Scottish for Beginners: Wedding Edition

In June, I had the immense privilege of attending the wedding of my Scottish friends Michaela and Neil. Michaela and I lived and taught together for five years in Phnom Penh, and I first met Neil when he visited her in Cambodia in fall 2013. In fall 2014, he moved there to join us on staff at Logos, but soon had to leave due to a stroke. So the last time I saw the two of them was last September at a hospital in Bangkok, where we shared a chuckle about gecko-flavored coffee, among other things. 

This time around in Scotland was a much more joyous occasion and an incredible testament to their perseverance and God's healing power. I spent a week there, inseparable from my fellow North Americans and former/current Logos teachers, Lorissa and Susan. 

Highlights included the lush green landscape, replete with early-summer blossoms, as well as two nights in the castle (!) where they were married, and a side trip at the end to the historic, charming city of Edinburgh. (Are you jealous yet?) I didn't get many souvenirs since I was in transit between Cambodia and the US with all my earthly possessions, but I did come away with some fun new lingo. Here are the words that stuck with me, illustrated with examples and photos from my trip. Confession: I'm guessing many of these words are also common across the UK and beyond, rather than being specifically Scottish, but they were new to me (besides #10) - even after five years as Michaela's housemate.

1. confetti (n.) - not just tiny bits of paper, but also dried flower petals, sometimes thrown at the bride and groom after the wedding ceremony.

Examples:
Michaela's mom Brenda persuaded her that offering tiny paper bags of confetti to guests would revive a sweet old tradition.

Brenda was delighted that Lorissa and I could help pluck flowers for the confetti, but in our minds it didn't exactly feel like work.

Amid the excitement on the morning of the wedding, the basket of confetti was left behind, but a few children still brought their own paper confetti to throw.

2. black pudding (n.) - a blood sausage made of congealed pig's blood and fat cooked with spices, onions, and lots of oats. It's often fried before serving.

Examples:
The "full Scottish breakfast" provided at our hotel included black pudding.

The waitress confirmed Lorissa's and my hunch of what black pudding was, but also encouraged us to try it, vowing it was delicious.

Lorissa and I ended up enjoying our black pudding and getting it on subsequent occasions, but Susan wasn't quite sold on it.

Our black pudding was topped with a tomato.
The casing is inedible.

3. hill walking (v.) - hiking in the hills or mountains.

Examples:

We visited Crathes Castle, near Michaela's house, where her mom often takes the dog hill walking through the grounds.

Scotland is a wonderful place for hill walking because there are no laws against trespassing; as long as you close gates behind you and pick up your litter, you're free to enter anyone's property.

We enjoyed some scenic hill walking near our hotel in Michaela's hometown.

Lorissa and me at Crathes Castle

Trespassing has rarely been so scenic.

4. Sat Nav (n.) - a Satellite Navigator, otherwise known as GPS.

Examples:

Lorissa, Susan, and I were too cheap to pay for a Sat Nav in our rental car, due to Scottish sticker shock, our unemployment, and a "can-do" attitude stemming from years in Cambodia.

A Sat Nav would have helped when we got lost on our way through the fog-shrouded hills of the Highlands en route to the wedding rehearsal. 

Despite lacking a Sat Nav, we successfully found not only the wedding venue (Drumtochty Castle!) but also several other beautiful locations on our way from there to Edinburgh after the wedding.

Susan got a big kick out of our cute car and driving on the "wrong" side of the road.
And hey, look, it's Brenda, Michaela, and Neil at Drumtochty Castle!

The Coastal Highway from Glasgow to Edinburgh

5. Order of Service (n.) - the program given to guests for the wedding. 

Examples:

Lorissa and Susan folded papers and tied ribbons for the Order of Service while I practiced guitar at the wedding rehearsal.

The Order of Service featured some entrancing songs from the region, like the Celtic fiddle and flute duet "Crow Road Croft" (used in the processional) and Rend Collective's "Immeasurably More" (for the recessional).

6. Signing the register (n.) - the part of the wedding ceremony when the bride and groom make their marriage legal and official.

Examples:

When Michaela initially asked me to play guitar during the signing of the register, I thought she meant I'd play as guests signed a guest book when first arriving.

Since we weren't sure how long it would take to sign the register, I prepared an arrangement of "Praise to the Lord, the Almighty" and a classical song that I could divide into chunks to stop whenever they were finished.

It was a privilege to play as she and Neil signed the register, but I was relieved when it was over and I hadn't wrought havoc on their ceremony.

7. fascinator (n.) - a woman's decorative hairpiece, containing feathers, artificial flowers, lace, and/or ribbons, often worn at weddings.

Examples:

It used to be that every Scottish woman wore a hat to weddings, but now fascinators have become trendy.

Probably half the female guests wore fascinators - about the same as the proportion of male guests wearing kilts.

Michaela's aunt sported a bright pink fascinator to match her pink dress, and mused to me, "It just doesn't feel like a wedding without a hat or a fascinator."

Michaela's mom, Brenda, wore a fascinator...

(the men are Michaela's dad, Gerry, and Neil)

... as did three guests pictured here.

8. tablet (n.) - a sweet vanilla treat, similar to a square of fudge, often eaten with coffee or tea after a meal.

Examples:

The whole time we were in her hometown, Michaela's dad, Gerry, kept us on a sugar buzz with local treats like tablet.

At the reception, Lorissa and I couldn't resist having our tea and tablet the posh British way - pinkies out! 

