Goodbye, goodbye.

Local time at Christchurch: 14:46pm

Local time at Singapore: 9:46am

Ground speed: 896km/h

Outside air temperature: -52 Celcius

Time to Singapore: 7:46

…

The plane’s just about flying above Newcastle, Australia as I sit here and type this. The scenery outside has changed a bit over the past few hours – from rolling green meadows and snow-capped mountains to rippling blue waves and dry, barren landscapes. This part of Australia looks dusty and remote. I much prefer New Zealand’s verdant plains.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak is in my seat pocket – I’m up to page three hundred – and really, I should tell Eden on how much I’ve been enjoying it so far. For the past few hours I’ve sat quietly in my seat – reading – with a plastic cup of apple juice by my side. I haven’t even touched the flight entertainment system – which is pretty surprising. I normally latch onto flight entertainment systems like my life depends on it.

My black duffel coat is around me, while another grey jacket’s spread out nearby. It’s convenient, I must admit, to have unoccupied seats next to you. No awkward conversations, no confused hand gestures needed. It’s just me in this little row – me, this laptop screen, the music in my ears, and the tiny window with bits of frost plastered onto it. 

This is probably going to be the quietest flight I’ve ever had.

Just yesterday I had taken a bus up to Christchurch. It had almost taken six hours, and by the time I stumbled out, rain was lashing down in torrents – I could barely see anything else in front of me other than the road, some shops, and the earthquake-devastated ruins nearby. I didn’t particularly appreciate the way at how the storm continued on until the wee hours of the morning – where the howling wind and tapping tree branches interrupted my sleep, grating on my nerves.

Bloody hell. 

Even worst, I had successfully short-circuited the entire house that I had stayed for the night.

It was quite a feat, I assure you. I just hope my parents never hear about this. Basically, I was trying to blow my hair in the shower – the plug must’ve been wet, which I stupidly hadn’t noticed. Within two seconds of me flicking the hairdryer on, the entire house abruptly descended into darkness while I stupidly stood in the bathroom, thinking about just how much fucked up things were, and whythehelldothesethingshappentoyou Anne, ohgodwhy?

 

…

Well, that was last night. Right now I’m still on the plane, typing this out on MS Word just so that I can pass some time. Come to think of it, my iPod’s battery is declining at an alarming rate. Please, please – hold out until I reach Singapore. I don’t think I could survive listening to nothing but the aircraft’s roaring engines and wailing babies. 

Patience, my dear, I tell myself. Patience.

 

A fucking virtue it is, a fucking virtue it always will be. 

…

Reality hits me again – I’m returning to Malaysia. For the summer holidays, or so I heard.

The past few weeks have been quite a whirlpool of excitement. First off, I had been granted three awards for scoring the top marks in Geography, International Studies, and Computing for the first semester – then I was informed that my application to the prestigious St. Margaret’s College had been accepted – and finally, just yesterday, I received my final exam scores.

It was a 10.0 GPA. 

The smile stuck on my face throughout the entire day. Even though I remained quiet and composed like I usually was, my heart was happy and contented – two sorts of emotions which I rarely felt. 

“Your parents must be so thrilled.”

“Your parents would be so proud of you!”

“You don’t look that excited – why? Your parents must be overjoyed!”

Why, you ask? It’s quite simple, really.

I was brought up not to be arrogant of my achievements, no matter how brilliant they may seem to be. I was brought up to accept the fact that no matter how hard I try, there will always be others out there who are better than me. 

It’s not too far from the truth, really.

Others find it sad at how I view things. You undervalue yourself, they say. You don’t realize your potential. 

But I do.

There’s a difference between undermining myself and being modest – that’s what I want them to know. I do understand my potentials – which is why I’m taking the hard path from now onwards, instead of the easy way out. 

Doesn’t make sense, does it? Probably not. In other words, I’ll make it simple – I could’ve settled for some easier ways out, but I’m not doing that. A double degree, with a major and a minor to boot – you are fucking crazy, Anne, you are fucking crazy.

Well, yes, I’d drink to that.  

I understand the fact that I can do so much more – and with that, I will push myself to the limit.

Truth be told? This year hasn’t been that difficult. On the contrary, it has been quite relaxing. Of course, I won’t say that everything has gone by easily – in fact, it hasn’t – but it’s still a far cry more relaxing than what I used to have. 

My parents understand my potentials too, as weird as that would sound to me now. A few years ago I was the one who was always kicked in the dirt, yelled at for being useless and nothing compared to the others around me. I knew, even back then, that that was their way of showing their love – no matter how twisted and unloving it appeared to be. They wanted me to be the best – they wanted me to learn how to fight and struggle on my own. So fight and struggle I did, watching the days pass by in a mixture of tears and emotional pain. Back then, I never knew how much they looked up to me – hell, I thought I was the useless black sheep in the family, until the unexpected words tumbled out when I mentioned about Otago University’s Foundation in Arts program to them. 

“I’m just worried that it would be too easy for you.” 

