairs of shoes during one entire duration in a shoe shop. I always feel obliged to buy a pair. Of course I can ignore the sulk lingering till I turn my back, but the shopping experience leaves a bitter aftertaste. 

Singapore has long been regarded by locals to be a country of poor customer service where people don't smile or say thank you. Likewise, Germany has been termed a 'service desert'. This stems from the fact that self-service is the most common form of customer service. You have to clear your own dishes at any fast food restaurants. Everything a store has in stock is displayed. So when it comes to shoes, all possible sizes of all possible designs are put out. At the 'Große 36' section, I can try on as many pairs as my kiasuness to find the best pair allows. 

Finally, I've walked out of the shoe shop empty handed for once because I didn't find a pair I really like. 

Did you know that ... ?

A personal list of "Oh, I didn't know that!" has been increasing exponentially since I got here. It is definitely due to subjective ignorance. Nonetheless, I wouldn't have known better unless I check the Internet compulsively for every doubt I have. 

I didn't know that ...

Persil is a German brand. It's a brand I skip in the laundry detergent section because I always thought it's Malaysian. Oops...

Sinalco is German as well. When I was in my teens, my mother mentioned once the popularity of Sinalco in the 70s and wondered where it has but gone today. Sinalco has been back on the Cold Storage shelves for a couple of years now. Its popularity is however dubious.

titles on german book spines are printed the other way round. So now, if I lay my books horizontally on the shelves, the back covers are on the top instead. Hmmm...

Germans can be more tardy than Singaporeans. I assumed previously that Europeans are very particular about appearing groomed. Interestingly, a German phrase - "Niveau haben" can be literally translated as "got standard". Oh man, I feel quite at home. Anyhow, presumptions are always proven wrong somehow. When I visited the town council, I was surprised to see the counter aunties wearing T-shirts and jeans. Most of the Mister's colleagues wear jeans to work on a daily basis even though they work at the desk. Some have been spotted wearing bermudas on warm weekdays. 

people here wear suits only on Sundays. This is something that puzzles not only me, but the Mister as well. We've spotted many men wearing suits in the town on Sundays, looking like they had just attended a major conference. 95% of the people here don't work on Sundays. 

grey is more common here than black and white. 

Getting away with it all

I am beginning to like this place more even though it shuns me with such rain and coldness. During my years of reading Sociology, I've read studies of immigrants who feel that they will always be second class citizens in their adopted countries. Despite the lecturer's attempt to Dynamo-wash my brains to believe in the concept of ethnicity being one created solely by humans and not predetermined by the colour of one's skin, I've slided backwards. The hair that grows from my head and the colour of my eyes will always be black. When I stand out as I do in the tram, not many bonafide Germans would concede that I'm Deutsch, even if I've stayed here for 55 years. They may justify my right to vote but my parents were born to enjoy rice more than bread. So what of colour can we ignore? I may speak perfect Deutsch but a German's first impression of me in a shopping centre would be that I'm a tourist. But you know what? When the philosophical side of me is dormant, I really enjoy this place. After all, I've voted in Singapore, only rightfully. 

Germany is the perfect place for a fickle-minded and careless person like me. Two months' worth of experience tells me now that it is okay not to ponder over a decision in a shop for 10 hours. Bring whatever pleases you at the moment home and bring it back the next day or even next week if you don't like it! If you were not in a hurry but made a bloody mistake anyway, don' fret because the wrong can be corrected without cost. 

My first experience with such luxury occurred two weeks ago. I was inspired to purchase the second course book for my language class way before it was needed. After a couple of days, I realised that perhaps my back and bag wouldn't be broken if I'd bought two separate thinner books instead of one thick one. So I bugged the Mister to accompany me to the bookstore. There and then, the books were exchanged without reason. But as it seems, this book buying episode was cursed. When I checked the book the weekend before use, I discovered a number of torn pages. The Mister rolled his eyes and gave me his usual 'C'est la vie" reply. I tried my luck anyway. And yes, I got it swapped! 

