I was sitting at Second Cup with my best friend yesterday evening. This we do, every two weeks or so, sort of a catch up session we always have or simply because we both craved for a Chocolate Chiller. She is someone I can speak my mind to, and our discussions vary from personal to people and ideas, even political here and there. It's wonderful that we can easily relate to each other. We've spent our high school years together with common extracurricular interests ranging from drama to Model United Nations.
So somehow, yesterday, the talk centered around ethnicity and nationality. With Spain winning the World Cup and all, we both agreed that events like this bring out certain identity in people. When the word 'identity' rolled off our tongues, I couldn't help but think about Malay being my ethnicity. I witness my parents struggle to ensure my sisters and I adapt into the Canadian culture without being entirely assimilated.
Identity is defined as remembering my roots. Knowing where I come from and holding strong to certain beliefs. These are beliefs consistent the the universal code of tolerance, respect and dignity. I had a conversation with my parents in the car returning from the Halifax trip. It was about whether or not culture should be infused. By infusion, it involves inserting some sort of mainstream modernity. The conservative self in me, influenced by my involvements with CMA, immediately countered against infusion. The sudden realization of this desperate need I wanted for cultural preservation somewhat surprised me. The thought that came to me right then, was language. I thought of how easily language can disappear without careful cultivation. I remembered reading about thousands of Native languages lost, with generations that came.
Despite being fluent in speaking in my Bahasa Melayu, I find myself challenged with writing it properly. I catch myself spelling Malay words as they sound when commenting on statuses and photos on facebook, rather that spelling them in their proper grammatical manner. From the Halifax cultural exhibition and Carassauga, I learned, that I am simply ignorant. There is more to my Malay culture that I don't know. My struggle with the linguistics of it scares me. I made it a goal to read more Malay literature. I'd love to excel in writing Malay poetry, perhaps with more practice I'd be willing to publish them here. I love the spontaneity during Hari Raya Gatherings or Eid, when the men and women would on the spot, attempt at freestyle Pantun. Hopefully next Raya Gathering, I'll be able to come up with a stanza or two.
It also occurred to me that I am starting to be wary of my parents' fear of losing our culture. Between language and mannerism, history, symbols and arts. There is obvious grace and beauty in culture that I do not want to lose.
This was what I told my best friend. I would want my children to be fluent in my language, be shameless of wearing the Baju Kurung, abide by certain mannerisms and appreciate the fine arts of my Malay culture (from music to dances) more than I do.
Alright it's pretty obvious...I want them to be married in a traditional formal Malay wedding too. You know, with the pelamin, silat, songket...etc, etc.
I know. I have high expectations. Hehe.
I might as well return to my native land, right?
Problem is....it's not as vast in landmark or pretty when it comes to sceneries or multi-culturally diverse as Canada. Only God knows if I'd be this appreciative of my culture had I not immigrated.