9. Tunnock's teacakes (n.) - a chocolatey, marshmallowy treat proudly made by a local company outside Glasgow.

Examples:

Neil and Michaela left sweet gifts for each of us in our room at the castle: Tunnock's teacakes, a thoughtful note, and a can of Irn-Bru (a very sweet Scottish soft drink known as "Scotland's other national drink").

Tunnock's teacakes are one of many fine Tunnock's products, including caramel logs and caramel wafer biscuits. 

Michaela stumbled upon the brilliant idea of making a "Tunnock's tower" of treats for the ceilidh dance, which we had fun constructing.

Lorissa and Susan look inclined to sneak off with the tower, don't they?

10. ceilidh (n.) - a traditional Gaelic social gathering featuring dances akin to a US square dance. Pronounced KAY-lee.

Examples:

Ceilidhs are common in Scotland and Ireland for social events such as birthdays, town festivals, and weddings.

I had previous ceilidh experience since I helped Michaela host two of them at Logos for her birthday and another housemate's birthday... perhaps the only two ceilidhs ever held in Cambodia.

I love ceilidh music - especially with a live band, like at the wedding!

I was amazed by Neil's ceilidh dancing performance with Michaela to kick off the evening - last time I saw him in September, he was learning to wiggle his left big toe.

The ceilidh dances required a bit of concentration but were pretty accessible even to beginners.

A "Gay Gordons" dance

~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~

Last fall I wrote Neil and Michaela a limerick on a paper gecko and put it into a teapot to send to them in Bangkok. (Long story - read it here.)

A gecko once traveled to Thailand,

Finding Neil and Michaela inside-land.

Celtic music was played

In their room every day:

Preparation for ceilidhs in the Highlands.

When I wrote it, I was hoping - but not sure - that they could still get married this summer in spite of his stroke. I wasn't sure he'd ever be able to ceilidh again, though I knew Michaela had always dreamed of hosting a ceilidh at her wedding. Seeing it with my own eyes, and dancing alongside them,  and in the Highlands at that... it was truly a moving experience. 

My Dear BoB

“I love BoB!” she’d always gush. “But please don’t come… I don’t want it to fill up with Logos teachers.”

My housemate Erin had joined a house church, invited by the Truex family, whose three kids attended our school. They and several other families from their organization had started meeting each Sunday afternoon for Bible study, prayer, and worship. They’d named the church BoB – Body of Believers, a pun on the name of the pastor, Bob Butler. (He resisted the name choice for a while, but in vain.) Most of them were attending a Khmer-language church in the mornings, which was a great ministry opportunity but not fulfilling their desire for community and heart-to-heart conversation. They wanted a place to worship God in their own “heart language” and apply the Bible to their own lives, not just the very different-looking lifestyles of their Cambodian friends.

Erin was delighted to join BoB. Her own church was struggling and dwindling since its pastor had returned to his home country several months earlier. Like all of us at Logos, she didn’t know enough Khmer to get much out of a Khmer-language church service, and like most of us, she was growing frustrated with the time it took to travel across town to and from other international English-speaking churches. (Logos is on the northern edge of Phnom Penh, while most English churches are pretty far south.) The most popular alternative was Shalom, a church that met at our school, where we already spent 60 hours a week. Erin was finding it hard to build friendships with people outside of school, which is why she loved the welcoming community at BoB… and why she didn’t want her housemates tagging along. Could you blame her? There were a lot of us Logos teachers, and we did nearly everything together. She knew it would change the dynamic if too many of us traipsed in.

We respected her wishes, but listened longingly to her stories of intergenerational community and thought-provoking conversations and pot lucks with rare-in-Phnom-Penh comfort foods like 7-layer nacho dip. And about six months later, when she moved back to the US, several of us descended upon BoB. My own decision was simplified because my friend Sarah and I were sharing a moto, and she wanted to attend there. Soon Sarah and I loved it as much as Erin had, and new teachers Lisa Hines and the Ketchum family also made it their church home. The nine of us increased attendance by about 1/3 and strained the seating limits in Bob and Vickie’s living room, but we were warmly welcomed just as Erin had been. The church continued to grow to about 40 people.

At the Truexes' for a Thanksgiving pot luck, November 2013

Though I already had awesome community at Logos, BoB gained a unique place in my heart. The testimonies were a big part of it. Each week, people shared praise reports and prayer requests from their lives and ministries. Many BoB members were working at Mercy Medical Center, a Christian hospital providing cheap/free care for desperate Cambodians from all over the nation. They had spellbinding stories of medical crises, spiritual warfare (ex. a demon-possessed woman screaming in their parking lot until Cambodian staff prayed for her), and follow-up visits to patients’ home villages. Several others were teaching English to Cambodian university students, while a few were helping with a children’s home. I loved hearing about God’s work in Cambodia beyond Logos, and praying about this work helped unite us. We had a neat opportunity to experience the Mercy Medical Center ministry firsthand when we helped their Cambodian co-workers paint their new home - what a beautiful, joyful family! 

