Peter Phooi Kee, my Papa
From: Rosa - 10
Date: 7/6/00
Time: 10:50:34 AM
Comments
Peter Phooi Kee, my Papa
'...that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.'
William Wordsworth, 1798
The gathering of the Chang Clan in Kuala
Lumpur in April 2000 arrived at its purpose on Saturday, 22 April – the
celebration, in befitting style, of Mamma’s Attainment of her Ninety-First
Year. By early evening we had all assembled at the Golden Phoenix Restaurant of
the Hotel Equatorial, dressed in our fineries, under the eaves of the
‘courtyard’, a part of the restaurant built to resemble a traditional
Chinese courtyard and that night decorated in resounding red to announce the
happy occasion.
We had gathered early to carry out the most
significant part of the celebration – the tea ceremony, the timeless Chinese
demonstration of our respect for an older person. For Mamma, we – her
children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, great nieces
and nephews and all those married to them – had come to respectfully offer her
our congratulations and to wish her joy, good health and many more happy years,
with a cup of special tea and then to show our love for her with a kiss.
Mamma, in a beautiful silk cheongsum and a
rich velvet jacket, sat at the top of the room on a chair placed at the centre.
We took our turns, as family hierarchy dictates, to go up to her with our cup of
tea. The event and the getting together of so many of her extended family filled
her with happiness and excitement. This had been evident in the last few days
when she could hardly sleep despite our insistence that she took plenty of rest
as she had travelled from Adelaide and was due to go on to Thurlstone and then
Toronto a few days after the celebration. Yet, tonight, as she sat there, I
could not much read her face. Mamma is not given to expressing her inner
feelings much and her face always bears a steady, mostly calm look. For all the
brimming joy and excitement, she looked pretty much the same tonight. I
wondered.
For there was a loomingly large,
heart-tugging absence, the absence of a chair next to Mamma on which Papa would
have sat, receiving his complementary cups of tea. Mamma must have felt this
absence too.
Papa died seven years ago, on 24 August 1993,
and his absence filled out all the time, not only, but of course especially, on
family occasions. And especially on this family occasion. His absence would have
been glaringly noticed and felt by at least his immediate family, if not many
more, yet none of us spoke of it. Not for the supersitution of not bringing up
the dead at an auspicious event nor the wish to prevent sad thoughts to dampen
the occasion. It was just our way, we have the habit of not speaking about what
lies deepest, not for a reluctance to share but for some innate, unspoken
understanding that we all already know and share. Like Mamma. Papa would have
been so happy and so proud to be celebrating Mamma’s all-important birthday.
Unlike Mamma, his face would have been aglow with smiles. He, who had continued
his enforced habit of being careful with money from the need of providing for
the eight of us,would have approved any lavishness for the celebration. He would
have personally drawn up the guest list, scrutinised the menu, organised all the
details in his meticulous way. As he did a little more than ten years ago when
there was another Chang gathering, in Ipoh on the occasion of his and Mamma’s
golden wedding anniversary. Two great occasions in the annals of the Changs,
this one without Papa, how could we not have felt his absence.
Yet his absence is a presence all the time,
in our every day life. We talk of him, his grandchildren remember him, in
stories, references, things we would have been doing with him, things that we
disobediently are no longer doing, of which he would have disapproved. Like not
switching off the light each time we leave a room, or not locking the front door
to the house upon entry. Some of his little habits have transferred to us:
putting up the new calendar and setting the the house ablaze with lights in all
the rooms on new year’s eve; filling in the new diary with all the birthdays
in the family on the relevant pages. Frankly, we are now very relieved that
there is no one now to insist that we have to go to the airport or railway
station hours before it is necessary each time we travel or send off or meet
someone arriving. In my now frequent travel with Mamma I thus remember him on
every journey we make. So many reminders to make him a living absence.
Beguiling and easy as it is to do, I do not
nor should I eulogise him in death as without fault or blame. For Papa would not
be Papa without his warts and he had, not a few, from the exasperating to the
embarrassing to the annoying to the seriously injuring and damaging.
