Feel my rage when you eat sardines.
I remember when my grandfather would throttle his way through the stairs of my house whenever he was angry, or whenever it wasn't his day...which was almost every day. He'd complain endlessly about anything: not being able to open a tin of Milo, not being able to spread jam over bread evenly, and even having small bits of rice fall from his mouth while he was eating. All these complaints would be punctuated with frequent cursing in Hakka, and he'd look up to the heavens and shake his finger at God...because there was no one that he was willing to blame in the house.
Despite his eccentricities, I loved my grandfather. He was a loveable dick. I remember bawling my eyes out during his wake, and broke down at the cremation. In a way, I think I loved my grandfather more than my grandmother, probably because I could relate to him more. Not that I was aiming to become him...but he did have a full patch of silver hair on his head up to the time of his death.
I remember punching boxes to release my rage. It didn't hurt a lot, and it felt good. I'd occasionally slam a wardrobe door to prove an overdramatic point, and on one instance I actually broke the inside mirror for one of the wardrobes...which I didn't mean to do. Honestly.
Rage runs like fire through my family's blood. I think being Hakka is akin to being Irish. The only person who doesn't show his rage openly is my father, but yesterday he was peeved at my neighbours over the positioning of their garbage bin and even threatened to throw it into their koi pond. This was said in confidence to me, of course. But the vitrol in his words was so foreign to me, that I had to calm him down on the grounds that I didn't want him to pop a vessel.
I like to pick fights and be antsy, like my mother. I also like being a pacifist and thinking things through rationally, like my father. I also like to throw my toys around and hit things, like my grandfather and uncle. I also like to be a stingy bitch, like my aunt.
I am the perfect amalgamation of my mad family. I used to come from a broken home, but I think I've reached the notion that it doesn't need any fixing at all.
Despite his eccentricities, I loved my grandfather. He was a loveable dick. I remember bawling my eyes out during his wake, and broke down at the cremation. In a way, I think I loved my grandfather more than my grandmother, probably because I could relate to him more. Not that I was aiming to become him...but he did have a full patch of silver hair on his head up to the time of his death.
I remember punching boxes to release my rage. It didn't hurt a lot, and it felt good. I'd occasionally slam a wardrobe door to prove an overdramatic point, and on one instance I actually broke the inside mirror for one of the wardrobes...which I didn't mean to do. Honestly.
Rage runs like fire through my family's blood. I think being Hakka is akin to being Irish. The only person who doesn't show his rage openly is my father, but yesterday he was peeved at my neighbours over the positioning of their garbage bin and even threatened to throw it into their koi pond. This was said in confidence to me, of course. But the vitrol in his words was so foreign to me, that I had to calm him down on the grounds that I didn't want him to pop a vessel.
I like to pick fights and be antsy, like my mother. I also like being a pacifist and thinking things through rationally, like my father. I also like to throw my toys around and hit things, like my grandfather and uncle. I also like to be a stingy bitch, like my aunt.
I am the perfect amalgamation of my mad family. I used to come from a broken home, but I think I've reached the notion that it doesn't need any fixing at all.
Labels: Musings, Self-consciousness
posted by funkyhippopotamus at
10:21:00 pm
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