Another time I had bought a book for toilet pleasure - 1000 places to see before you die. The sample copy was in English and naturally, I grabbed a wrapped copy and paid. Only when I was undoing the plastic wrap did I see the words, "Deutsch Aufgabe". The Mister was not impressed this time. Once again, I got it changed without a problem. The best part was that I was supposed to pay more. Only the German version was for 10 Euros. The English one cost 14.90. But of course, I didn't. 

A fussy married person would understand my concerns about buying homeware. You like it so much, but you wonder what your other half thinks. You would love to be covered in white bedlinen but perhaps the bed partner prefers deep sexy red. After walking round the entire bedlinen section for two hours, I finally made my choice. White seersucker. Though it's white and the Mister hates sterile colours, I took a chance with the texture. I thought to myself then, finally! Fine looking white quilt cover! What I always wanted all my life (the phrase is by now a favourite dig at me by the Mister)! The ending was sadly so predictable. It was too plain. I had to admit that it was truly the Mister's hospital white feel. 

The next logical step was to think of a perfect excuse to exchange it for something else! Sorry mamo but I've mastered this in German before I stepped out of the apartment this morning - "I've bought this bedlinen for my mother-in-law. Too bad she didn't like it. Can I please exchange it?" Even so, I thought about the impending frown on the Mister's forehead. 

At the cashier, I finally said only that I'd bought it yesterday and can I please exchange it. The auntie took a look at the pack, didn't ask more, scanned my receipt barcode, reissued me another refund receipt and voila, I'd 45 Euros back in cash. It wasn't just an exchange. It was a cash refund! And it wasn't even broken! I believe such consumer rights should exist everywhere in the world for sincere buyers. After half hour, I was anyway back at her counter to return her the 45 Euros for another set. 

I understand today as I stood smiling at a different pastel yellow bedlinen, what it means to trust any queasiness you experience while withdrawing money from your purse at the cashier. 

Finally, a valid excuse

MIA Cause - DIY Reno

We've inherited a set of dining table and chairs from the previous tenant. 

After spotting a photo in a design book of two glossy red and white chairs in a kitchen, I decided that I too would like to disguise the Ikea-ness of the inheritance. So I've started two weeks ago and ... I'm not done. Two chairs need another coat paint. The other two should probably be redone. Noooo... As with every DIY project, you are so heated up at the beginning, the flame is burning at the end of the wick by the first half. I think sanding off the previous lacquer was the joy killer. Perfectionists should never attempt DIY projects unless they can afford the time to do everything at such a pace that it's impossible not to be impressed at the end, or simply money to buy a new set if a dent wouldn't allow the paint to sit smooth and it bugs them. I'm so glad I'm no longer a perfectionist. I've lost it since the day I stopped writing with a ruler above the line. I was 16 and my Math teacher spotted me doing it once. She'd asked me why. I told her I like it that the top of all the words is a straight line. It makes it look 'printed' neat. She was polite enough not to roll her eyes but probably thinking, "Freak!". Even though bubbles remain, I think I rather like my coloured chairs. 

Special People

During my stay in Punggol, I had walked down the same path from the bus stop to my block approximately 120 evenings. I could not remember a single scene that was even slightly curious to remain in memory, much less something flashing neon yellow, calling my name in dire desperation. The only intriguing figure in the neighbourhood was an aged bearded uncle who drives a 20-year-old Proton Saga, possibly only from the carpark to Punggol Plaza and back. I despise such comfortable monotony. This was definitely my strongest reason for moving here. I somehow know I don’t have to look very hard to find an intriguing sight.

I was rewarded on my second day. While waiting for the tram, I spotted a head of shoulder-length white hair complete with as much a beard bobbing atop a bicycle. His oufit reminds me of an ancient Jane Fonda Exercise video tape I owned. Looking beyond him, I saw that he has two kiddy carts attached to his bicycle. His black mongrel had escaped from one of the carts but was promptly yelled back into place. The other kart held miscellaneous items that look like his entire life savings. Talk about a home on wheels.

Nonetheless, don’t be surprised to see a real kiddo in one of these carts tagged to a bicycle. Many mothers here really do transport their toddlers around as such. Each time I see one, I laugh out loud as I imagine my grandmother’s bulging eyes and hysterical disbelief. She was one to make sure a six-month-old grandson sits quietly to play and a twelve-year-old granddaughter crosses the road with her hand in daddy’s. 