Long after he had no need to and certainly
had no need to on our behalf, he continued to be punishingly frugal with
himself. Even in his old age, one of his few luxuries was to go each afternoon
to a roadside stall for an inexpensive cup of ‘chum’ (a mix of coffee and
tea) and a bowl of wuntun noodles. When taken to a pricey restaurant he would
unfailingly choose the most inexpensive item on the item which would be some
vegetarian dish.Yet he disliked vegetables and was fond of meat. While we
understood his ingrained habit it was exasperating until we found the solution
by taking over dictatorially and ordering his meal for him, which he would
enjoy, protesting at the cost as he ate.
There was a time when the older ones among us
used to attend Chinese class after school. Papa came to fetch us in his car to
take us for Chinese.He was so impatient that if we were not standing out waiting
for him he would blare his car horn until we emerged, to our acute
embarrassment, the pitying amusement of all our friends and the annoyance of the
teachers. Until a good nun always ushered us out of class in time for Papa. We
also found it embarrassing when he proudly introduced us to his friends as,
‘This is Rosa, my second daughter, she has a B.A. Hons’. ‘Meet my younger
son, Justin, an accountant, just got promoted’. ‘Angeline, my third daugther,
is a headmistress’. We cringed with embarrassment while understanding his
parental pride, especially as we keenly appreciated that, on one civil
servant’s salary, he had put all his eight children through tertiary
education. Something that makes us so very proud of and so thankful to Papa; his
life’s achievement. At some stage, someone got him to stop doing this. Just
as, thankfully, he stopped the annoying habit of annoucing his arrival at any
one of our homes (after we were married) by again tooting the horn of his car
loudly.
While some of Papa’s ways were only what we
had to put up with, there were others which appeared unjustified and
unnecessary. The Convent which we attended issued weekly, which later thankfully
changed to monthly, report cards in which we were graded for such Convent-like
qualities as conduct, deportment as well as what we had scored in tests.
Anything below standard was recorded in red. The four older ones of us, sitting
on the stairs of the house, met in nervous conference each time before we had to
present our report cards to Papa, debating on the tactic, whether to let the one
with the best report to go first to put Papa in the right mood or to let him
have the worst first as then he would have nothing to compare the damaging
report with. His habit of enircling a red mark with his pen was embarrassing
enough but his black looks and ensuing bad mood were hard to bear. There was a
memorable incident which we still talk about. He had given us strict
instructions not to go out in the blazing sun. But as it was a very hot day we
stole out and walked for a seemingly long distance to buy a pot of delicious
coloured flaked ice with nuts and other goodies. Papa spotted us on our return
and not only did we receive strokes of the cane on our disobedient legs but he
threw our precious pot of ice down the drain. That was cruel, we bitterly felt.
What were really disturbing were the
incidents of adult drama that occasionally occurred among Mamma, Papa, Ah Mah
and Ah Koong. We came to see that Papa was always piggy-in-the-middle between
his feudalistic parents, especially Ah Koong, and Mamma from whom they expected
the behaviour of a daughter-in-law of the outdated order. Some of those were
ugly scenes. Whatever his private feelings for Mamma and his realisation of his
parents’ unreasonable demands, Papa was the Confucian son to the core. Young
as we were it was disturbing and painful for us to see Papa on his knees, head
bowed, offering Ah Koong a cup of tea and begging his forgiveness for misdeeds
not done. But Papa was humbling, not humiliated, while we his children suffered
the indignation that he appeared not to mind. But the last time I saw Papa on
his knees to his father was a touching, heart-breaking scene. Ah Mah had died
when Papa was still on the road from Ipoh at the news of the relapse of her
illness. When Ah Koong became ill, despite Papa’s careful liaison with the
hospital, Ah Koong had died in the early hours with no family by him. It had
caused Papa much pain that on both occasions he had not been able to carry out
the filial duty of ‘sung jung’, being at the deathbed of a parent. By Ah
Koong’s grave as the coffin was being lowered, Papa fell to his knees on the
upturned earth, shedding hard and bitter tears, waving aside attempts to lift
him up, ‘Whatever he was, whatever he had done, he was my father’.
The Chinese take great care to name a child
as it is believed that the child becomes endowed with the qualities that his
name indicates. Papa was named ‘Phooi Kee’ meaning ‘maintaining the
foundation’ and the name he chose for himself on becoming a Catholic was
Peter, the Rock. And a firm rock Papa was – stoic, deeply loving, reliable,
trustworthy, loyal, steadfast, firm in his beliefs.
