1 Tuesday 9 February Hope. ThatÕs what the Spring Festival, the most important celebration in the traditional Chinese calendar, is supposed to commemorate, aside from signalling, well, the coming of spring. Renewal. A time for new beginnings, fresh starts. Green stuff grows out of the ground. Politicians fulfill their campaign promises, concert tickets for A-list pop stars never get scalped, babies get born and nobody gets urinary incontinence after. And Chinese families all over the world come together in honor of love, peace, and togetherness. But this is not that kind of story.
This is a story where bad things happen to good people. Especially single people. Because hereÕs the deal: for folks like me who find themselves single by February, Spring Festival is not a joyous occasion. ItÕs a time for conjuring up imaginary boyfriends with names like Pete Yang or Anderson Lin, hiring male escorts who look smart instead of hot, marrying the next warm body you find, and if all else fails, having plastic surgery and changing your name so your family can never find you. For desperate times call for desperate measures, and there is no period of time more desperate for single Chinese females over the age of thirty everywhere than the Annual -Spinster--Shaming Festival, a.k.a. Chinese New Year.
God help us persecuted singletons; God help us allÑspring is coming. It was noon. Linda Mei Reyes and I were sitting in a car in front of our auntÕs house in matching updos, smoking kreteks and hunched over our smartphones as we crammed for the toughest interview that we would face this year, the ÒWhy Are You Still Single in Your Thirties, You Disappointment to Your AncestorsÓ inquisition. Our interrogators lay in wait, and they were legion. The Tangs, our family, were very prolific breeders. Each year, as was customary on the second day of Chinese New Year, Auntie Wei Wei would host a lavish luncheon for all the -Singapore--based Tangs. These luncheons were mandatory Family Time: everyone had to show their faces if they were in town; the only acceptable escape clauses being death, disability, a -job--related trip, or the loss of oneÕs job (in which case you might as well be dead). If youÕre wondering why Auntie Wei Wei commanded such power, aside from the fact that she was housing our clanÕs living deity (Grandma Tang), itÕs because she was our clanÕs Godfather, minus the snazzy horse head deliveries.
Many of the older Tangs were in her debt: not only did she act as the familyÕs unofficial private bank for the favored few, sheÕd basically raised the lot of them after my grandfather passed away in the 1950s and left my grandmother destitute. As the eldest of a brood of nine siblings, Auntie Wei Wei had dropped out of secondary school and worked two jobs to help defray household expenses. ThatÕs how her siblings all managed to finish their secondary schooling, and for some of the higher achievers, university, even as it came at her own expense. At least karma had rewarded her sacrifice. After migrating to Singapore in her late twenties, she had married well, against the odds, to a successful businessman; when he died soon after (of entirely natural causes), sheÕd inherited several tracts of land, the sale of which had made her, and her only daughter, Helen, -eye--wateringly wealthy. Hence her unassailable position as de facto matriarch of the Tang clan, since there is nothing that the Chinese respect more than wealth, especially the kind that might potentially trickle downstream. Posthumously. Ever since I moved to Singapore from London about six years ago, as the sole representative of my fatherÕs side of the family in Singapore IÕd been obliged by my very persuasive mother to attend Auntie Wei WeiÕs gatherings.
Since my father was her favorite sibling, Auntie Wei Wei had paid off a lot of his debts when he passed and now she basically owns us, emotionally, which is how real power works. I used to enjoy these gatherings, but since Ivan, my -long--term partner, and I broke up nine months and -twenty--three days ago, way too late for me to find another schmuck to tote to this horror show, there was ample reason to dread todayÕs festivities. Why, you ask? Because Chinese New Year is the worst time to be unattached, bar none. Forget ValentineÕs Day. I mean, whatÕs the worst that can happen then? Some -man--child youÕve been obsessing over doesnÕt send you chocolates? -Boo--hoo. A frenemy humblebrags about the size of her ugly, overpriced bouquet (that she probably sent herself)? Please. Your fun blind date turns out to be the Zodiac Killer? Tough. Just wait till you have to deal with Older Chinese Relatives.