Meeting two of the sisters whose home we helped paint

The Ketchum girls and their dad

I also enjoyed the interactive teaching time. Bob, our pastor, usually preached through a book of the Bible, and while he prepared a sermon and gave us an outline for notes, he also invited our comments and questions throughout it. Since a number of members had attended seminary, they often brought extra information and knowledgeable perspectives to the discussion, as well as stories of their experiences with the principles in each passage. It was also great to discuss how the passage related to our current lives. We had members from the Netherlands, Korea, Canada, and Australia, as well as Americans from many states and theological backgrounds. Through their stories, I learned about Khmer slang, the classical music scene in Switzerland, a California cult in the 1960's, and women's sports in Israel. The sermons were great on their own, but the discussion portion really helped make each passage real to me. There was a lot of laughter, too.

Probably my sweetest, most profound memories from BoB relate to suffering. BoB members have seen a lot of it in the last few years... not just the normal stresses and heartache of living in another country, but specifically medical issues. The Truexes, who originally invited Erin and the rest of us, watched their oldest daughter Marianne suffer crippling pain due to endometriosis. As surgery after surgery, doctor after doctor, failed to offer relief, they made the agonizing decision to wrench her away from her last semester at Logos and uproot their whole family to return to the US, uncertain it would improve her condition. We laid hands on her and them before their return, crying out to God to heal her. To the doctors’ surprise, she did indeed vastly improve in the US, and today is thriving in nursing school. (The other Truexes are now back in Cambodia.) Lisa Hines suffered unexplicable chronic pain in her wrist and ankles, eventually receiving a diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis – not an easy realization for someone in her early ‘30s, and not easy to treat in Cambodia. I am in awe of her patient, uncomplaining endurance. Angie Ketchum has stared cancer in the face three times in the last three years, and we at BoB have done our best to support her and her family, amazed each time by the steadfast faith and love on display in their lives. Praying for each of these situations, time after time, has knit our church community together.

At the Butlers' house as usual, May 2014

Like any international church in Cambodia, ours has been a transient community, with many tearful goodbyes. Some people have been in Cambodia only a year; others for more than a decade. But despite the uncertainty of who would be around the following year, we acted like a family. Last fall, Bob and Vickie were wrested away from their ministry and their three foster daughters in Cambodia when Vickie’s father-in-law passed away rather suddenly last fall, leaving her mother on her own with severe dementia. Several other core members had left or were on their way out of town for various reasons. Attendance had already dwindled to about 20, and only ten - all Logos teachers - would be left in Phnom Penh by January. We prepared a Christmas party at my house as our last hurrah, this time with the Butlers at the center of our prayers. “It's been wonderful,” we all agreed, “but this season is coming to a close.”

Then the Ketchums approached the four single girls. “This format has worked better for us and our daughters than the bigger international churches,” they told us. “We’d like to continue meeting at home every Sunday. Care to join us?” I was initially hesitant. Only 10 of us? No pastor? Was that really a church? But like two of the other girls, I knew I was leaving in June, and I didn't have the energy to start over with a new church. Plus I really love the Ketchums, and I liked the idea of meeting in their home. We all ended up accepting their offer, and what a sweet semester it's been. We've listened to various sermons online and have continued the prayer/sharing time and live worship - it helps that Ryan is one of the most talented musicians I've ever met. In this smaller context, it's been easier than ever to bring snacks to share, and we started staying for a meal each week instead of just the occasional pot luck, all of us working together to slice mangoes and flip pancakes. Plus, with just four non-family members, the Ketchum girls felt freer to chat with us, share testimonies, and pray aloud. It's been so fun getting to know them better! 

This May, Bob returned for a visit, as well as his foster daughters and another couple, Thomas and Anna Kuhlmann, who had spent the winter in the US and now lived too far south of Phnom Penh to attend most weeks. It was great exchanging stories of God's blessing in all of our lives and how the Bible had been teaching us. Bob and Vickie are now on their way to Thailand, with her mother in tow, to reach out to Khmer migrant workers there. (Unlike Cambodia, Thailand has trained medical professionals who can help care for her mom.) Bob's stories of God humbling him through the difficulties they faced in the US in order to change his mind and make him open to ministry in Thailand brought tears to my eyes. Their three foster girls, two of whom are in their 20's, are also thriving and experiencing God's provision. We all agreed - God has been good to us the last several years in Cambodia, and BoB Church has always been a great channel of God's faithfulness to us.  

By May 2015, only the most solemn BoB members were left.

My graduation speech

I was honored when the seniors chose me as their speaker at last weekend's graduation. Here's my speech - it was fun to write, but I'm relieved it's over and I didn't trip on the stairs or burst into tears during it! Writing it made me reflect a lot on my time at Logos and my hopes for what students will take with them as they go... as well as what *I* hope to take with me as I return to the US.

Most of the senior girls with another teacher and me

When I came to Logos back in 2009, you were in 7th grade and I was a brand-new English teacher. 15 of you were already at Logos that year. I had no idea how to teach 7th grade English, but you guys were very patient through all my mistakes, and we had a fun year together. I got to be your homeroom teacher that year, and again when you were in 10th grade, and again in 11th grade. I’ve taught your English class every year but grade 10, and some of you I’ve had in 7 different English and French courses. So out of all the classes I’ve ever taught at Logos, I know you guys the best. And it’s such a privilege to be here today for your graduation.

I’m proud of all that you’ve achieved. Your class has grown up so much in the time we’ve known each other. In 7^th grade you were lively and energetic and you didn’t always listen, and today… well, maybe some things haven’t changed. But you’ve definitely learned a lot in between. In 7^th grade, I had you choose a country and research it, and you kind of had a hard time with it. In your country projects,

●        One person wrote, quote: “Malaysia’s national language are Brunei and Indonesia.”