When we were young he appeared rather stern
and austere but we felt his deep love through this seemingly hard surface. We
knew it was there all the time and there were times when it surfaced for us to
tangibly touch. There was not the money for Papa to keep us supplied with
pleasure books all the time, but on each of our birthdays the celebrant was
taken to a shop to choose a book. There were outings to the merry-go-rounds, to
the cinema (for films that have passed the church’s censorship, of course), to
festive celebrations in town, to the elders of the family and other relatives
especially at Chinese New Year and their birthdays, instilling in us the
traditional Chinese practice. The weekly visit to a restaurant after church on
Sunday was always looked forward to. When it was withdrawn we knew that we had
incurred Papa’s displeasure.
His abiding love for Mamma was
unquestionable, constant as the name he gave her, always there, through their
squabbles, in spite of the Confucian demands of his parents. His solicitude of
her at times became stifling to Mamma as was his concern for us which we at
often felt to be cramping. The circumstances of his meeting Mamma has become a
well told family tale. Our Je-Koong was looking for a home tutor in English for
his six daughters and younger son. Papa, a struggling young man, thought to
augment his income and applied for the job. He soon found Mamma the ‘woman of
his dreams’, as he coyly put it, and they began to ‘play footsie under the
table in the schoolroom’ as Didi #1 Rene (Papa’s eldest nephew) charmingly
put it when he proposed the toast on the occasion of Mamma and Papa’s golden
wedding anniversary.
Papa unshakably believed what he believed, a
quality that was both his strength and his weakness as he became unquestioning
in his belief. Too unshakably rock-like. When we were young his anger was quick
to visit us if we infringed on anything that the Catholic church taught.
Unforgettable was the occasion when the older four of us missed Mass on a Sunday
when we were on a weekend visit to our maternal aunts. We were immediately
marched to church to confess our sin after we had been subject to a display of
frightening anger. It was Papa’s greatest sadness that many in his family
later grew away from his faith. His loyalty was such that he sheltered for
months, in our already overspilling house, the parish priest who had fallen out
with his bishop but who Papa thought was in the right. He did this at the
discomfort of his family and in spite of the criticisms of some church members.
He spent most of his spare time doing
fund-raising projects for the church and the Convent schools. Much sought after
for his diligence, honesty, organisational abilities, and devotion to duty. That
the church hierarchy gave no recognition for all his work did not upset him at
all as he did not expect it of them, pleased only that he had earned the trust
of those he worked with and happy that those he worked for benefitted from his
efforts. These same qualities explained why he was not given transfers in his
job with the Department of Inland Revenue whose staff were regularly moved to
prevent the easy temptation of graft. When he did get a transfer to Ipoh it was
on a promotion and he proudly told us that he was offered a choice of the town
he wished to go to, an offer with no precedence. Whatever recognition he was
given surprised and delighted him, such as the honours that was conferred on him
by the Sultan of Perak for his voluntary work with the mentally handicapped in
Ipoh. Ever after he appended his AMP after his name with pride.
Papa, who was so naturally giving, not only
did not give himself much but was always so thankful for what we did for him.
Even of us his children for whom he and Mamma had given up so much to give us
the best, he had no expectation of return. While fulfilling the filial duties of
a son to an exceptional degree, he did not apply the same demands on us. Soon
after their golden wedding anniversary Meimei #3 remarked to me that from now
on, with their age, every wedding anniversary was important. Remembering this on
their fifty-second anniversary, I planned a surprise by flying in from Kuala
Lumpur and appearing on their doorstep on the morning with a bunch of red roses
and to take them to lunch. Both Mamma and Papa were of course delighted, then I
found Papa in tears, sobbing. I was alarmed and when he sobbed, ‘All of you
are so good to me, so very good to me’ I ended in tears myself.
When we talk of Papa we all agree that he
taught us so much. We also agree that while he did lay down the law on some
aspects of behaviour he never gave us any precepts for living. We learned from
his example, by his living, by a growing appreciation of the man he was and, not
setting out to consciouly emulate him we simply find that we have absorbed him
as his values and outlook have become ours too. Though there are many qualities
that we unconciously strive for there are also some which guide us by our
rejecting them as Papa’s weaknesses. This was his life’s greater
achievement.
