But I like my freckles!

“But I like my freckles!!!!!!”

I was in an argument with an old Singaporean man in a bus stop by Arab Street, Singapore. I could hardly understand what he’s saying with his thick accent, but he was pointing vehemently at my freckles, repeating the words ‘cream’ and ‘Chinatown’.

“You won’t get married with those—” he started again, pointing at my face. “I will not marry you if I’m still a young man—”

“Well I won’t marry you either,” I said, ending in a chuckle to indicate that all was said in good-humored nature.

I have a soft spot for seniors, being close to my own grandfather. I seem to instantaneously gain patience when with them; like the time has stopped conveniently for me and them. I normally get on conversations with them in buses and bus stops. They would look at me in a way that makes me feel like I’m their long-lost prodigal granddaughter and now I feel obliged to sit with them; or else they’ll chase me with a cane.

So I sat with him in the bus stop.

I couldn’t understand half of what he said–apparently he thinks I’m also Chinese. So when he laughs, I laugh. When he smiles, I smile. When he says something in a somber look, I nod obediently and say ‘yes, yes’. When he points at my face, I try to contain my laugh.

Yes, I promise to get rid of the freckles, old man. Old, Asian people always seem to have a problem with my freckles and tan skin. In Taipei, I remember being chased by the grandmother in the Airbnb because I forgot to bring an umbrella.

“It’s not raining,” I said, giving it back to her. It was 33 degrees with clear blue skies. She insisted, and I begrudgingly put it in my bag.

I later on realized that the umbrella wasn’t for rain, but for sun. Most of the Taiwanese put up their black umbrellas on the streets to cover themselves from the sunlight.

“I have four sons. No daughter. No daughter!” the old man in the bus stop shared, in a decibel that suggests that his hearing is also declining.

Good for you, I thought, realizing his lack of tact was because he didn’t have to deal with a teenaged daughter–of course. At 27, I’m already at a point in my life where I’m content with what I look like–freckles, battle scars and all. But the fourteen-year-old version of me felt punished for looking different: I felt that I was too tall, that my nose was too long, that my legs were too lanky, that my face was freckly. Freak. It feels absolutely horrible to be a 14-year-old teenaged girl.

Then there came a point where you realize that there are trade-offs: either live your life as a porcelain doll or have us much fun as you want under the sun.

For me it wasn’t a very difficult decision to make.

Now, every physical flaw tells a story: a battle scar proudly earned; an identity that makes you, you.

12694485_642524659223014_7730182542128858640_o.jpg

“Where are your sons now?” I said in the same decibel as the old man’s. He raises his shoulders to indicate ‘I don’t know’.

I remember why I sat with him in the first place: it’s that same look of wanting just warmth and company. No expectations of returns, or value-add, or what we’re bringing to the table. Seniors have that easy energy and sense of contentment; having already lived their life–already past the young age of ambition; already past trying to impress people you don’t like in the first place.

The old man is content with sharing the present with another human. Even if we didn’t understand each other half the time. Even if he didn’t like the sight of my freckles.

It reminded me of the old and charming people I encounter on my travels on the road.

It reminded me of the old man I met in McSorley’s, Brooklyn .When I approached him, he cheekily said ‘Lady, where have you been all my life?’ He later told me that he’s a mean creature of habit: he’s been buying beers in the pub everyday for 40 years every four in the afternoon.

It reminded me of the Taiwanese couple who owned a small cafeteria near my Airbnb who were excited to meet someone they can practice their English with. On my end, one of the first Chinese phrases I learned were ‘I’m already full’, out of necessity; else the couple would not stop refilling my plates.

And it reminded me of my grandpa with his Japanese occupation stories that I already memorized on the dot, but the stories still made me smile with wonder every single time.

Advertisements

The universal language of dance

Coming from Brooklyn and two subway exchanges later, I arrived at South Bronx. It was my first time.

I identified from the sea of faces the young man I was supposed to meet: an African-American man with dreadlocks. I approached him and introduced myself. He said his name was Bless.

We walked together for ten more minutes with some small talk, before we finally stopped in a spot below the bridge by a colorful graffiti mural. I looked around, and observed some skateboarders practicing their tricks looking at us. They left after they satisfied their curiosity, only to be replaced by bikers driving around with loud Harleys and leather jackets.

I shrugged, but I was also sweating, my eyes darted left to right, trying my best (and failing) to act like I was from the ‘hood.

Bless opened his bag, to take out some biscuits, water and bluetooth speakers.

“So… this is my first time dancing hip-hop.” I admitted.

“That’s alright,” Bless shrugged as he offered me some of the biscuits. “Do you do other dances?”

Five years ago, I would’ve responded with ‘I don’t know how to dance’ / ‘I have two left feet’, / ‘I ain’t got no rhythm.’

Funny how things change. “Yes. Pole. And latin dances. Salsa, bachata, samba. Some belly dancing.”

“Perfect. Because we will do a lot of isolations.” Bless said.

I didn’t really take up any form of dancing until late 2013; just 5 years ago, when I started to do solo travel. Hmm, It’s funny how I learned a lot of survival skills since I started to do solo travel–swimming, surfing, skating, and even improv (e.g. art of B.S.).

Apart from drinking, the two other important social lubricants in are smoking and dancing.

I don’t smoke, but I do like moving bodies.

The value of dancing is more apparent once you are in a foreign land that speaks a different language. When you are lost in translation, you just let the eyes–and the bodies–do the talking.

¿Te gusta bailar?

universal language of dance.JPG

Dance is a language on its own–speaking with movement, and at the same time listening to the other person. It’s all about identifying the signals: the slight push of a hand to signal you to step back; a gentle nudge at the shoulder to signal you to turn; a slight motion to the direction you are heading towards…

In that sense, dancing makes you more intuitive in understanding people and their body language. What a one-second gaze vs. a three-second gaze means; when a nudge is friendly or when it is something more; and microsecond gestures that may help distinguish actual disinterest from just playing hard to get…

It’s learning to become more sensitive to changes: because a slight change in vocal tone, in frequency or in energy–these micro-changes always signal a change of direction; or attraction; or behavior.

its showtime nyc

Bless is really talented, and is actually part of It’s Showtime NYC! a New York movement that promotes street culture and provide professional development opportunities for the street & subway dancers and youth in the city. They teach and perform hip-hop for a social cause-– 100% of the proceeds goes to Dancing in the Streets INC.

Bless proceeded to teach me the basics of hip-hop–waving, locking and popping. It was challenging for someone so new to hip-hop, but we had an awesome afternoon filled with goofing off and some laughters.

27023482_1024208507721292_5088012985175491349_o

When we ended, it was already late afternoon and starting to get dark.

“It’s not very safe around here,” Bless said, hence he insisted to walk me back to the station. He shared that he has known too many friends who already ‘got shot and stuff’. He then told me that dance probably saved his life away from the gangs and the streets.

I asked Bless what he does apart from dancing. “That’s all I ever do. Even when I’m not dancing, I’m thinking about it.” Bless responded. He listens to the music all the time, he practices his move when commuting to and fro, his whole life revolves around his craft. “In fact, I think I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life.”

And although my new friend didn’t have much in common at first, we ultimately got more close, bonded by the same zest for dance and music.