Dad had appeared nonchalant in saying it – the two of us were eating at a hawker centre, and I had nearly choked on my mouthful of noodles. That was when I realized that my parents never undermined me – they just had the worst ways of showing their love. 

I began realizing more and more as the days went by. When I had scored 10As and cried myself to sleep, they assured me of how proud they were of my achievements. When I had scored a 9.9 GPA in the first term exams, I had brooded about it all day until they told me not to. I had silently vowed to get a 10.0 in the final year exams, which, well, I did. I realized that they were proud of the fact that I was a Grade Eight in both piano practical and theory, of the fact that I was a black-belter, of the fact that I could now bake an apple cake and make chocolate fondue (if I tried), of the fact that I could do basic sword-fighting, of the fact that I was a writer – of everything.

 

Gone were the days of where they tried to stomp the artistic side out of me. 

Gone were the days of where they continuously put me down with harsh words and unkind gestures. 

I had earned their respect in the field that I was involving myself in, and I was going to keep it no matter what. I had proven it to them by taking twelve subjects in SPM, scoring an A in English Literature (alright, that could have been better) and Mandarin – a subject which many had given up on. My determination was pretty fucking intense, and they knew it. 

But even so, I wasn’t that impressive of an individual either. I had a wide range of hobbies, I had a sharp mind – but that was around it. I didn’t have any impressive awards, I hadn’t won any international competitions. I was just an individual on the face of earth who had a lot of opinions but never cared to act on too much of them. 

Not impressive indeed.

But I had some worthwhile things about myself – that much I knew. For one, I was fucking ambitious. It got to the point where things seemed unrealistic – and ambition is a brilliant motivator. Someone should make an epic quote out of that – it’s only the truth. 

Strength. Courage. Maturity.

Kah Leong told me I should have a better quote than that, but I really can’t be bothered to make up anything fancy. Fanciness is me, but at the same time, I prefer things to be simplistic. 

You fucking paradox, Anne – but where’s the fun in life when things are determined in black and white? You determine your own shit. You determine what kind of life you want. Remember, obstacles are shit, but they’re shit you have to face. Sometimes you’ll misunderstand things. Sometimes you’ll be hated by people. Sometimes they’ll hate you so much that they wish you were dead – but that’s inevitable. You don’t live to fucking please – and as crude as that sounds, it’s the best motto you probably can have whenever something undesirable happens. 

While applying for the college I wanted to stay in next year, they had asked a whole bunch of weird questions. They were short questions that required a lot of in-depth thinking – standard questions like the whys and the whats and the hows. I had sat there pondering for many hours, wondering what would be enough to impress the college master up there. 

What would you want to see? I had asked myself silently. What would it be?

 

What would stand out more than others?

And then that was when it hit me – honesty.

 

Genuine honesty.

Ambition.

Determination.

Courage.

Strength.

Maturity.

…

So I went for it. 

…

Those who know me well enough will know that I’m not thrilled at the prospect of returning to Malaysia. In simple terms, I’ve had too many bad memories back there – especially back at the old house, which I dread. I dread returning to the same room where I spent sleepless night, crying for wishes that would never come true. I dread returning to the buried memories, where I had spent so much time dispensing my hate upon.

I refuse to even call it home anymore. I won’t call Malaysia home. No, I won’t.

Technically, the lazy voice drawls within me, New Zealand isn’t your home either. How can it be? You haven’t been living there your entire life. How many people do you know there? Where will you be? You love the unfamiliarity of Kiwi ways, the way at how you’re respected and accepted there for being who you are – but at the same time, someplace within you will always crave for some form of Malaysian normality. The food, yes? The way at how you can slurp your soup without caring who sees. The way at how you can skip and hop down the road without giving a fuck.

But, I argue back, people respect my opinions in New Zealand – which doesn’t always (scratch that – it rarely happens) happen in Malaysia. People see me for who I am. They admire my opinions, my ideas, the things I do. I can tell people I support gay rights without being afraid of what they think about me. I can tell them I love arts and writing without being looked down and sneered upon. I can sip English tea in the afternoon while typing out on a laptop in peace and quiet without being interrupted. I have my freedom of speech, my freedom of ways – things which are immensely important to me. Racism does exist here – but I would rather be ostracized here in New Zealand than in Malaysia. It’s one of the reasons why I refer myself as a ‘Malaysian Chinese’, and not just a ‘Malaysian’. It’s one of the reasons why I’m offended when people think I’m a ‘Malay’, and not a ‘Malaysian Chinese.’

It doesn’t matter much, does it? Home will be where I’m the happiest at.

If I’ll be hovering around some form of uncertainty for the years to come, then let it be. The ones who don’t understand certainly don’t have to try to – I never asked them to stumble around the fucked up areas of my mind, anyway. 

…

Local time at Christchurch: 16:11pm

Local time at Singapore: 11:11am

Ground speed: 850km/h

Outside air temperature: -50 Celcius

Time to Singapore: 5:42

…

Five (six?) more hours to get to Singapore.

Another flight to get back to Malaysia.

Tomorrow, a new routine begins.