The Age of Innocence

In the same vein that some good things come in small packages, sometimes we also come across instances which remind us that not everything that needs to be learned in life is taught in school. A lot of the things that we know are a synthesis of knowledge both from books and from daily experiences that start from the day that we learned how to prod mommy to buy us a toy.

I am quite unsure whether it’s the weird resemblance of purple Barney and McDonald’s Grimace that I find more revolting. Perhaps it’s the songs that the former sings to most nearly hypnotized kids such as the 6-year-old Angelita who already seems to represent an exaggerated free-spirit. She speaks like an outspoken fifteen-year-old minus the rebellious snide remarks. There are no traces of gibberish in her enunciation of words as she asks questions like a paparazzo without malice. Sometimes it is amusing just to listen to how she and her grandmother converse. She just seems wiser beyond her years. If you would close your eyes and imagine Angelita’s voice to be a few pitches lower, you wouldn’t think she is how old she is.  

Dora the Explorer is her idea of a style icon. From the fringe that frames her face to the pink-colored outfit down to the cute mini rucksack, everything is Dorafied. She never fails to sit in front of the TV screen to watch her idol while playing with her dolls and her miniature cooking set. It’s cool that kids nowadays are given more options on which cartoons to watch and which characters to impersonate. When I was her age Barbie reigned supreme and no one else dared to steal her spotlight. The Cabbage Patch Kids and the troops of Polly Pocket are simply runners-up to the throne. But even then I always tend to like those not so much in the mainstream such as the fat and orange cat named Garfield who I love to repeatedly draw. But times have indeed changed. Now there’s Spongebob, the Disney Princesses, Backyardigans, the kids of Twilight, and oh another Garfield in Spiderman. (Okay maybe not all of that are suitable for 6-year-olds.)  

But what I find adorable with Angelita beneath all the Dora ensemble is her insatiable curiosity. It’s a genuine naiveté that even some grown-ups try to emulate. Her emotions are always honest and unedited. She may be irritatingly naughty bordering on bratty at times, but I guess that comes with the whole package. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all adults retain the same pure simplicity of emotions, without having to weigh one’s thoughts or resort to mind games.

As I muster enough wits to ask her why she likes to cook clothespins as her main dish, I realized that it’s time to go to the wet market. RC flew in all the way from Kuala Lumpur to visit his girlfriend Marie. Nanay and I figured that one of the best ways to show him how life is like in reality is through a shopping trip at the nearby wet market. With Marie at work in the city and myself not yet officially starting, I willingly obliged to be the tour guide for the day. Actually, this is also my first time to visit the local wet market. Since Marie and I arrived in Singapore, it’s been a no-brainer that we always head out to any air-conditioned grocery shop nearby which is usually Fairprice.

Back when my height was just an inch taller than the standard sink, my mom would take me with her to our neighborhood wet market. One of the local sellers would shout out “suki!” (loyal patron) at the sight of her slender frame. I can barely see how the old lady’s fingers maneuver the slimy Milkfish as she takes out its innards. Every item on her sink was drenched in water and no one can deny the distinct smell of raw seafood. She would then put everything inside a plastic bag, swiftly twisting and knotting it in a carefully choreographed dexterity that is coupled with a quick glance towards my curious eyes. I just didn’t like that she never used gloves, handling money and fish alternately. As soon as we reached home, I remember imitating the whole scenario on my mom’s bed, with socks and pillowcases as my goods. I don’t remember using clothespins though.

Crates upon crates of unwashed potatoes, turnips, ginger and a myriad of other root crops welcomed RC and myself upon reaching the nearby wet market. Their rough texture is so inviting that I couldn’t help but caress them as we pass by. Dried mud slowly crack and fall off along with some splinters of twigs. Pek Chye, Kang Kong, Spinach and other leafy vegetables cover another aisle like a verdant foliage. While the bright red bell peppers, plump tomatoes and crooked horseradishes add luminosity to one corner of this roofed open-air arena that is insufficiently lit by the ten o’clock sun. We slowly walked towards the meat section, cautiously avoiding the wet floor where I am quite certain that I saw a struggling shrimp or two. A stall sign on one side reads “Halal” where chicken and veal are sold. In this multi-cultural city-state, this term is a crucial information for customers especially to those of the Muslim faith.

By the time that we finished, our hands were already swollen from the weight of our baskets. But whatever minor discomfort that we experienced was immediately refreshed by the impressive talent of this youngster at the payment counter. As soon as we put down our baskets in front of him, he started to shout out the price of every individual item as if he had memorized the price of everything in the market. There were no price stickers to look at nor any list to guide him with. No tabulating machines either. The rapid pace of dumping a week’s worth of goods into plastic bags culminated with his calculator-like revelation of the total price, which was only given a nod of approval by one of the market custodians. People within the area simply broke out into manic laughter. But the weird part is that I think they laughed at us for being so astonished at what was apparently just a regular occurrence in this side of town. I really wish I have captured that moment and posted it on YouTube.

For a moment I was tempted to mumble the thought that was running through my head, which goes along the lines of “Who are you people?!” But gladly I didn’t. Long after Bill Cosby had proclaimed that kids say (or do) the darndest things, I realized that it feels good to be entertained by kids for a change. Sometimes their sheer candor in itself can be a source of joy even for the most jaded of souls. Their lives are bereft of any complications, their wants more trivial than vital. And when things don’t turn out as planned, Angelita can always rely on her cuddly Elmo stuffed toy, press its belly and hear its contagious giggle. And that tickles.  

