My father just spent $700 on 4kg of rabbit fish. The rabbit fish, also known as Pek Tou He (direct translation: 白肚鱼; White Belly Fish) in Teochew dialect, is a must-have delicacy every Chinese New Year for Teochew families. I am not sure how this obsession with the rabbit fish came about, but it has been ingrained into my psyche over the years.
In a Social Psychology class on self perception we were asked to complete twenty statements starting with “I am…” as fast as possible, so as to ensure the accuracy of the response. After inspecting the list, I realised that race and nationality did not feature in any of my responses. The first line I wrote was “I am Linette Lim”, attesting to the importance of the self over any social group. I also identified with being a daughter and a sister, reflecting the importance of family to me. Interestingly, I had also put down “I am Teochew”. I think it has a lot to do with growing up in a large family, and being under the care of three grandaunts who only spoke Teochew.
In a generation of youth who are rootless – too far removed from their ancestral culture in India, China or Indonesia, yet finding that the Singapore identity too new, too shallow for them to take root in – I am an anomaly. I am an anomaly not because I speak Teochew more fluently than Mandarin, but because I am deeply aware, and rooted in my family’s history.
It was the elderly Teochew folk in my family who first shaped my understanding of the world. Let’s start with food. Initiated to the concept of Chee (鲜; freshness), I grew up obsessed over the freshness of food, particularly seafood. Food must not only be fresh, but unflavoured and unseasoned, and preferably, steamed. Seasonings and sauces will only guise the Chee-ness of the food, and that is a no-no. As I grew older I developed a sort of duality. I enjoy simple, steamed Teochew dishes but I, like many Singaporeans, appreciate a good spicy Lamb Rendang.
Conventional as they can be when it came to food, I must say that the people in my family were a progressive bunch when it came to other things. My great grandfather was a textile merchant from Swatow (汕头; Shan Tou) who came to Singapore in search of better opportunities. My grandaunts (currently in their seventies) went to convent schools run by the British. My grandmother was not the traditional wife who stayed at home; she was always out with friends. My father’s first job was in the Air Force, ignoring relatives who used the “好儿不当兵” adage against him. It was widely held view that a filial son would not join the military. Thus my identity stems from not just from Teochew culture, but also from the enterprising nature of Chinese immigrants and my family’s emphasis on individualism.
Writers more observant and eloquent than me have pointed out that while the Chinese immigrants of my grandparents’ generation referred to themselves as Teng Sua Nang (唐山人or Tang Dynasty people) contemporary Chinese immigrants call themselves Han Ren (汉人or Han Dynasty people) or Zhong Guo Ren (中国人or People of the Middle Kingdom). These labels provide a great insight into the differences between new and old migrants, and the slippery concept of Chineseness. Something called internet serendipity brought me into the contact with Willy, an Asian American girl in Los Angeles and we started an online discourse on Chinese identity and the Chinese diaspora. It fascinates me that my life would have turned out differently had my great-grandfather decide to expand his textile business elsewhere; and it fascinates me that the technology has enabled us to connect to each other.
My perception of self is very much defined by my sense of my family’s history, but because I have not lived through much of that, I am reliant on the accounts of my grandaunts. I am a product of my family’s past, as much as I am moulded by the schools I went to; the people I met in life; the books I consume. I am a patchwork of various elements, a Frankenstein if you will.
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