The most powerful and lasting lesson Papa
showed me was also his last. In his terminal illness rom liver cancer, Peter
Phooi Kee, the Rock came into his own. When Didi #3 Justin and I arranged for
the doctor to tell him of the fate awaiting him we were filled with apprehension
and anxiety. We stood outside the door of his room at the hospital, listening,
dreading it for Papa, dreading it for ourselves as to his reaction. The courage,
the firm belief in his faith with which he took the news can only be described
as indescribable. He did not come to terms with his imminent death so much as
took death in bravely while fighting the disease with all his formidable will..
More than that, he used his courage to give us his strength and to his beloved
wife. He did say he wanted us to be brave, but once again, more than words, he
showed us what it was and how it was to be brave. Back at home I felt relieved,
amazed, comforted, humbled and most of all priviledged.
Papa’s spirit continued thus throughout the
long months of his illness. There were times when he was difficult from the
ravages of the cancer but he remained calm and accepting and at times cheerful.
More than learning to cope with Papa’s death I had learned to brave the fear
of death itself.
I was with him and Mamma through most of the
long months. Friends and relatives praised me for my sense of duty. It was
unnecessary praise as I knew that any one of my meimeis and didis in my
circumstances would have been in my place in Ipoh with Papa and Mamma. I felt
priviledged. A friend put it thus, ‘You are the only one who has married
‘out’, who would have guessed that you would be here to see your father
through his death? Think about it’.
Looking back I often wondered why it had
never even occurred to me to spend some time by Papa’s bed talking to him, in
the manner that Paul Suk did on his weekly visit to his brother. I think I have
found the answers: that had never been the style of our relationship with Papa
and it was not really necessary. The reaching out was implicit. Neither had Papa
felt the need to talk to me. Nor did feel the need to ask all of us to look
after Mamma. It was always and all understood.
Those long months had its fill of anxiety,
uncertainty, distress and sadness. But we all also agreed that it was a
wonderful time. Papa’s love for all his family, his extended family, and their
love of him drew us together. From the UK, Australia, Canada and of course
Singapore they all came to see him. The underlying heavy sadness of a lasting
goodbye was there, surfaced many times, but it was lightened by the meeting of
some of us who had not met for years, by the fondness of meeting again, the
exchange of news, the recall of times past, the sharing of jokes. It was a sad
time, a good time, a time for a final parting, a time for bonding in the way
that the death of a loved one bonds.
Shades of the Shangri-la days in April this
year were there in that sad August of 1993 in Ipoh. Mamma’s birthday
celebration was an elegant yet homely affair. We had put in just as much
planning for Papa’s funeral. We buried him with solemnity and elegance and
homeliness. There was even time for a Chang streak of humour. The short
procession to the church and we were early, standing at the door waiting for the
priest to lead the procession in. Amid tears, Meimei #3 joked, ‘Papa had
always liked and had always insisted that we get to church early. He is doing it
again’.
Papa, seven years after we celebrated your
life in your death we gathered again, in Kuala Lumpur, to celebrate the
ninety-first year of Mamma’s birth. You would have rejoiced in our
celebration, recognising it as the way you would have wanted it for your
wonderful woman. We love Mamma in the way you loved her, in the way that you did
not need to tell us to love her. Your absence is your presence in all of us. In
Kuala Lumpur that night it was a rejoicing indeed!
FATHER’S
GIFTS
Father,
my being
you gave me,
The reason you are Father.
Father,
my becoming,
just your being showed me –
being simple, humble, honest, steadfast, kind.
Father, all my knowing
too you gave me,
Through your striving, sacrificing
I gained learning, how to, all the gifts of mind.
Father,
through your dying
still you taught me,
Watching you - so
firmly face that final fact,
th’ descending pall.
This last gift is now my living,
timely blessing kept within me,
as, past fifty, I go onward
to the death that has to be.
Father,
thank you dearly
for your countless gifts of living,
Thank you still more dearly
for your priceless lesson
in your very heart of dying.
Rosa
Chang, written on the Month of All Souls, Sunday 9.11.1997
6 July
