‘Love is like money. Hard to find easy to lose.’
– Scott Campbell, vice president of Goldman Sachs.
‘The person who goes farthest is generally the one who is willing to do and dare. The sure-thing boat never gets far from the shore.’
– Dale Carnegie (1888-1955), American writer.
I didn’t grow up in a romantic household. My parents were more business partners than lovers, consumed with the day-to-day operation of our stall at Mile 10 Wet Market (Kota Padawan).
They never touched affectionately, never said, “I love you.” Father didn’t call mother “honey.” Rather, he called her “Sinduk Si” (Medecci’s mommy) using my nickname “Si”. Mother addressed him likewise, a custom born out of my position as the eldest child in the family.
While my friends’ parents went out to fancy anniversary dinners, the only meals my parents shared were instant noodles while standing up in front of a busy cash register.
Any gifts they did find time or energy to buy were practical, like the buy-three-get-one-free men’s underwear mother got at Everybody Offer Centre, a clothing store nearby, or downright bizarre, like the bargain-bin vintage fox fur scarf (with attached head) that father, forever the clueless bumpkin, probably mistook as Gatsbian chic.
And yet, my parents had been romantic, once upon a time.
When I was little, I would catch glimpses of proof. For instance, they used to shower together! And have tickle fights.
These romantic shenanigans stopped as soon as the business began in earnest. My parents embarked on years of herculean commutes and backbreaking labour, all for the goal of putting me and my brothers through school. It’s no exaggeration to say they never took a single vacation day; much less what we’d today call a date night.
On Christmas and my birthday, they would often hand me cash and tell me to go buy something, too exhausted to think of a gift on their own.
As a result, I grew up not understanding what romantic gestures were. I didn’t appreciate the meaning of a nice dinner or a surprise gift. I wasn’t good at all the stuff that didn’t cost money, either, like the catharsis of expressing emotions (which I kept mostly bottled up, probiotically fermenting), or the simple validations of physical touch and compliments (both of which made me bristle).
Unsurprisingly, all of my early romantic relationships fizzled. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in romance. It’s just that I was bad at it.
Then I crossed paths with my future wife, Jillian in a Science and Mathematics programme organised by the United States (US) embassy. We quickly became friends, then lovers.
I was scrimping on savings, having just quit a job while she worked as a clinic assistant at 1st Silicon, Samajaya to easily double my previous salary.
In those days, I thought it was ridiculous to spend extra money to eat at nice restaurants: Food was food. I didn’t understand why romantic getaways cost so much, or why we would want to “getaway” anyway: A room was a room.
But she was relentless. Leading by example, she put me through another nerd camp. Not only did she have the time and will, but she had the hard financial resources: money to pay for our nights out, movies, and shopping. As her starving boyfriend, I would feel guilty as she single-handedly invested in our relationship. She never cared though.
On one occasion, she bought me an RM35 frog from Wisma Hopoh. It was a tiny silver-plated figurine the size of a gummy bear. It wore a tiny gold crown and came in a fancy little matchbox bearing the words, YOU ARE MY PRINCE. I had a well-paying job as an office boy at this point, but part of me still reflexively boggled at the idea of paying so much for something so small and essentially useless. But I’ve kept it to this day precisely because it has no other purpose than to serve as a marker, a portable folly. It reminds me that for Jillian, love was well worth RM35.
With her prompting, I learned to say “I love you” every day. My bristling was replaced by outright public displays of affection (PDA). I found myself freely expressing my emotions and doing things I never thought I’d do. Together, we enjoyed dinners, travelled, and agonised over birthday presents. Follies multiplied on our shelves. I indeed had less money in the bank as a result, but I knew I never had more love. I also knew I wanted to marry her. She knew that, too.
Now, not all was rosy. My parents didn’t approve of us. They didn’t attend our wedding and closed me off for years, perhaps angry that their years of sacrifice only led to me marrying her. Not what they’d bargained for.
Our love made so little sense to them that they could only explain it as a financial conspiracy. My parents were afraid that Jillian was only interested in our relationship to siphon my money away. It didn’t help when Jillian and I both pursued further studies in the US to become what we wanted to be.
Years flew by until one day, everything turned around. Maybe it was because my parents were facing their impending mortality. Suddenly they began accepting us.
Our career success seemed to have played a role in it, or so we joked. Jillian often teased how a girl raised in a Mayang tea plantation, ended up specialising in human livers instead of leaves.
Things also improved when I was promoted to the elite analyst team directly reporting to the CEO of Goldman Sachs, a position I earned through consistently impressive performance. All this felt as if by proving we could pay the bills, we proved our love.
My parents, eventually, found romance again, late in life, and I sometimes wonder if our relationship might have given them a little inspiration.
After years of working, my parents finally retired. They began spending the money I had locked away. They bought new clothes, gambled in Genting Highland, went on a cruise with an incredible pasta bar, and had a fancy dinner, alone, for the first time in decades and they didn’t worry about the cost.
Mother bought my father a newsboy hat to travel around recently. She convinced him to wear it and told everyone it made him look cute, much to his embarrassment. In her way, she was putting him through a romantic boot camp.
Jillian stepped things up as well, loudly barraging both my parents with gifts and moral support, which they learned to lob right back. At times, my mother insists on giving me cash to buy her groceries. No matter how much I argue that I can manage the expenses, she brushes it off, insisting I’m still her baby and should just hush up.
Again, it’s all so new, especially in this stage of life. I like that.
Meanwhile, the frog prince still watches me from the bookshelf as sweet little reminders. Romance, I’ve come to learn, is not simply a thing to spend money on. It is the thing to spend money on because it’s what matters most above all. The rest, in the end, is just an expense.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