●        Someone else said, “[Japanese people] do not live in urban places.”

●        A third student wrote, “Sudan’s top 2 religion are Muslim and Islam.”

And yes, all three writers are in this room today, graduating from Logos. So clearly, you’ve come a long way. But not only in your research skills. You’ve learned about community, how to embrace others as they are, how to work together and encourage each other. You have learned about suffering, how to endure it, and how to support others as they endure it. You’ve learned about leadership, how to be thermostats who set the temperature instead of thermometers who just reflect the climate, how to lead humbly and be willing to laugh at yourselves. And as you’ve learned these valuable lessons, I’ve learned from you.

In World Lit this year, we studied the Hero’s Journey. We saw that from Frodo Baggins to Percy Jackson, from Monkey to Mulan, many of literature’s most beloved characters depart on a great adventure, a mission to attain something very valuable. Joseph Campbell says these heroes go through a similar process throughout their quest. And the reason that throughout history, these stories of adventure have resonated with humankind, is because each of us is also on a journey seeking something we treasure.

Isaiah 26:8 describes the path and the goal of every believer’s journey:

Yes, Lord, walking in the way of your laws,

    we wait for you;
your name and renown
    are the desire of our hearts.

You’re crossing the threshold today for a great adventure. The limits are unknown, the terrain is unfamiliar, but you’re not going it alone – you have a supernatural helper, the Holy Spirit, ready to journey with you and to guide you step by step.

I want to challenge you to take out your invisible backpacks and fill them with three things you’ll need for the journey. Those three things are grit, grace, and glory.

1. Grit

To explain grit, I need to ask you. Have you ever read an adventure novel that went kind of like this? “Once upon a time, a young heroine left on a great quest to save the nation. It was easy. She finished by dinnertime and then watched TV till she fell asleep. The end.” Yeah, me neither.

What makes adventures so great is the very fact that there are huge obstacles, that the heroes have to struggle and grow and change before they’re able to accomplish their goal. And the bigger the trials, the more satisfying it is when you get to the happy ending.

Grit means you don’t look for the smooth road, but the road that takes you somewhere worth going. And when you find that road, you’re not put off by the potholes and boulders. You just keep climbing, crawling, and clambering forward any way you can, because you’re determined to reach your goal. G.K. Chesterton said, “An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.” I hope you have the grit to see the adventure hiding in each difficulty.

2. Grace

As well as grit, you’ll need a lot of grace. None of us are as strong as we’d like to seem. We’re not as wise, or as good, as we want to believe. I can fool others for a while, and maybe I can even convince myself that I’ll get there soon. But eventually I keep being confronted with the truth that I cannot handle my journey. I am not enough.

Grace is when God gives us things that we didn’t earn and can’t repay. His approval, for instance. We cannot hide our flaws from God. But because Jesus followed God’s path completely, Jesus was perfect. And by extension, anyone who’s trusted in Jesus is also made perfect in God’s eyes. It’s that simple. When God looks at our progress, He sees Jesus who’s already finished the quest.

Because of God’s grace for us, we can give ourselves grace. Grace for when we’re struggling just to lift our feet for one more step, and grace for when we look around and think we’re beating everyone. Grace to return to God’s path when we realize our brilliant shortcut has once again landed us in the menacing forest marked “Danger: Do Not Enter.” In all those times, we can enjoy the unconditional love of the God who sees us as we are, the God whose patience never runs out, the God who strengthens our feeble legs to make it up the mountain.

And we can give grace to others too, because when we receive God’s grace, we realize that this journey was never meant to be about comparing. There will always be a temptation to measure ourselves by the mile markers along the road, but like we discussed in devotions last fall, you know you’re not a number. There’s no such thing as bragging rights because everyone’s on their own journey and nobody would have made it this far without a whole lot of help.

3. Glory

Finally, you’re going to need glory on your journey. Not so much your own glory, as eyes to see the glory of God in the world around you.

One thing we all appreciate about a good adventure is the author’s creativity. The hero travels through fantastic lands, encounters memorable characters, and wrestles with profound words of wisdom. Whoever heard of a hero being bored? Sometimes life is going to feel mundane or dry or slow. But adventurers often discover that there’s more to life than meets the eye.

No matter where you are or how tedious it seems, there are always cool things just begging to be found. Don’t waste your life waiting for the good parts to arrive – discover them where you are! Mary Oliver has these instructions for living a life: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

A great example of this is Seung Hyun and Chan at the service camp last year. We made telephones using plastic cups and yarn, and we thought they’d be fun for the little village kids. But they’d never seen them, and they were so amazed, they were running around yelling, “Wow, I can’t believe it! These are so cool!” It really made me grin. There is amazement hidden in plastic cups and yarn. I promise, if you celebrate like that, if you stop to appreciate the scent of mango leaves and the sight of clouds and the sound of plastic cups, your life will be so much richer.

Also, look for glory in the people around you. The Bible says every human being is God’s image-bearer; His glory is on display in each of us. Look for the way each person in your life embodies God’s creativity, His kindness, His beauty. Look for what each person can teach you and how their example can inspire you.

By the end of their journey, heroes are always different from when they started. But it’s not that they’ve lost themselves – it’s that they’ve become more and more who they really are. As Christians, Jesus Christ is the goal of our quest, and our encounters with Him transform us into who we were always meant to be.

