Who I am no matter where I goI am a Chinese. But even every now and then, I’m shockingly aware of how little I know of my mother tongue, my origins, my fellow countrymen, my similar coloured kin.
Yet I can be jarred to awareness by a simple song that reaches deep within me, that somehow manages to dredge up a reserve well of patrioticness for my kin, my culture, my heritage. And I am reminded how infinite and hopeful a species can be.
I have a permanent Mandarin channel on my car radio, but I so seldom put that on immediately. But today I accidentally pressed that channel, and it’s stayed on, right until I parked my car, and I even lingered, reluctant to get out.
Such a simple thing. A flick of a button. A blind brushing of the hand. And a whole world opens up and reminds you of its existence. Full of endless possibilities. Has any person, from any culture, ever had instances like this, that awakens our complacent sleepy senses to the infinite possibilities, to wonders worth looking forward to despite its tantalizing state of unknown?
I have, though I forget, being a mere homosapien. And each time, I am awed, I am overwhelmed. And I am driven to do something that will arouse this occasional awakening.
For my sojourn in Ozzieland, I shall buy as many CDs as I can, sung by my talented countrymen, that they may serenade me of the hope and tenacity that we are made of, that we carry within our breasts wherever we go, no matter how far. That I never forget who I am.