Singing In The Shower

Sometimes it's as simple as sharing a cake in the car, this pursuit of happiness. Other times it's singing in the cold shower after a sweaty, manic Monday or finding yourself lost in tangles of dreams as you pore over pages of a good book. Some prefer the intangible feeling of remembering the tune to a song they were struggling to recall. I wish it was all that AND finding the missing piece to the puzzle that is me.

NJ Like New Jersey

N
Nurjannah Iman Hani Komar
Buang sayok
Jannah
Mak Nenek
Anak Cik Mat
Nurjannah
Syaq
Qek
Yoda
Njill
Memerang
Njot
Njos
Nurjanni
Amani
Pendek
N*jis
Murai

Despite this list of appellations designated to me, I don't grasp why people say Angie instead of NJ. The nama timangan Mak Nenek circa 1990s doesn't irk me as much. Go figure. Ha ha.

Sediakan Payung Sebelum Hujan

What do you do when you finally get to meet someone you've always wanted to meet?

This person is the present day Batman, who so mysteriously appears and disappears from your life, and of those times, mostly during the night. You may want to personify him like the Chipsmore, "sekejap ada, sekejap takde". But when the other is there, you share stories--some intimate, some serious, others silly, and most, random.

And so, you've counted months and weeks to match this persona you think you know, and the voice and laugh you definitely recognize to a person you've never physically met. Again, what do you do when this reverie decides to come true?

Do you conjure up a list of 1001 topics to talk about? Do you talk like you know each other or do you just act cordial and slightly formal? Do you lean on old jokes you've cracked, or do you rely on new ones you've just learned? Do you ask the person if "he saves the best for the last, or eat everything all at once" like you've always wanted to ask?

I chose to fire him a raging spitball instead. Which, by the way, landed peacefully on his left forearm.

"So, how is MY summer so far"?

I raise the white flag. Nobody can be as geeky, and un-cool as me, raging spitball and all. And all summer long I'll keep that in mind.

The Hard Business of Hard of Hearing

There is a private joke shared among us in the DH50490 household: we are hard of hearing people because we talk loudly. It runs in the family, this tendency to speak a few decibels louder than the laypersons.

I don't mean to denounce the Ismail family name and set you off running in the opposite direction when you see our clan, but it is not news that we are one loud bunch. Perhaps it was the volume of the TV I grew up with. Maybe I can blame it on the constant babel I had to battle with to be heard.

My days in INTEC as a frequent KTM commuter taught me how to tone down as friends reported back on overhearing inappropriate or mushy conversations I've had on the trains. I am now like a chameleon, ready to adapt to the decibels of my surrounding as is required of me. My voice comes in gradations: Softer among new acquaintances, soft among friends, loud with close/old friends, and comfortably loud with my next-of-kins.

All the same, here I am, a 20 year old female who is still hard of hearing. Maybe it IS because I talk loudly. It makes sense, complete sense when you think of the ear/headphone scenario. People speak louder when they can't hear well. People speak louder when they can't hear themselves. The private joke just may just be a fully acceptable hypothesis.

But could it be. . .

Could it be the possibility that I have accumulated years worth of earwax? Could it be that my earwax has been pushed back, way back, only to be compressed into an odd shape and a rubber-like consistency? Could it be that I am molding; my earwax blackening and thickening, becoming awfully sickening to the eyes that see?

Well, I did spend an ungodly RM190 for a two-hour visit (plus waiting time) to the ENT specialist this afternoon and came home with a few "rubber erasers", a throbbing ear from all the probing and picking, free from hard-of-hearing, and a broad smile. So what did you think it was?

On a side note, this is a bona fide advice from the ENT to both me and you: never ever ever ever ever x33 try to clean your ears with a cotton bud. The evil invention pushes earwax further into the ear canal. You don't want to be a victim of an ENT's probing, trust me. It hurts more than a swine flu screening test up your nose (which I will not elaborate further). Throw away those cotton buds, this is your license to run free and be wild.

Be a slob. Just be a slob. It's the best gift you can give to your ears.

5454 S. Shore Drive, Shoreland 606

A once 5-star luxurious hotel accommodating notable figures like Ernest Hemingway and Al Capone and beautifully located on the feet of Lake Michigan - this is what The Shoreland is. Chancing my eyes upon this 12-floor grandeur of 20's style architecture some time in September two years ago, I never expected it was going to be the place far away from home that I call home.

The Shoreland is a stellar example of beautiful on the outside and not-quite-beautiful on the inside. For a second, its exterior may fool you into expecting lavish, velvety tapestries, shiny glimmery chandeliers and plush red carpet. Once you step inside the lobby, you are left cold with the shattering reality of its dirty windows, peeling paint, loosen pipes and cracked floors.