The hero’s journey ends with the freedom to live. Freedom to live means no regrets about the past, no fears about the future. In God’s presence, all our shame and fear fade away, replaced by confidence in His love for us.

I hope you find that wherever you go, you keep growing and becoming who you truly are. Whether you’re in a peaceful phase or a cliffhanger moment, may you always have the courage to move forward, armed with grit, grace, and glory. And may your quest lead you all the way into the loving presence of the Almighty. God bless you, Class of 2015. 

Memoirs - Tim Tea

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Timothy is an American senior of Cambodian ancestry; his father is a Khmer Rouge survivor.

Fish and Porridge

             When I was young I believed my dad was the greatest storyteller. In San Diego’s cold nights I would snuggle up in bed with my brother, and my father would come and whisper short tales to us as drowsiness lulled us to sleep. When the lights switched off and the room was drowned in reverential silence, my dad would begin speaking, and I would be slowly spirited away into the land of his words.

            “Tell us another one,” I would always ask when my dad finished a story. He would smile, hug me and my brother, and then tell us to wait until next time. And so I waited and waited, through the days and through the months and through the arches of the years, until eventually I grew too old for bedtime stories. I developed desires for independence, and with every passing season I came to believe more and more that my dad was already beginning to run out of stories to tell.

            Boy, was I wrong.

            I can’t exactly recall when it happened, but there was a point when my father became a storyteller again. I didn’t know why then, but my father was fierce when it came to the family. “Do not forget your family,” he once told me, “protect them, stay near them, never weigh your friends above them—friends will come and go, but you will only have one family.” The values of this message were hammered into me and my brother until they became something of a mantra for us. 

That was why, for as long as I can remember, my father would take the family out every week to partake in what he called “spending time.” As a kid I loved this, since it meant eating out at a place where the main dish was something other than white rice and Asian food. But as I entered my teenage years and nurtured my addiction to video games, “spending time” became less and less appealing to me. I wanted to spend all my time with my own friends—with the “cool kids”—whose parents gave them so much money and freedom. 

One day my classmates invited me to go to the movies to watch a newly released horror flick. Naturally I was stoked, and I rushed to tell my parents of my recent advance up the social ladder. My father was hesitant, but he gave me permission to go on one condition: I had to allow my brother to go with me as well.

This I met with a deep breath and an inward groan. “He’s gonna make things awkward and ruin everything!” I wanted to say. I bit back my tongue because I knew that a single breath against my father’s words could result in my disownment. Fortunately my brother really didn’t want to hang out with me or my friends, so that ordeal resolved itself quickly. I ended up going to the movies after all, but little did I know the same situation would haunt me through the years like a bad ghost.

Every time an invitation to hang out reached my ears, I was met with the same question from my father: “did you ask your brother?” Granted, my default answer was always “no,” but it reached a point when it became, “no, I do not want to ask my brother.” Being passive aggressive, I kept my mouth shut, knowing better than to push and prod the head of the household. Respect for the father was paramount; anything less was tantamount to cultural suicide.

That was the way things were with my father. I was taken to places I did not want to go and kept from places I did want to go. The divide between him and me was drawn in spastic clashes of contradicting wills. He wanted me to stay close to the family, I wanted to break free of it. Any sign of rebellion from me was quickly met with rebuke.

“Don’t go out with your friends today, stay with your brother.”

“Go back home. You’ve been out of the house too much.”

“Your brother is home alone. Just stay there.”

“Don’t keep silent all the time. Be giving, and be obedient.”

This continued week after week, month after month, until my lungs were so filled with unspoken words that they began to spill over into my actions. I became what my mother called mok tmor—a ”stone face.” A rough cultural translation would be that I turned into a brat, and my parents became cliffs against an ocean of pubescent rage.  

The effects of the stone face were not limited to my refusal to smile. My tolerance for my brother slimmed to such an extent that even the smallest annoyance from him would elicit a loud response from me. I began to spend more time with video games than with people. I would close off my ears to my parents' reproval, and I hid behind mental fortresses that I erected out of self-justification for my feelings. I deserved to be heard, didn’t I? I deserved a little freedom and liberty, right? Didn’t this life belong to me? My parents were old, they would never understand—or so I told myself.

One day, my father took me and my brother out to “spend time” with the family. Instead of going to the usual fast food chain restaurants my family frequented, my father brought us to a simple cafe. The entire place smelled of old coffee, and the furniture looked like something out of a retirement home. I was dismayed when the first dish served was a pot of gooey porridge with strands of strong ginger. Disappointed and unwilling to eat, I voiced an implicit complaint to my father.

“Pa, why are we eating here?” I asked.

My father narrowed his eyes through rectangular spectacles as if he was staring into my soul. He opened the pot of porridge and simply said, “Don’t be picky, just eat and be grateful.” This was when he began to tell stories again. Before I could make another remark, I noticed my father drop his shoulders as if there was a weight he wanted to release. Wrinkles formed across the seams of his face, and his eyes became wispy and distant, like he was in another place and another time.

Then he turned to me and my brother and gave us a long wistful stare. And I could feel it again, the nights in San Diego when he would tell us bedtime stories. The cafe became quiet and still, and time seemed to halt as my father began to spin his tale.

“Listen, a long time ago, when I was young… “  

I was surprised at what happened next. He didn’t tell us any of his old children’s stories. Nothing about what he said that day was meant for the ears of children. Instead of being a story about men becoming kings and princes who conquered the world, it was about a boy living in a time when his country was in hell. It was about a boy who saw more death than most people live to witness. There was no magic, no wonder, no brilliant sheen about the words that left his mouth. There was only a bleak chill that bathed my father in a new light. 