Not an Ordinary Day

It is almost 6:00pm and I am once again entrusting my punctuality to my now heavily earmarked map guide pocketbook. The sun only begins to set by 7:00pm in Singapore and somehow this afternoon’s rays make me more giddy than usual. The thought of the sun stealthily escaping the skies by the back door as the moon sneaks in makes me wonder if this day will end just like any other. By now my heart is doing skip-rope inside my flat chest. After all, I have an interview to catch.

For a moment it feels as though I am rushing for a go-see, portfolio in hand, frantically searching for the correct building along Stamford Road. The glass windows of every shop that I pass by give me a blurry reflection of my deteriorating poise and quickening pace. I always felt that I am fresher and livelier in the mornings which is why this unusual call-time only makes me extra conscious.

Finally I reached the building, entering its main threshold facing the road junction. The dark and unruffled interiors are a stark contrast to the intensely bright and animated city life outside. It is almost bare. The high ceiling that are lit up by the seemingly antediluvian brass lamps breathes a distinct air of enigma that I only get whenever I step inside a colonial house-turned-museum. The wooden cornices and doorways are like the dark chocolate complement to the cream concrete walls. As I try to remember which floor I am supposed to be in, I almost imagined a cigarette-toting Marlene Dietrich walking across the hall in an all-black ensemble, plumes and all, mingling with her entourage of dapper guys dressed like mafia and girls dressed to the nines.

But I got distracted by the escalator in the middle which reminds me that I am in the 21^st Century, and that it’s time to hop on to it. The second floor gradually reveals itself as I slowly rise from below, extending my neck left and right like a mother hen in search of her chicks. The overall yellow lighting adds drama to the dim corners that partially cloaks some narrow passageways leading to who knows where. The building’s dark and solid balusters emphasize the old world charm while the echo that every step on its polished wooden flooring creates calls attention to its classical grandeur. I keep reminding myself that I am not here to check out an art gallery or a specialty store that runs the gamut from elaborate picture frames to fancy doilies, although they are both present here. But I am here to undergo an interview and I am looking for the atelier.

“Where oh where is that atelier…” I asked myself in a hush-li’l-baby modulation, trying to shake off any bottled up nervousness.

Even before I finished convincing myself that I correctly pronounced the word atelier, there it stood, gleaming like a vintage Van Cleef & Arpels bling. This is it. Inhale… exhale. Every moment felt surreal from then on. There’s no other way to enter but thru the floor-to-ceiling glass double door that is framed in heavy wood. As I slowly pushed it open, holding its tarnished brass handle with clammy hands, excitement soon overcame the nerves. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you receive a present where you can’t wait to open it and see what’s inside. The only difference is that this one has its price tag written all over it.

A young and slim lady approached me as she was trying to hang back an obviously glamorous dress onto one of the racks. “Hi, how can I help you?” she plainly asked. I told her that I came for an interview with The Boss. She then asked me to settle in for the meantime while I wait. But the gorgeous ivory gowns are so captivating that my eyes kept wandering from one gown to the next. They line the walls as if they are radiant marching brides in single file. Before I sat down, I gently caressed the wedding gown on one of the mannequins. The delicate fabric looked so pristine, and the beadwork so intricate that I couldn’t help but ask myself: How much could this be? When will I ever get to wear such? As soon as I sat down, a smartly dressed guy, tall, tan and slim, sat down and introduced himself. He is The Designer. But even before we finished the customary personal background shtick, he introduced me to his assistant Jill, the lady who first approached me. Looking like what seems to be an ordinarily busy day, Jill briefly asks The Designer’s approval on the correct shade of fabric to order as she shows him the swatches. I can sense a split-second crucial-decision-making-moment for them as they both look at the limited selection of greens. And while this is happening, I myself am also having my own split-second moment that flashes back the “cerulean” predicament that the iconic Miranda Priestley had which proved to be an embarrassment for poor “Emily”. Fortunately, theirs was blue and ours is green. And luckily I know the difference between emerald and chartreuse. Ha! Plus, I also know when not to chuckle. Not that it matters now.

Jill went off and The Boss arrived in a rhythm that the sun and the moon will eventually mimic. The proper interview commenced with the completion of the triumvirate: The Boss, The Designer, and myself. “How do you find Singapore?” they asked. To which I quipped “Clean!” without batting an eyelash. The questions that followed range from the hackneyed “Describe your previous job” to the more technical “How much is the estimate cost for a similar embroidery?” referring to the blouse that I was wearing. It was a rather fast-paced and straightforward interview that didn’t give me time to think of how to embellish my words or edit my thoughts. The verdict has not yet sunk in even after they dropped hints to my favour. They have a forthcoming fashion show and added help is crucial. Knowing that my papers will take time to process therefore I could not yet officially start work, I volunteered to work as an intern at least for the next two weeks leading to their big event. Talk about hard selling.

Perhaps it is a potent combination of desperation, passion and optimism that always come into play whenever I find myself on the verge of taking some calculated risks. Besides, there’s nothing further to lose once you have already lost a lot, be it time, money or opportunity. 

I think I threw a smile to the guard at the ground floor as I make my way out of the building. Somehow everything looks brighter than they actually are. And although the moon has already chased away the sun as it always does, tonight’s velvet skies tell me that the day is not going to end just like any other. Past the traffic lights, I crossed the street knowing that everything will be green-and-go from here. And that also makes me feel giddier than usual.