There are "vintage" mismatched sofas flanking your left, shopping carts on your right, a TV corner and a harpsichord with missing keys on the far right, and a shabby reception desk before you electronically swipe your ID and consider yourself home. (What enigma holds behind the shopping carts? Left-over carts from the nearby Walgreen's and Treasure Island, possibly pushed over all the way to the Shoreland by lazy persons like me who think it's okay to leave a cart to be reused again and again, for the greater good).

Enter elevators - the kind that creaks and heaves, forcing you to pray hard that it would not crash down or get stuck like that movie called Speed that scared jack out of you when you were six. It is also the moody kind that selects the floors it wants to take you to; mysteriously leaving out the 3rd, 7th and 11th floor on many occasions.

The real thrill of exploring this rundown hotel of a dorm is felt as you navigate your way through childishly mural-painted walls. Each floor - all seven floors of houses - have adopted the mural way of life (pun intended), establishing house themes and colors to orient disoriented first timers into feeling at "dorm".

The sixth floor, my floor, happened to choose the worst theme of time travel, and possibly boasted the worst-skilled student painters. Images of distorted dinosaurs and the same moustached man in an astronaut suit, mexican poncho, roman robes one wall to the next will creep first timers like it did me.

Yet again, with every trivial detail, creepy mural and all, The Shoreland just grows on you. From the boiler that clangs all through winter and rudely intrudes your (okay, my) wildest dreams, its frequent annoying fire drills that magically always sets off at 3am, its falling-apart dressers and headless showers, to the dilapidated ballroom, The Shoreland earns your fondness. It becomes your home.

Next year, when greedy developers raze this beauty to the ground, or remarket it as a prime condominium completely removed from its identity, I will look upon the lake and smile to myself. I have indeed gained a place far from home that I call home. If not through pictures and legacy, The Shoreland will continue to live in our hearts.

5' Thoughts About 6' Under

There is something about deaths that just silence me. News of so many of them just seem to creep up on you all at once that it begs you to think you must have crossed that minefield of time. Unrelated deaths of three, four or five people just seem to breeze by you one day at a time, overwhelming you with the reality of it all. 

The reality is that people die, every single day, every single minute. With every sneeze that you take, you escape death, but death preys on some other person, at another place in the world. 

This academic quarter I received heavy news of the passing of both my late grandfather's brothers, Aki Chu and Aki Dea; my grandmother's sister-in-law, Wan Dea; an Uncle Julian (an aunt's uncle who died of cancer), and the tragic death of a first year Malaysian from Pennsylvania State University.

The last and most recent (May 25, to be exact), gripped me senseless particularly because he passed away from a drowning incident while camping at a National Park in Tennessee. All my life, I have been indignant about having to produce permission letters from parents before a field trip, and scoffed at unfortunate events chaperons pull out of thin air to scare us schoolkids at campgrounds. Evidently, shit happens and I un-rest my case.

And old age? Old age strikes. It strikes us in the face, hard. Last summer I had "that" conversation with my aunt, Tam, who out of the blue adviced that I be strong and understand that my loved ones are aged and time will take its toll. She ranted on and on about having to let go, especially since I am studying thousands of miles across the seas from home.

Considering the weakling that I am and  the close call we had last year, naturally I burst into tears. Secretly, and away from her eyes of course (I looked out the window throughout the uncomfortable 15 minute car drive). I was disgruntled and upset that she chose to give me such a peptalk at an occassion I am most happy--driving to a bazar ramadhan. To me, these things should be unspoken of. I will pretend to be strong when the time comes, because I know I will have to.

Perhaps it is unkind for me to confess that the deaths I mentioned did not particularly break my heart. Instead, the corporeality that it could be my grandmother(s) devastates me. And this is why the home bells are ringing. I do not regret for a second that I booked the next flight home once I received the ultimate rejection. 

In a month's time, I will be home. I will be home for Nenek, whom has been ill for so long now. And Wan, I will be home to take you to the grocery store, to drive you around (with the exception of the city centre and Bangsar due to obvious reasons for a girly manual car driver like me), to demand good food and fatten myself up, to tumbuk-tumbuk your legs, and to literally sleep under your ketiak at night. 

I will be home. Unless home means the eternal hereafter, I will be home, I promise.

Ops Pancit Sifar dan Perut Kempis

Memorial Day Weekend is looming near, and the Malaysian diaspora in the United States have but one common thing in mind: Midwest Games 2009. To Urbana Champaign, Illinois, from May 22nd to 24th, we come.

We come from as near as Chicago and as far as Toronto, to convene, play sports, chit chat and participate in the all-time favorite: boy/girl watching. For newly single, not-quite-single and taken people alike, Midwest Games provides the platform for one to sharpen their observational and networking skills.

Of course, for the more hardcore sports enthusiast, sporting events are focal. They are never mere friendly matches or fun tournaments. Rather, MWG is a once-a-year opportunity to put forth one's awesomeness and dexterity in the court. It is time to mesmerize idolizing fans with your toned biceps and graceful moves while brushing that wet hair out of your eyes as you get ready to kick/throw/spike/catch the ball, whatever the game.

