Christmas in Taiping (1)

When I was a child, we spent most Christmas’s at my grandparents’ in Taiping.

We would drive up from KL along the single lane trunk road, passing all the little towns and villages on the way. It was always exciting as we left the city, weaving our way north through Templars Park with its clusters of forest and glimpses of rocky streams. We’d sing songs and play Eye Spy, munching at the chicken sandwiches that my mother had made. And then the boredom would set in. I would stare up at the endless line of the telephone wires overhead and it would seem interminable.

And then we would see the chalk hills near Ipoh loom up, strangely shaped mounds eroded by wind and rain. We were nearly there! In the back of the car, my brother and sister and I would perk up and look out of the windows, finding the shapes that we knew. There was a man sleeping on his side. There was Grandma’s head - a hill that for a moment, just at the right angle as the car whizzed by, looked like a woman’s head with a 1940s haircut.

And before long, we’d be at the crossroads at Simpang, turning towards Taiping. The ramshackle shophouses and roadside shacks would give way for awhile to more jungle and rubber trees and atap huts hidden in the foliage. And then we would be driving into the bustle of Taiping past the Indian temple and mosque, heading towards the central market and town clock.

Even as a child, I always struck by the contrast of small town Taiping to the big city of KL. The town was laid out in a neat grid and you could never get lost. There was hardly any traffic which was great when you were a kid and wanted to roam a bit further away from the adults. The streets were like toy streets, easily walkable and everybody seemed to know who we were, smiling and greeting us whenever we strolled down covered walkways.

I remember my mother wearing a backless top once, sauntering down the small town streets in her fashionable, big city way and my Grandma walking at a distance in horror at her daughter’s baring her back so brazenly - “What must they all thinking be thinking, May?” she kept saying. My mother just shrugged and laughed, “It’s just my back, so what? It’s not like it’s my front.”

Grandma was the daughter of a Presbyterian minister who had been sent as a missionary from China to look after the flock in Singapore. She was now a community leader in the Methodist church, a Rotarian and generally a respected figure in Taiping. She always dressed neatly and smartly, even when she was in the garden, tending to her beloved orchids. She moved elegantly, her back always straight and I never saw her slouch or loaf around. She never quite got her head round my mother’s a la mode, right out of Vogue, up to the minute fashion sense, what with the backless tops, strapless gowns, high heels, platform shoes and hot pants of the late 60s and early 70s.

At special occasions, like Christmas, Grandma would always wear a cheong sam, the traditional Chinese dress made famous recently by Maggie Cheung in In the Mood for Love. Most of the younger women in the family would be in cheong sams , too, hair done up in Western style - bee-hives or page boys, set in place with Ellenet hairspray. My mother would do the same but some years, she would be elegantly dressed in whatever was the latest fashion - one time, it was a billowing, white kaftan with a pattern embroidered in rich royal blue: what can I say, it was the 70s and we’d just come back from the Philippines where kaftans were all the rage.

For me, I loved the Christmas holidays and festivities but the one thing I absolutely hated and dreaded was the party dress. Being a tomboy, I was happiest in jeans and gym shoes. I slouched and sat with my legs apart instead of demurely crossed at the ankles. The party dress with its bows and ribbons and puffy sleeves, its tutu-like flare, it’s gauzy, prickly material - it was just the most hideous ordeal and torture! When it was time to get dressed for the big Christmas party, I would invariably throw a tantrum and sulk, filled with stress, anxiety and horror at having to put on such a monstrosity. For me, my whole sense of self was at stake - my dignity, my pride, the essence of who I was was utterly offended by the costume I was being forced to wear. I envied my brother and the boy cousins in their smart dark trousers and simple, ironed shirts. Why couldn’t I wear a smart pant-suit? Why did being a girl involve wearing something that looked like a pom-pom?

But, for most of my childhood, the adults would always win the battle and I would have to drag myself around the whole evening looking - in my eyes - like a total idiot. Poor Grandma would keep telling me I looked so pretty but I would just glower and slouch in an attempt not to be seen.

And then one Christmas, I won. I don’t know exactly what happened or how I won the battle but in all the family Christmas photos for that year, everyone is beautifully and festively dressed in gender specific garb - all the girls and women dolled up in feminine dresses and all the boys and men in masculine menswear - except me. There I am, a skinny, gawkly teenager, in a pair of corduroy jeans and my gym shoes - slouching.