When Hot and Cold Worlds Collide: A Letter

Dear younger me,

I know you feel invisible. I know you feel like all the things you've done in the only world you've ever known seem like futile efforts to belong. You will go on to leave — this mess of a country you call home, your people, and the sights, smells, and tastes of Kuala Lumpur that have surrounded you since your birth. You will start anew in a world many call the Land of Opportunity. There, you will find a life partner who loves you without condition, something you can't truly comprehend, because all you know is love as a reward for good behavior, good grades, and being polite.

You won't know how your upbringing in a hot place will show up again in this new foreign land. Hot, in many senses of the word: the heat of the Malaysian sun and humidity that constantly crept on your skin and made you sweat; the euphoric burn of chillies on your tongue; the fiery wok that cooked deliciously charred kuey teow noodles at the night market; the warmth of being surrounded by family during a baptism, First Holy Communion, Easter, birthdays, any reason to celebrate with aunts, uncles, grand aunts, cousins; heated anger when the government decides what boxes you get to be put into based on your father's last name.

You won't know how these will show up again now in a place that has brought you a new sense of self, but is very cold — in terms of the weather, where for the first time ever you see snowfall, in college in Washington, and you wear your first long-sleeved clothes to stay warm; cold towards your accent, so you change it to fit in; cold in the food you eat — nothing is ever going to burn your tongue like those fiery chillies of your youth; the eery chill of feeling like a ghost when you are overlooked because of your differences, and you fleet invisibly in a small (mostly white) town in Oregon; and the effort it takes to find warmth in new relationships (“Hi, please like me. I'm cool! I will be a great friend!”).

You won't know how the warmth of your early life in the tropics will show up again...Until you have your own offspring.

In them will you see yourself in ways you wish to keep hidden.

In them will you uncover past hurts that come alive without your permission, like being ignored during a tantrum, and you fight tirelessly against your learned instinct as you grudgingly offer a hug to your own child during an all-too-familiar similar situation.

In them will you suddenly discover you have kitchen skills that reawaken. You will just know some things. Like pounding garlic in a pestle and mortar to the right done-ness; removing the skin off lap cheong; or how to flavor with belacan (shrimp paste) — that subtle, floral, sought-after funk.

In them will you wish to recreate moments in the kitchen that you shared with your own mother and sister. Whether it was learning how to gut a fish, or getting the ratio of chillies to shallots right, or what this aunt said to that aunt, these memories bind you in a way that can make you cry if you find yourself alone in the kitchen, visualizing a scene from the past as you try to remember what it was that made the sambal so much better when mom made it. And perhaps recreating a similar space in the kitchen now for you and your offspring helps you cope, more than it helps them learn.

In them will you learn to tap into the wisdom of your foremothers who took time to tenderly nurture those in their care, especially when in the kitchen. Like the joyous communal labor of making pineapple tarts at Christmastime. Every pinch, every crimp, every press will be lovingly passed down, one anecdote at a time. You'll make sure of it.

In your offspring, the future women of your bloodline, will you learn to be empowered to take up space; to stop hiding things about yourself that seem different in this cold, new world; to feel content in how much you know about the way the world works. In them will you try your hardest to teach them about their rich Kristang and Baba Nyonya heritage from Melaka, full of intense flavors like tamarind, calamansi, fermented beans, fermented shrimp, pickled mustard greens, cloves, cardamom...knowing that there is a chance that they will reject it and just want pizza.

In them will you learn to click your tongue so hard that they'll know they're in trouble, use words you have long forgotten but your tongue now recalls; and rub Vicks and/or Tiger Balm, splash Holy Water, and try other home remedies you only partially believe in to cure any and all ailments: no harm in trying.

In them will your hot and cold worlds now collide. Crispy fried fish drizzled with dark caramel soy sauce and calamansi juice, and nachos in the same meal. Their world is so much more vast than yours; you will fear so much. As you wade through this hot-cold-lukewarm place together, one kitchen endeavor at a time, of peeling, pounding, simmering with little hands, you will find that your efforts are no longer futile.

In them will you finally see how you belong.

All my love,

The Older, Stronger, Mother in Me