Original Article in Chinese 撑起半边天的老妈, Translation in English

Though forty years have passed, my heart still overflows with gratitude. That year, when the results of the Malaysian Higher School Certificate Examination were released, my grades fell short of the university entry requirements. After much struggle, I finally secured bursaries from the French-Singapore  Institute and was about to set off alone to further my studies in Singapore. Before I left, mum pressed a  “Dragon” shape gold necklace into my hand and told me, “If there comes a day when you can’t make it anymore, sell this and buy a ticket home.” And so, with that necklace and a few hundred dollars I’d saved from part-time work, I went to Singapore — where I would continue my studies and eventually settled down.

Today, that necklace still lies in my drawer. Perhaps it will become a family heirloom — not for its monetary value, but because it carries the deep weight of my mother’s love.

I am the youngest child, with five older brothers and three older sisters. As a child, I loved resting my head on my mum’s lap, listening to her chat with neighbors about human nature, relationships, and matters of the heart. She had a few favorite Teochew sayings that remain etched in my memory. One was:” Ji Gai Rui Ji Gai Lou (一分钱一个篓) — “Even the cheapest thing still costs that one cent.” It was her way of reminding us of the value of money and the importance of thrift.

Father, in many people’s eyes, was a warm and friendly man — but most of that warmth was spent outside the home, and his contribution to the family’s finances was modest. When I was four, he passed away in his forties — a death still considered young. Our grief, though real, did not linger long; by then, mum had already long been the true pillar of the household.

Every morning, one of my brothers or my third sister would load several baskets of vegetables onto a bicycle and deliver them to our Pasar (wet market) stall. My petite mum would then cycle there to set up and sell the day’s produce. In the evening, she would load whatever leftovers onto the bicycle and bring it home. In this way, she kept our large family afloat.

The years passed. One by one, the children get married and have their children. At one point, we had twenty to thirty people eating from the same pot. Mun was the careful steward of household income and expenses. My eldest brother switched from the lime factory business to pig farming, enlisting our third and fifth brothers in the venture. My second brother’s vegetable business thrived. My fourth brother, who worked in direct sales, always brought mun thick ‘Hongbao’ during the traditional festive season. My unmarried second and third sisters contributed through their housework labor, and even my eldest sister, far away in Kuala Lumpur, sent some money home by using her sewing skills. Slowly, life began to improve.

When the family’s financial situation stabilized, my second brother then moved to start his own family. My eldest sister-in-law took over responsibility for managing the household’s daily affairs as my mum transitioned into an advisory role as family consultant.

Mun ran her stall in the pasar for nearly half a century, keeping a “retired but never idle” spirit. Even in her seventies, she would still sell small amounts of vegetables at her ever-shrinking stall, if only to pass the time.

Mornings in our home began with a huge pot of Teochew “mui” (rice porridge). On the dining table, there was often traditional Teochew salted pork alongside whatever vegetables unsold at the stall.   If nothing else, at least omelet with preserved radish. The only time our family enjoyed extravagant spreads of meat and fish was during our Chinese New Year banquet. We grew accustomed to eating mui every morning. With so many mouths to feed, dishes vanished in moments; when nothing remained, we filled our bellies with plain porridge stirred with soy sauce. Mon would buy discounted end-of-day meat and fish scraps from closing-time butchers and fishmongers — her thrifty way of putting meals on our table.

Years later, I understood why there was always Teochew salted pork and omelet with preserved radish: because every bite of salty food meant we ate more porridge, and thus less of the precious meat and vegetables.

In my youth, I viewed the world in rigid black and white, and often clashed with my mum. Many quarrels arose because my nephews were close to me in age — playful, mischievous, and often testing my patience. I would lean on my seniority in the family, “holding a chicken feather like an official’s arrow”, scolding or even hitting them over trivial matters. Mon would always step in: “Don’t hit other people’s children.” I dismissed her words back then, believing misbehaving kids should be disciplined. Only later did I realize this was her way of keeping family harmony — preventing tension between daughters-in-law from escalating.

As matriarch of such a large household, with daughters-in-law from different backgrounds and nieces and nephews close in age, maintaining peace under one roof was no small feat. Mon handled everyone fairly, always choosing harmony above all. Disputes never boiled over, and family members often yielded for her sake.

I remember one incident vividly. I was in my third year of secondary school,  and I often hung out with “bad kids” from the end of the lane — those from poorer homes and with little education. One day, we quarreled, and they and their parents insulted me. That evening, mun came home, heard the story, and marched me to their house to set things straight. She would not allow anyone to bully “a fatherless child.” Seeing her small frame stand before several burly men, defending me with reason and courage, awakened something new in my heart. From then on, my rebellious streak began to wane; I learned to put myself in others’ shoes.

Mon was thrifty in all things. Airlines, long-distance buses, even taxis — none ever earned her money. When visiting relatives, we brothers would take her on our motorcycles. Her travel radius rarely exceeded thirty kilometers, and the speed of distant journeys unsettled her. Because of this, she never traveled abroad, never even left the small world of “Ipoh”.

She treated every child and daughter-in-law equally, never taking sides or passing judgment. She always believed that “chuan dao qiao tou zi ran zhi” (the boat will straighten itself when it reaches the bridge), and this “everything will be fine” attitude sometimes caused disagreements among the children. However, under her influence, my own attitude toward the children also became too gentle, which often led to conflicts between my wife and me in raising them. 

Spiritually, she was free-spirited and unburdened. She never minded the difference in how her daughters-in-law treated their parents versus her, never begrudged relatives for competing with her stall at the pasar, and never envied wealthier sisters. Even if visitors brought only a small token gift, she welcomed them warmly. She did things within her means, without fuss over reciprocity.

Her hands were skillful and self-taught — making Teochew “kuih”, sewing patchwork quilts. My eldest sister inherited these crafts.

If Mon had lived in ancient times, and if Zhuangzi (An influential ancient Chinese philosopher) spoke Teochew, perhaps they would have been friends — for both prized a natural, unpretentious life and spiritual freedom.

Yet her devotion to thrift and certain habits often became a quiet trial for the younger daughters-in-law: washing dishes with rice water instead of detergent and then using it to clean the toilet; shelling garlic or sorting dried fish roe even while watching TV.

Mun was the embodiment of Teochew womanhood — thrifty, humble, hardworking. My sisters and nieces, who grew up beside her, inherited her virtues. All her descendants cherished her deeply. Though she never enjoyed material luxury, her blessings came in the form of love and respect from her children and grandchildren.

After she passed away, for forty-nine days (Chinese custom), the family — scattered in different places — gathered at the same time daily to chant sutras for her blessing. Afterwards, my sister and two nieces, without knowing each other’s dreams, all saw her seated upon a lotus dais, her face serene and kind. It brought us great comfort.

叶木兴
工作、炒股、看剧，这就是我的日常。我喜欢’努力工作，痛快玩’的生活方式