These people understand mental and emotional torture. They will corner you and ask you questions designed to make you want to chug a bottle of antifreeze right after. Popular ones include: ÒWhy are you still single?Ó; ÒHow old are you again?Ó; ÒWhatÕs more important than marriage?Ó; ÒDo you know you canÕt wait forever to have babies, otherwise you are pretty much playing Russian roulette with whatever makes it out of your collapsing birth canal?Ó; ÒHow much money do you make, after taxes?Ó As weÕve been programmed since birth to kowtow to our elders, we force ourselves to Show (our Best) Face at these events, no matter how damaging they can be to our ego and psyche. So that is why, dear Diary, two successful women in their thirties, dressed in orange floral cheongsams they -panic--bought the night before, were trying so hard to get their stories about each otherÕs imaginary boyfriend straight to placate an audience that they will not see again for another year. ÒItÕs easy for mine,Ó Linda was saying. My cousin and best friend, Linda is only -half--Chinese (the other half being -Spanish--Filipino), so she had some wiggle room with the family, but even the normally -cold--blooded litigator was sweating in the -air--conditioned car. ÒJust remember that Alvin Chan, whom youÕve met before by the way, is not just my boss but my boyfriend, and just, you know, extrapolate from there. Make up the details.
Ó ÒWhat do you think I am, an amateur?Ó I snapped, holding up my iPhone to show her a photo of her and her ÒboyfriendÓ at a recent gala. I pulled up a screenshot of Korean actor and national treasure Won -BinÑ-unlike Linda, I did not have a hot boss. ÒNow you remember that my boyfriendÕs name is Henry Chong, heÕs a Singaporean Chinese in his late thirties, heÕs the only child of a real estate mogul and a brilliant brain surgeon, and he looks like this.Ó I held the phone in front of her face so she could be inspired by the perfection that is Won Bin. ÒToo many details,Ó Linda said, not even looking at the screen. ÒItÕs always the details that trip liars up. Keep it simple.Ó ÒNot if youÕre prepared, like I am.
You, however, look wasted.Ó ÒIÕm prepared. And IÕm dead sober,Ó she said emphatically before burping gin fumes in my face. Yet somehow her -softly braided updo looked fresh while mine was already unspooling, like my life. I muttered the LordÕs Prayer, or what I could recall of it, under my breath. It was going to be a long day. ÒRemember, HenryÕs a partner in a midsize Singaporean law firm. He is currently meeting with a client in Dubai, and thatÕs why he canÕt be here with us today.
Oh, and heÕs tall. And hot.Ó ÒGot it,Ó Linda said, rolling her eyes. She took a deep drag from her third ÒcigaretteÓ of the morning. ÒAnything else I should casually drop during the convo? Maybe the fact that he has a massive cock?Ó ÒIf youÕre speaking to one of the older aunties, then yes. Go for it, with my blessings.Ó Linda sighed, stubbing out her ÒcigaretteÓ in an ashtray. ÒGot it.
And if anyone asks, AlvinÕs skiing in Val-dÕIsre.Ó ÒVal-de-Whut?Ó ÒVal--dee--Zehr. ItÕs in the French Alps, you peasant.Ó She grinned. ÒHereÕs another tip: peppering a convo with unpronounceable place names usually deters further lines of questioning. Most people donÕt like looking unsophisticated.Ó ÒGood point,Ó I said. ÒOK, in that case nix Dubai, make it Ashgabat.
Ó She flashed a thumbs-up. ÒAshgabat it is. Anyway, thereÕs a chance that none of the relatives will remember who I am since IÕve not been back in Asia for over a decade, so I might be safe from attack.Ó LindaÕs family was somewhat estranged from the clan, one of the reasons being that her mother had married an Òoutsider,Ó i.e., a -non--Chinese; plus, having spent most of her formative years attending boarding school in England meant she was less involved, and less inclined to be so, in clan affairs. That was why she kept a low profile with the Tangs since her move to Singapore last Feb-urary as part of her firmÕs new market expansion plan. ÒI could have skipped this whole do and just stayed home, so remind me why IÕm putting myself through this shitshow again?Ó ÒBecause you love me?Ó I said brightly.
She snorted. I narrowed my eyes. ÒYou owe me, woman. Without the help of my excellent notes and -last--minute tutorials you would have failed your final year of law school, since you hardly attended any of the lectures.Ó ÒKeep telling yourself that. Anyway, I seem to recall being promised a champagne brunch at the St. Regis if I did well today.Ó ÒYes,Ó I grumbled.
ÒI just hope you put as much effort into HenryÕs history and character development as I did for AlvinÕs.Ó ÒDonÕt worry. I didnÕt graduate top of the -classÑ-Ó ÒSecond. I was first.Ó ÒÑ-top of the class for nothing. IÕve got the whole story down pat. Relax.Ó She punched me in the back.
ÒStraighten your shoulders and try not to look so browbeaten. ItÕs no wonder you havenÕt been made partner.Ó It took all my -self--control not to stab her in the eye with my cigarette. Perhaps sensing she was in mortal danger if she didnÕt ch.