To date, six weeks here, I have spotted a modest number of five drunkards (one was pissing into the bushes of the church opposite my building. Hee…). Gatherings of the ‘lost’ outside the supermarket I go to are frequent. Neon-coloured Mohawk punks in their gothic outfits with huge dogs are by now the symbol of the city’s train station.

Having sailed to the most unimaginable ports of the world, lived in Singapore for a year and Brazil for two, even the Mister commented last night, much to my amusement, as we walked past a chopstick-thin guy with green spikes on his head and fifty rings on his face, “Jesus…There are definitely many special people here around huh…” 

Urban Duckies

Kleine Weser (River) 

This view greets me everyday during my walk home. A couple of real ducks can be seen floating around sometimes. 

To the Weser we go ...

Coming from a country where stray animals would be reported by aunties and subsequently share the limelight with policemen on the local news, my amusement at seeing these ducks waddling along the street could not be contained. I have an enormous need for the unusual, having lived in SIngapore for 28 years. 

The Big Sick Street

Deutschland - the land of chocolate, berries, juices, sausages and beer.

Bremen - a city of bicycles, erratic summer days and cool walking-in-the-rain people.

Deutsch - the language of gurgling sounds. 

Grossekrankenstrasse - literally translated, "Big Sick Street"

The Mister has found a sweet little apartment on this street on the Internet before we left Singapore. It is a city apartment owned by a handsome couple who stays in the suburbs. It seems common for a family to own a tiny apartment in the city for vacations but stay in a much bigger house in the suburbs. City apartments are probably mostly rented to "in-between" people like us. 

The Mister was in doubt whether we'll remain healthy in our first weeks here, staying on such a "bad fengshui street". We've survived, thanks for Becks and Dr. Oetker. Actually I love the street name! For a humourless girl in a foreign country, I'm proud to be the owner of an address that arouses much amusement and giggles, without having to speak Deutsch or drink beer.  

 

There we are, on the second level of the white building, on the left. In Deutsch terminology, we're in fact on the first level. Here, the ground floor retains its true title and the levels above are counted from one, not two. However, the 'ground floor' apartment is usually elevated about half a level above the ground; so much about being grounded. 

 

Yellow

My sister had jaundice in the first months of her life. The doctor advised my parents to make sure she gets some sun everyday and to apply some strange yellow paste all over her body at night. I was seven then and wondered why my parents wanted to make my sister yellow. She was already looking like an uncle who has drunk too much alcohol and made his liver kaputt.

One night during her jaundice days, I was awoken by a strange sensation. Someone was piling something gooey on me. I reacted as I would whenever I am not sure what is going on; I kept still. When I was certain it was safe to move, I ran a finger over my face and discovered to my horror that I have been stained yellow. Although I am certain this had not caused my yellowness, a curious obsession with the colour yellow was begun.

A couple of years back, I examined my arm in all possible light situations and asked my sister, “Baby, do you think I’m yellow?” She looked up from her laptop screen and casually put her arm beside mine.

“Hmm…ya huh! You are a bit yellow leh!”

If you have seen truly yellow people, I thank you for being predisposed to understanding how strange this colour really is as a skin tone. I blame my hypersensitivity to colours on my oil painting instructress. She has single-handedly restructured my vision into one that tries to match every colour I see to a paint catalogue.

In my coloured opinion, I think a nice skin tone to have would be pink. The Mister is of this nice shade of warm hue. We were sitting together, fingers entwined, our arms together. In a silent moment, I said, “Look, I’m yellow.”

He chuckled, “Yellow? No…you don’t look yellow. Why yellow? You strange girl. So what colour am I?”

There comes my chance, the opportunity to reveal an observation I had been wanting to let loose, “You are pink!”

The pink deepened.

“Pink? Skin tone? How can? You strange yellow girl!”

Eversince, the Mister calls me ‘yellow girl’ and whenever I make an unusual suggestion, his rebuke would be, “Don’t be yellow!”