This was my father’s story, one that soon became my own.

           My dad grew up in the flats of a young Phnom Penh. He remembered vaguely of his days there—the days that preceded the revolution. For the most part he remembered his house being empty of parents and empty of plenty. My dad’s own father, an unfaithful man, eloped from my father’s mother—my Amah—soon after he married her. Amah was left with two children and bereft of any support a spouse was supposed to provide. That being said, my dad’s family was poor, so poor that he had to work in school in order to help Amah pay rent.

“Eang-ah, I will come home late today,” Amah would say on most mornings. My dad would then nod, chug down his last few bits of hot porridge, and grab his book bag along with a satchel filled with cookies and sweets. When break time came during class, he would take his snack bag and spread all of its contents over his desk. Some of the kids came to buy from him, others snickered and laughed at his deprivation.

My dad didn’t mind the derision of the other kids all too much. Not in retrospect. Whether you were rich or poor back then, you were soon going to suffer a storm of loss and poverty. That storm came in April 17th, 1975, and his name was Pol Pot. When Pol Pot and his communist army finally defeated Lon Nol’s forces in Phnom Penh, the people went rejoicing in the streets. Here were their saviors, they thought. Here were the men who were going to rescue them from America’s bombs. They did not know that Pol Pot would do to them what Mao did to China, or Stalin to Russia. Their celebration lasted only a few days before Pol Pot ordered a three-day evacuation of the whole city.

My dad, aged at a sprouting 11, was already in a province called Pailin at the time. Amah worked there as a miner and a snack seller, and my dad and aunt were assisting in any way they could. My dad remembered bringing rice and fish wrapped in banana leaves to Amah for lunch. The mines were dirty and smelled like musty eggs, and he always hated going there. But he knew that many miners died within weeks of work from water illnesses, so he continued his errands hoping that every day he gave lunch to Amah it would not be his last time seeing her.

While my dad was in Pailin, he thought he knew what it meant to be poor. He thought he knew what it meant to be hungry and to have nothing. But when the Khmer Rouge trucks finally came rolling into his village in Pailin, he began to realize just how wrong he was.

Soldiers dressed in black were unloaded off large green trucks. They wore red kromas and held large automatic guns. Even though the villagers were excited that the Khmer Rouge had arrived, my dad saw right off the bat that something was wrong: the soldiers were only children. Most of them looked like teenagers—some of them didn’t look any older than he was—yet they were striding through the village carrying firearms.

“Mak (Mom),” my dad whispered to Amah. “They’re my age and they have guns.”

Amah nodded but remained silent. Fear danced wildly in her eyes, and her stunned gaze was kept on the child soldiers. She already knew what kind of evil would occur when children are given guns. It’s only natural that when you give fire to a child, someone is bound to get burnt. But what about when you arm that child with a weapon of death? Naturally, people are going to die.    

What happened after the arrival of the soldiers was a blur of horror and misery that proved to haunt my dad for decades. Parents were separated from their children and forced to work until their hearts burst and their minds shattered. Children who were not given tasks to labor and take care of the young were reeducated and made into executioners. Anyone they found to be traitors to Angkor—the supreme state—were slaughtered along with their families. Infants belonging to “traitors” were dashed against tree bark. Men were tied to trees infested with fire ants as punishment. Executions became so overwhelmingly commonplace that the people were no longer surprised when their loved ones were taken to be killed.

My dad would sometimes see bodies strewn in disarray before him, their blood pooling into puddles along the road. He remembered falling into deep illness one time and ending up in a makeshift hospital staffed by children. The children mixed coconut milk and dirt for medicine, and my dad remembered waking up each morning to find friends he knew the previous night dead in their beds. He had no idea how he survived that ordeal, but he knew that many longed for the chance to go to sleep and never wake up like his friends.

My dad also remembered a great hunger that descended on the country. It was a perpetual hunger that turned his stomach into a chasm and shrunk his body into a ragged bag of bones. He recalled walking by, disoriented and famished, and catching sight of a single kernel of corn on the road. He picked up the muddy kernel and slipped it into his mouth, letting the food settle in his stomach before breaking down into tears. Hope was a fickle food back then, scarcer and thinner than anything else in the world.

Later on he went back to his village in Pailin where the officers weren’t as strict as the other provinces. He approached his sister Ay and grabbed her by the shoulders, taking out a piece of dried fish from his dirty pockets. “Here Ay,” he said, showing her his trophy. “I found it at another children's camp not too far from here. Take it, and let’s go together.” His sister simply stared at him with her dishevelled face and sunken eyes, her body looking no better than the dried fish my dad held in his hands.

“What about Mak?” she asked hesitantly. “She said she will come back soon. I have to find her when she comes back.”

My dad shook his head. “Mak isn’t coming back for a long time. What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you hungry? This new place has more food than anywhere else, and I could sneak us in.”

My aunt, obstinate in her loyalty to her mother, refused to move. No matter how much my dad tried to coax her, she insisted on staying where she was. Finally, in a bout of frustration, my dad stormed off with his piece of dried fish and left Amah and my aunt behind. He arrived at the children's camp where food was plenty (or as plenty as a bowl of hot water and a few grains of rice could be), but there was something that bothered him afterwards.

