City of Parental Guidance; its burdens and its loveliness.
Looking at my hometown from a distance.
As a temporarily indefinite settler.
I must have forgotten when I started noticing the ubiquity of live human flesh recorders, mainly present on the vehicle designed for mass transit. I am certain however of my initial reaction, as it has been consistent till this day; annoyance. It was no wonder I avoided this mode of transportation when time was reasonably abundant, but oftentimes there was really no escaping it, for it is the most convenient in many occasions.
The unfortunate part is just that I happened to have to get off at the last stop (at that point) of the mass transit line on a quotidian basis.
"Please leave the carriage ASAP." x3
Really, thanks. As if I'm not already walking. It is sometimes difficult enough to get to work, let alone being hurried from behind while you're about to leave the train.
But you can't be excused from this treatment anywhere within the proximity of this vehicle. As you ascend the escalator you hear an electronic recording going:
"Please hold the handrail and stand still on the right hand side."
"Don't look at your mobile screens when you're on the escalator. Thank you."
Once every 10 seconds. And when there is a technical glitch preventing the recording to be played, yep, they assign a human being for the job.
Then there are those by the platform who take care of you, rush hour or not, with a massive pointing hand sign.
"Please try to move further into the carriage. Thank you for your cooperation." x3 for each train.
And then, when you stand still on the escalator, you are "praised" for your good behavior.
Since when have we coded the population to be automated programmes?
I used to call this the human flesh recorder phenomenon, not the most unfamiliar of phenomena made famous by our colorful political personalities. But come to think of it, suggests a larger phenomenon looming over my beloved hometown.
We affectionately (with a bitter smile) call our northern rulers "Grandpa," more specifically the father of the father. Not quite the affable type that will give you an extra red packet for going abroad, but the archetypal grandpa in Ba Jin's The Family. The one that dictates all decisions within the family, fearing the loss of grip of power, and who only becomes kind on his deathbed.
If the central government is a grandpa, drawing parallels Chinese family member prototypes, those who dominate discourse in our society, including our immediate rulers and campaign managers at the mass transit mode of transport, resemble a standard motherly figure who provides care and warmth, and more importantly, countless reminders and advice. Metaphors purely for figurative purposes.
Living in the hometown is a bit like facing constant parental guidance in the public sphere. It is a constant reminder on how one should behave, how one should act, what one should do for the own good. It's stifling at times. It's like having two families, one inside and one outside the doorstep. While gratefulness to family in the private sphere should be reasonably unconditional (perhaps not to those who, say, suffer from domestic violence), the one in the public sphere is rather unnecessary at times.
There has been many takes on what prompted the umbrella revolution, well documented everywhere. Deep down though, I believe, beyond the political awakening and coming of age of the younger generation, there comes a counter-current against increasingly stifling parental guidance looming in the politics.
The northern rulers set a line for a mode of political reform not to be trespassed. As motherly (for figurative purposes) proxies of the northern rulers, the tactic is to adhere at all costs, with vague promises of free choice hanging somewhere around. It's like two in the family, playing good parent, bad parent.
"Do it or worse is to come." - the unforgiving grandpa.
"Please make it happen.
Please make it happen.
Please make it happen.
Please." x10 - the nagging mama.
The offspring has been silent, for so long.
As an infrequent passer-by.
But it is not as bleak as it sounds. As an infrequent passer-by, perspectives change. Grudges reduce in size along with the distancing of memories. All that is left of the hometown are cheery things, reminisced each time one returns to catch up. No matter the time passing by, there will be those who have been stagnant, still facing the same problems, be it love, career, family. It is at this point the now passer-by further feels the distance. Nostalgia will kick in, and every memory will be cherished.
Just as the other day, as the privilege of a passer-by, one may enter a sauna room at working hours of the permanent stayers, a time when only retired men frequent such places. The retired smiles, happily complaining about how holding his grandkid injures his arms. A joyful pain, if there is such a thing. The hometown at this point becomes a bubbly cheery place, shied away from all woes or looming guidance.
The perks of being an infrequent passer-by of the hometown. If circumstances are permitting, it is a blessing to be an infrequent passer-by, for the hometown always yields complex feelings deep in one's heart. And for all that matters, it is best to keep the best memories of it in distance.
Perhaps.
As a temporarily indefinite settler.
I must have forgotten when I started noticing the ubiquity of live human flesh recorders, mainly present on the vehicle designed for mass transit. I am certain however of my initial reaction, as it has been consistent till this day; annoyance. It was no wonder I avoided this mode of transportation when time was reasonably abundant, but oftentimes there was really no escaping it, for it is the most convenient in many occasions.
The unfortunate part is just that I happened to have to get off at the last stop (at that point) of the mass transit line on a quotidian basis.
"Please leave the carriage ASAP." x3
Really, thanks. As if I'm not already walking. It is sometimes difficult enough to get to work, let alone being hurried from behind while you're about to leave the train.
But you can't be excused from this treatment anywhere within the proximity of this vehicle. As you ascend the escalator you hear an electronic recording going:
"Please hold the handrail and stand still on the right hand side."
"Don't look at your mobile screens when you're on the escalator. Thank you."
Once every 10 seconds. And when there is a technical glitch preventing the recording to be played, yep, they assign a human being for the job.
Then there are those by the platform who take care of you, rush hour or not, with a massive pointing hand sign.
