The ones who leave the village. And the ones who stay

An ode to my sister Melissa.

Courtesy of Joost Lieuwma

I was born in Singapore, where growing up, my family was my whole world. My mom had to work soon after I was born, so for the first two and half years of my life I was raised by my maternal grandma and my dad’s older sister — shuffled back and forth between their respective homes. My mom and dad lived in a rented house and I only visited them on weekends.

My sister Melissa was born two months after my third birthday. As a pampered three-year old, I was not happy with the new addition. But Melissa’s entry into the world was also the first time I actually slept under the same roof as my parents. This was when my parents bought their first home — an apartment in a government-subsidized housing estate called Braddell View — and my maternal grandma (my po po) moved in with us. When Melissa came into the world, I felt for the first time like I had a real family, complete with sibling rivalry.

Home felt like a village. I shared a bedroom with my po po till I was 16 years old. She slept on the pullout bed, but when we got older and her back started to ache, I took the pull-out and she got the top bunk. My sister slept on a sofa bed in my parent’s bedroom. My aunts on both sides of the family and my paternal grandma also lived in Braddell View and we could pop over anytime to hang out with them. My uncle, who worked for my dad and was unmarried at the time, would come over at lunch time and my grandma would fill his tiffin box with a takeaway lunch. On the weekends, our family would have BBQs with all our neighbors or relatives in the communal courtyard on the ground level of our six-unit apartment building. Young and old, family and friends gathered, and everyone knew each other. To my child self, it really was the most wonderful and exciting village in the whole wide world. Only I didn’t know much about the world back then.

At 17, I left home for college in Perth Australia and discovered that the world was so big, much bigger than the one I’d known. There were so many scary, sexy, wonderous experiences to be had outside of Singapore, away from the rules of my society and family of origin. Beyond the village, I battled demons and traded with angels, I learned the ways of many other villages, their languages, their songs, their stories, their art, their gods; and I thrived. The world became my proverbial oyster, and I’ve been leaving home ever since. After Perth, there was Sulawesi, London, Boston, Hong Kong, and now Portland, Oregon. I’ve had many romantic, geographical, creative, chemical and professional adventures, and I’ve led a life beyond my wildest dreams.

Now, I am almost 50 and for the first time, being away from home is beginning to hurt. My mom is 73, my dad is 80 and my po po is 91. Hospital visits are becoming more common, adult diapers have become part of life for my grandma and mom, and my dad must use a magnifying glass to read the papers and can’t drive anymore. Coughs, colds and UTIs linger and recur, and immobility, illness and death are drawing closer each day. I love them and miss them but I cannot be physically present with them to offer the support I would like to.

My sister Melissa never left the village and knowing she is with our elders gives me immense comfort. I don’t think I’d be able to live so far away from my tribe if it weren’t for her. She works for my dad and is planning to take over his company. She often drives po po or our mom to the doctors, and if she’s not too busy with work, she’ll buy food for po po who is now homebound. Her partner, Natasha has been unbelievably supportive and shows up for my elderly family members the way a daughter would.

My family have never guilt-tripped me for choosing to leave the village, but I am acutely aware that because I left, I am not burdened by day-to-day caregiving responsibilities. I like my life with my American husband and cats in Portland and am grateful I can speak to my family on the phone and visit them at least twice a year while doing meaningful and rewarding work here in Portland that I wouldn’t be able to do in Singapore for legal reasons (I am a licensed psychedelic trip sitter). However, I can’t help but wonder if being away from them, if not taking on the difficult work of caregiving, makes me a selfish person. I feel a need to return to Singapore more often. But I also have my “adult home”, a job, husband and cats to tend to in Portland. This makes traveling halfway across the globe as often as I would like, tricky. Having only one body but a heart in two places, can feel disruptive.

I know I am not alone in this quandary. In families and communities all across the world, there are those who leave and those who stay. Sometimes the ones who stay get resentful at the ones who leave. And the ones who leave feel guilty about not pulling their weight when the going gets tough.

I did not leave because I wanted to avoid the challenges of caring for aging parents, but because I wished to be free from the expectations of Asian and Catholic family values. When I began my adventures in the world, my parents were in midlife, and everyone was healthy. At 17, it didn’t occur to me that they would grow old. It didn’t occur to me that I would grow old. I left because my appetite for new experiences could not be met in the village. I left because the customs and traditions I grew up with no longer made sense to me. I left because I needed to find my own God, and my true self. I didn’t know it at the time, but I left so I could learn to be a better daughter, a better granddaughter, and a better sister. So I could learn to be a decent human being. I left so I could see clearer from further away. I left so I could see how amazing my little village — and all the people who lived in it — really were.

Sometimes, the adventure feels like exile, and I wonder if I made a mistake. I question whether the village ways might have nourished my soul better than my intrepid wanderings and incessant searching. But I am certain this is not the case, not for me at this moment anyway.

My conclusion is that some people — like myself — are called to the nomadic life, while others — like my sister Melissa — learn early on how to appreciate the treasures of family and community. I had the gumption and audacity to break free, but my sister had the fortitude, patience and flexibility to compromise, serve and adapt. I am so grateful that we each can gracefully walk our chosen paths.

It’s ironic that when I was three, my little sister felt like the worst thing that happened to me. Because today, she is my biggest godsend. Thank you Melissa, for being you, and for giving me the peace of mind needed to live a different life. When you need me, I will come home.