Every now and then he would picture his sister, skin and bones and deep in hunger, waiting back at Amah’s camp. What would’ve happened if he'd stayed? What would’ve happened if he'd shared that dried piece of fish with his sister rather than bowls of porridge with strangers? Maybe he’d be able to sleep easier at night. Sometimes his mind would wander past the dark depravity of his country towards the future—towards a world of unlikely what-if’s. What if the future held an end to the struggle? What if there was peace? What if he was able to survive with his mother and his sister?

What if he had his own family, his own son? That son would surely never know his kind of hunger and his kind of loneliness. He would be taught to care for those who cared for him and protect those who protected him. He would learn not to abandon the family, because that is one of the greatest mistakes one can make. But my dad was getting ahead of himself. He knew that was probably never going to happen.

Memoirs - Lichheng Lim

I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.

Lichheng is a junior. She is Cambodian.

Unspoken

I made a scene for at least two weeks of school.

I was three years old when I went to school for the first time. My mom was by my side, clutching my hand as I bounced along the cracked pavement through the garishly green gate where the ‘KINDERCARE INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL’ sign blared above us in bright yellow letters. Next to it, the pink elephant grinned with all the cheer a kindergarten mascot could muster. I was in high spirits, tugging her along as we went, beaming at the swimming pool and the monkey bars, so excited to start school.

That lasted for a good half hour until my father motioned to my mother to leave, and she sat me down and let go of my hand. “Study hard,” she said, and then she shifted, stood up, and began to walk away from me.

I stared after her, bewildered for at least three seconds. Ignoring the chattering peers that I’d befriended not minutes ago, I flung myself up and sprinted after her. She was the first one to turn around - it was almost as if she knew I was going to come back for her and look for her, but she didn’t open her arms and take me into them like she had done for the past three years. Instead, she shook her head, gently but firmly as I clung to her and fisted her shirt, begging her not to leave me.

“Mommy go now,” she told me sternly in her broken English, and then switched to Khmer. “You’re here for school. To be in school is to study. Study hard.”

“Ma!” I cried, shaking my head. “Ma, stay here!”

“I have to go to work,” she told me, and gently pried my fingers off. “You stay here and study. I will pick you up after school ends. You stay here.” Sighing softly, she knelt down until our eyes were at level. “You go make friends now and remember to listen to the teacher.”

I resisted her, but I ended up crying for at least the first two weeks of school. No one else cried; no one else seemed to miss their parents as desperately as I did. My teacher, a thin Filipino woman, directed me silently to a small red plastic chair. I took a seat next to her, excused from all the other activities, hiccuping and sniffling as I watched the other kids with disinterest and wondered how my mother could ever abandon me like this.

A few months later when I no longer cried in school and no longer had to be forced into the car, my mother told me that school was essential. It was a part of everyday life that I couldn’t avoid. School, she said, is important for growth.

I didn’t understand.

*********************

The treadmill squeaked as my mother jogged along it, quietly contemplating my question. Perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair, my body ached, and my arm protested fiercely as I held the recorder up, waiting to document her answers.

“Mom?” I prompted, a little impatiently. “Mom, what kind of comfort did you have growing up? Like, something that gave you a feeling of warmth.”

“I didn’t have a comfort,” she said at last between the pounding of her feet along the walking belt. “No, no comfort - but I did want some attention and care from my parents.” Here she laughed, and her steps quickened. “Yes, I did want them to notice me more and to pay attention to me.”

I noticed her steadily reddening eyes as she said that, and the gloss forming behind them, and I tried to pretend that I hadn’t seen it.

*********************

My mother is the second child of five children. She was born one year after the Khmer Rouge regime ended on February 15th, 1980 in the province of Battambang. Growing up, she lived in a wooden house near a lake, and she spent her days at school playing high jump, jump rope, octopus or tag, and at home running around playing hide and go seek. Her parents had to work very hard in order to earn enough to always ensure that there would be food in the stomachs of their five children, to ensure that they would never grow hungry. It was enough to give all five of them an education and keep them well-fed, but they couldn’t afford other luxuries such as new clothes or bikes. They were usually hand-me-downs, and they would only get new clothes twice every year.

Having four other siblings - four other girl siblings didn’t make living together a breeze, either. She was never really close to any of them, and in some cases, jealousy rose in their midst. There was no bitterness in her tone when she told me that she wanted a bicycle really badly when she was a child, but they could never afford one, and when she did get one, it was a creaky, rusted crimson hand-me-down from her oldest sister. Birthdays were never celebrated either, not really. Not for her and the older siblings, at least until this year. This year was the first time her birthday was an occasion that was actually celebrated. They were never close, her siblings and her - until now. It had taken her so long, but throughout the years, my mother came to realize the true worth of family. All the lessons and the repeated reminders of “keeping your family close” made sense to her now. And she told me, time and time again, that family is so important. That family is what you have left after everything else abandons you - that friends are good, friends do care, but they do not care as much and as deeply as family does for one another.

She laughed a lot when she was younger, and she told me that it was an unrestrained laughter. She laughed at silly things, at mild things, sometimes peals of laughter would slip through during serious moments. Childish, she called herself. Bad. Not good. “I am not like that now,” she said, shaking her head. “I learned that it was bad to be silly and laugh at everything. But did you know? I was just like you too when I was younger. I did not like vegetables and fruits. I only liked sweet things, crispy things. So unhealthy! I liked meat very much, and did not know how to eat vegetables until I grew up.”