For the females, it is time to establish the truth: that you are not as cewi as people deem you to be. This is your chance to scream insults at your opponents, sweat, toil, stink but still emerge as heroines as you bring your university to the winning ranks. Of course, during the Malaysian Night you then redeem your status as a demure goddess as you strut into the halls, dressed to the nines in the baju kebaya you forced your sister to mail from home.

As for me, MWG heightens my despair over my prolonged sedentary condition. It is the time of the year when my brain and heart colludes with agreement that "Shit, I shouldn't have NOT exercised for a whole year". It is times like these I panic and formulate crash jogging and soccer training, and don't follow it. This month of May, may I say, is when I wished I kicked and played more with balls.

Playing with a team made up of young aunties and a handful of imported players from all over the country, it is an understatement to say that we don't get enough practice. It's just really kick and play for us, as we touchdown at the field from our separate lives, meeting for the very first time in no time.

Last year ChiTown Warriors (I cringe at this chosen title) went against all odds and emerged as champions, thanks to Kak Maria, mother to three year old Adam, who defines fantastico soccer mom. This superwoman is staying off the field this year as she has a junior coming, and we wish her all the best! But now, nak harapkan Nurjannah, silap lah.

A moral dilemma is at hand.

How do I go from this

to this?

I think it's time to launch Ops Pancit Sifar dan Perut Kempis. Nothing more, nothing less.

Hakuna Matata

Hakuna matata. There is no problem. Especially if you really want something and you work for it. Sometimes in life, you just gotta do, pursue, harass, try, as hard as you can. God willing, all will come your way!

For example, you may just get a postcard if you harass hard enough for it, kan kan? (If you're reading this, you know who you are=p)

But now my latest obsession comes in the form of a Zimbabwean. Hah! Who would've guess? And if you didn't know, Cape Town is right next to Zimbabwe. So if you know what I'm talking about, you do the math. *Mischievous grin*

Jambo bwana. Nope, it's Swahili, not Shona. But I should pick up Shona, don't ya'll think so? (",)

Walimatul Urus

Encik/Cik/Tuan/Puan/Dato'/Datin/Tan Sri/Mak Sri/Tun/Tin,

This is weird. This coming Friday, I will have been married to a rich, pompous man with a frightening belly for many years now. Complementing him, I will be a pretentious, stuck up, middle-aged woman (perhaps approaching premature menopause) who is devastatingly silly in her speech and quirks. Laugh at me silly as I blow some poor man's ass off with a tiny (but loud) cap gun!

I Will Marry When I Want, by Ngugi Wa Thiong'o and Ngugi Wa Mirii. You are cordially invited.


(This isn't the official flyer)

A sneak peek of my favorite song in the play:

Tolong Saya, Bantu Saya

What do you call the closure of two 24-hour campus libraries when you need them most? Grave injustice! University libraries--as I'm sure is written in their unwritten by-laws--should strive to serve their inhabitants to their fullest capacities, especially when they have committed to a status of being 24-hour premises suitable for academic discourse and intellectual goals.

If fullest capacity means offering limitless space and time for the destruction of campus beings' social lives as they forego Friday night amusements (like pre-marital sexual pursuits, spectacular rounds of beer pong and getting high on them 'erbs) in exchange for solitude in an air-conditioned environment and contact time with thousands of last minute-readings, so be it. 

I, as one of the students raped from my rights to the use of these institutions tonight, am livid. President Zimmer, you may think it a wise and dignified move to actually force the student body to explore this other, obscure realm called "fun" and "time off", but all I ask of you is, why? Why tonight; when I am panic-stricken, fluid and sleep-deprived and worried sick of the 10 page paper I am fundamentally clueless about? 

This deprivation from access to resource and basic exercise of my human ways (in the university context, at least) must surely be a violation of human rights. I believe with entirety that my predicament tonight falls directly on the violation of one of the many rights listed on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. 

It should be. It has to be. It must be. My capability to function (as a typical student who turns in long term papers within two days of work) is irreversibly shattered tonight. Testimony to that is the time I have already wasted in writing this piece of nonsense, when I should in fact be working on the bloody paper. Be convinced, my accusations hold water! If it isn't, it must be implicit. Read between the lines. 

I call upon Amnesty International and other goodwill groups out there to please give light and voice to my plight. Allow me refuge under your umbrella. Give me my right to work the night away, while swallowing the bitter truth I am living the life accorded by the infamous UChicago creed "where fun comes to die". 

Return me my right to outstandingly fit into the image of a nerdy girl in this brainy institution "where the squirrels are cuter than the girls". Let me be that android, who goes with minimal sleep for a mere three days in her life to get all her shit (although belatedly) done.

Sigh, that's what I signed up for, didn't I?