"Please try to move further into the carriage. Thank you for your cooperation." x3 for each train.
And then, when you stand still on the escalator, you are "praised" for your good behavior.
Since when have we coded the population to be automated programmes?
I used to call this the human flesh recorder phenomenon, not the most unfamiliar of phenomena made famous by our colorful political personalities. But come to think of it, suggests a larger phenomenon looming over my beloved hometown.
We affectionately (with a bitter smile) call our northern rulers "Grandpa," more specifically the father of the father. Not quite the affable type that will give you an extra red packet for going abroad, but the archetypal grandpa in Ba Jin's The Family. The one that dictates all decisions within the family, fearing the loss of grip of power, and who only becomes kind on his deathbed.
If the central government is a grandpa, drawing parallels Chinese family member prototypes, those who dominate discourse in our society, including our immediate rulers and campaign managers at the mass transit mode of transport, resemble a standard motherly figure who provides care and warmth, and more importantly, countless reminders and advice. Metaphors purely for figurative purposes.
Living in the hometown is a bit like facing constant parental guidance in the public sphere. It is a constant reminder on how one should behave, how one should act, what one should do for the own good. It's stifling at times. It's like having two families, one inside and one outside the doorstep. While gratefulness to family in the private sphere should be reasonably unconditional (perhaps not to those who, say, suffer from domestic violence), the one in the public sphere is rather unnecessary at times.
There has been many takes on what prompted the umbrella revolution, well documented everywhere. Deep down though, I believe, beyond the political awakening and coming of age of the younger generation, there comes a counter-current against increasingly stifling parental guidance looming in the politics.
The northern rulers set a line for a mode of political reform not to be trespassed. As motherly (for figurative purposes) proxies of the northern rulers, the tactic is to adhere at all costs, with vague promises of free choice hanging somewhere around. It's like two in the family, playing good parent, bad parent.
"Do it or worse is to come." - the unforgiving grandpa.
"Please make it happen.
Please make it happen.
Please make it happen.
Please." x10 - the nagging mama.
The offspring has been silent, for so long.
As an infrequent passer-by.
It is always lighter on the shoulders when looking at the hometown from a distance. The once in-your-face stifling air, when reduced to once vivid memories, all become somewhat distant and blew as a lovely autumn breeze. Hometown, as a peaceful enclave and rich in culture, act as a memory sweetener.
It is, after all, generally easier for the one leaving things behind. But one learns to appreciate the simple daily things, returning home upon several years of wanderlust, or the pretension of it.
For some, who are not necessarily less politically awakened, the looming parental guidance is probably more felt at a personal level, or sometimes at a workplace level, depending on the working environment.
It is a culture of parental guidance, after all, and there is no escaping of it. Parental guidance at the public sphere is always rooted in a more inherent parental care laying at the core of the family.
However independent some try to be, the looming parental guidance penetrates the minds of the youth, mostly up till the point of marriage, but in certain cases beyond that. The expectation is for the offspring to stay around. Surging prices of property have only made it a more practical excuse.
This feeling is not felt alone, confirmed during the years as an indefinite settler. Chances are, talking to those around, they will have more or less the same feeling.
Sure, one may explore, and one may make choices. But there is always that invisible hand, pushing or holding one back. The invisible hand transforms itself into creeping voice in the back of the head. Or a staunchly resilient piece of fish bone in the throat. Or somewhat like a marionette, which on the surface moves independently on its own, but is ultimately maneuvered by more intricate mechanisms from above.
Some others, whatever age they maybe, happily remain in such state. Life is easier, after all, when one has a core to be dependent upon. And it is in this way, that such a life is dangerous and luring at times. Dangerous, for it strips one of mental will of independent survival. One risks of being reduced to a level of just getting by, everything apart from material means.
However independent some try to be, the looming parental guidance penetrates the minds of the youth, mostly up till the point of marriage, but in certain cases beyond that. The expectation is for the offspring to stay around. Surging prices of property have only made it a more practical excuse.
This feeling is not felt alone, confirmed during the years as an indefinite settler. Chances are, talking to those around, they will have more or less the same feeling.
Sure, one may explore, and one may make choices. But there is always that invisible hand, pushing or holding one back. The invisible hand transforms itself into creeping voice in the back of the head. Or a staunchly resilient piece of fish bone in the throat. Or somewhat like a marionette, which on the surface moves independently on its own, but is ultimately maneuvered by more intricate mechanisms from above.
Some others, whatever age they maybe, happily remain in such state. Life is easier, after all, when one has a core to be dependent upon. And it is in this way, that such a life is dangerous and luring at times. Dangerous, for it strips one of mental will of independent survival. One risks of being reduced to a level of just getting by, everything apart from material means.
Just as the other day, as the privilege of a passer-by, one may enter a sauna room at working hours of the permanent stayers, a time when only retired men frequent such places. The retired smiles, happily complaining about how holding his grandkid injures his arms. A joyful pain, if there is such a thing. The hometown at this point becomes a bubbly cheery place, shied away from all woes or looming guidance.
The perks of being an infrequent passer-by of the hometown. If circumstances are permitting, it is a blessing to be an infrequent passer-by, for the hometown always yields complex feelings deep in one's heart. And for all that matters, it is best to keep the best memories of it in distance.
Perhaps.
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