Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food. — William Hazlitt (1778-1830), an English essayist.
Holidays have become seasons of hiding. Couples going through a rough patch hope to make it through the familial gatherings without allowing the tensions to surface. People who have lost jobs put a smiley face on financial troubles. Rumours spread, but no one says anything because, of course, we must be polite.
But a deep loneliness can reside at the heart of forced civility. What good is it if only our joys are worthy of sharing and not our struggles? Underlying that courteousness is the fear that acceptance remains conditional. We worry that if we reveal who we are, what we think, and the difficulties we endure, then we might be rejected. No more cooking from my Auntie Collin (my mom’s youngest sister). But what if something essential is lost when we stop telling the truth?
Bailey and Christopher were the two cousins closest to me in age on my mother’s side of the family. We grew up together, taking turns spending the night at one another’s homes. We fiddled away our afternoons playing ball in the backyard during the day before turning to Brick games in the evenings.
The ten-kilometre distance between my home and Teng Bukap, Padawan, where Bailey and Christopher eventually moved to, created the first real divide. Where I saw addicts along the way occasionally, my cousins faced a steady stream of drugs and periodic violence. The sleepovers ended. As the secondary school season approached, we drifted further apart. I was talented and passionate enough to solve math equations in less than one minute; they were not. Teachers took a liking to me and encouraged my intellectual development; they were treated like kids on their way to dropping out of school.
As we got older, people started speaking of what distinguished us from one another. I was the only student from the village on the way to university, while they were troubled youths. But I still saw our differences as slight; they just blossomed into life-changing outcomes. My cousins got tired of being broke and decided to sell a little substance, and things progressed from there. That was not a decision that was unimaginable for me.
Nonetheless, bonds built during childhood are not so easily broken. Holidays like Gawai and Christmas continued to be mini family reunions, times to gather on neutral territory. Over the years, with some of the life-altering choices behind us and others still in front of us, we feasted and argued because we knew one another well enough to talk about things that mattered.
My last argument with Christopher took place in Kampung Sinjok during New Year get-togethers recently. As was our custom, we fixed our plates and sat down to watch a football match on TV. During a lull in the action, he said something along the lines of, “Mr. Goldman Sachs is here. I heard you are going overseas again next week?”
His question about my career gave me a chance to ask about his.
As I can best recall, the conversation went like this: I said, “I heard that you are unemployed. Have you considered X, Y, and Z companies?”
He replied nonchalantly, “Nah, man, that ain’t for me.”
I pressed the matter: “Christopher, what is for you, then?”
He raised his voice, not shouting, but he was firm.
“What do you want me to say? There ain’t much for an uneducated man to do but hustle. But I’m smart. I sell to people I know and keep my head down. I’m good.”
I told him that I knew it was hard living like this.
“I’m your man right alongside you,” I said.
“But we can look around our neighbourhood and see what these things are doing to our people. We know how this version of the game ends.”
I reminded him of that line from the Outkast song “Aquemini”: “The catch is you can get caught.”
He was ready with his retort: “Everybody can’t be like you and Teresa (Merrill Lynch analyst from Kampung Bra’ang Bidak). I’m not as smart as you two. Trust me; I ain’t going to flip burgers for minimum wage.”
The conversation ended, and we turned to safer topics. But the monotone discourse that followed was a marker of distance, not comfort. The argument was love made tangible. The civility was acquiescence to a divide that pleased neither of us.
Family life exists precisely at that dangerous intersection of possibly hurting or healing those we love. I have been wounded and wounded in equal measure. But my family keeps coming back together, year in and year out because there is love in our determination to know and help one another. There is a confidence that on the other side of difficult conversations, there will be more cekodok to be passed around.
Then, another cousin pulled me aside. She congratulated me on my work as a sub-editor at New Sarawak Tribune and some of my writing success, but I could see a troubled look on her face. When I asked her what was wrong, she reluctantly challenged me, asking how what I was doing and writing was benefiting our people, our youth who were cast aside by society and ignored.
Her words hurt because there was some truth there. Until that point, I’d been careful not to stir up any controversy that might cost me a chance at the daily. She helped me realise that any writing that didn’t tell the truth was a betrayal of the people I claimed to want to help. In turn, I helped her see that persuasion was an art, not a bludgeoning of opponents at every turn. We met in the middle. Apologies were exchanged and eating resumed. She spoke a truth that could be communicated only by someone close enough to reach my defences.
I would like to suggest, then, that if you are blessed to gather this season with people who care enough to tell you hard things with a tenderness arising from genuine affection, then you have not had a failed holiday but a beautiful one.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