School is the most important thing, she thought. An education is the most precious thing you can attain, and she worked hard in making that a reality for her children. The money she earned she channeled towards our education. It became her utmost priority. She recalled her childhood - how mundane things seemed like a luxury then. She didn’t want that to become a reality for her children. She wanted them to be educated, but she wanted to make enough money, too, to live comfortably, to be able to do what you want to do. It was what she wanted even when she was still young: to have things in abundance so that there would never be anything that is lacking or unattainable.

But it wasn’t just that. Working hard, giving us an education - she was trying to give us a good future, to pass the goodness of her works and actions onto us, her children. She hoped that in committing no wrongs, we would meet with good fortune and carry the goodness of our family down generations later. She drilled that into us at a young age - do good, do good, do good. Don’t do bad, don’t be like them, don’t. We are good people, she said. We are good people, so we must act like it.

It’s funny, she told me, that I am such a quiet child, never vying for attention from others: to be loved by them, to be cared for and asked after. She, on the other hand, wanted to be held and to be loved and for others - for her parents - to take part in her happiness and her successes.

“Maybe it’s better to be like you.” The smile on her face was slipping and she looked so lost and contemplative and determined all at once. “It was hard, you know. To be a child and want your parents to talk to you and to love you loudly and dearly.” Her eyes misted over, and her voice was shaky when she continued.

“It’s not easy, but I know now. I know that they were hard working parents, and they had five children. They couldn’t possibly pay attention to just me. I don’t blame them,” she added quickly. “I understood when I had you and your brother.

“When I became a parent, I wanted to pay more attention to my children: to let them know that they are loved and I love them.” She looked at me, and there was nothing but honesty and acceptance in her gaze. There was no accusation in her words as she said, “But you’re probably not satisfied with what I have done, are you?”

The words fell from her mouth as if it was a mere statement. It was like she’d rehearsed it so many times before, had thought through it and mulled over it enough times until it became a reality for her. A fact, no questions asked. I felt regretful and ashamed all at once, and all I could do was stare blankly at her and recount the number of times she’d proven that she loved me and had done more than enough for me.

*********************

When I was younger, my mother introduced me to my favorite foods. She always had a new dish for me to taste every afternoon, and I loved it. I remember the spicy and salty tang of the oyster when she dipped it in sauce and brought it to my lips, and my exclamation over its goodness and eager nodding for another share.

The summer before my second grade year, my friends and I were clustered around the front of my house, and we were holding hands. “Are you playing?” I asked in my loud, authoritative voice to the boy who was busy tying his shoe, effectively holding up our game.

“Yes!” he replied. “I’m playing.”

“Hurry up hurry up hurry up,” I chanted impatiently, and looked up to meet my mother’s eyes. Her smile was filled with amusement, and her eyes were filled with warmth and a deep affection. I grinned at her and pointed at him. “He’s so slow!”

*********************

“Drink,” she ordered me, and I drank obediently, gulping down the water in three goes. I handed her the cup and blinked up at her, a little dazed and sleepy.

“Nap?” she asked.

I nodded, but she already had my head in her lap, and I sighed contentedly and fell into a hazy sleep, comforted by her presence and the way she gently stroked my hair.

*********************

“Go to sleep,” she grumbled, yanking the blanket over me.

“I can’t!”

“Just close your eyes and you will go to sleep soon.” She settled her head on the pillow and sighed.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was as jumpy and high on sugar as any other five year old can be, but I was forced to take a nap of all things while my seven year old cousin was outside, no doubt having fun. The fun that I was desperately missing!

I squirmed in bed and stared at the blank TV and sighed. I squirmed some more and wondered how long it would take for her to fall asleep. I glanced at her and saw that her eyes were already closed, and she was breathing deeply.

I made a move to get out of bed, but she stopped me with her not-amused-with-you voice: “What are you doing?”

I was on my haunches, but my right foot was already swung over the bed and touching the cold tile floor, but under her stern one-eyed glare, I plopped back in bed, huffing slightly. This was terrible. I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot. I should learn how to sneak out tomorrow before my afternoon nap and I should have my cousin help me out of it. Yeah, that was it! We could learn how to unlock the door and inch out as quietly as possible so the door won’t creak -

“Go to sleep right now!”

*********************

The squalling baby in her arms squirmed, crying, reaching its tiny fists up to her face. She held onto it gently, rocking the baby, and as a wave of tiredness crashed over her, all she could think was, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

*********************

“No,” I said, and I hoped that she would know how earnest I was being. “No, you gave me the attention and care I needed. I remember what you’ve done for me.”

We spoke in riddles, my mother and I, never directly saying something heartfelt or emotional. I was saying, “I know, I understand, I’m sorry if I acted like I didn’t appreciate your efforts, I know you’re trying so hard.”

My mother and I have such subtle ways of saying ‘I love you’. Sometimes I wanted to get it out in one rush: IloveyouMomIthoughtyoushouldknow. But I felt as if the enormity of the statement was something we both wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Love, for us, was always there but it was never overly affectionate or obvious. Love was quiet and selfless and humble, and I saw it in her so clearly as I began to understand. I vowed to keep this close to my heart: to remember her sacrifices and the hardships she’d went through for me.

I went in for a hug and complained that because she’d been exercising, she was all sweaty and sticky. She laughed, but I thought and hoped that maybe, she knew what I was really saying.