Am I still adjusting ?

** A very long story of my past, I apologize in advance for the lengthy post. Lemon8 is my safe space to share my experiences. I’m glad i can release it here.**

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I've been wandering the aisles of the Thai supermarket at Golden Mile since I was a child, surrounded by the familiar sights, smells, and sounds of a culture that feels both deeply personal and perpetually foreign. As someone with a mixed ethnicity identity, I've often found myself struggling to reconcile my sense of belonging. With each visit, I'm reminded of the comfort and connection I feel to my Thai heritage, yet simultaneously, I'm aware of the complexities and nuances that set me apart. This supermarket, a constant in my life, has become a symbol of my own identity - a blend of cultures, traditions, and experiences that I'm still learning to navigate. Golden Mile Complex's Thai market was our lifeline, a one-stop haven for authentic ingredients that fueled our family's culinary traditions. Saturdays were sacred for my mother and me, our Golden Mile tradition unwavering for years. We'd scour the market for authentic Thai ingredients, exchanging warm smiles with vendors who became like family. After a long grocery shop, we’ll sacrifice our sore feet to join in the long queue for our fried banana at Golden Banana stall, munching on to the sweet potato balls and warm banana, afterwards we'd dine in at Nana Thai and other beloved stalls near the supermarket, indulging in delicious meals and savoring the flavors of home. The aroma of fresh basil, lemongrass, and chili would transport us back to our roots, reinforcing our cultural connection. But Golden Mile was more than just a market; it was a hub for our cultural celebrations. We'd eagerly await Songkran, purchasing krathongs and releasing them into the river just down the road, watching as our wishes floated away, hoping they'd come true. Those cherished moments remain vivid, a testament to the enduring impact of Golden Mile on our lives.

With Golden Mile's closure, I've struggled to find a comparable replacement. The convenience and community it offered are irreplaceable. My mother and I miss the sensory delights: the aroma of fresh lemongrass, the vibrant colors of Thai chilies, and the sound of vendors sharing recipes. Those Saturday trips weren't just errands; they were bonding experiences, cultural preservation, and a taste of home.

As I adapt to the supermarket's new location in Aperia Mall, I'm struck by the contrast between the familiar sights and sounds of the store and the unfamiliar surroundings of the mall. The move has brought the supermarket into the heart of a bustling local community, and I find myself navigating not only the aisles but also my own sense of identity. Amidst the eclectic mix of local flavors and cultures, I'm forced to confront my own belonging - or lack thereof. The supermarket's relocation has become a metaphor for my own journey, as I strive to find my place within the intersections of culture, community, and self. Golden Mile was more than just a place - it was my sanctuary, where the familiar sights, sounds, and aromas of Thai culture wrapped me in a sense of belonging. But with its move to Aperia Mall, I'm once again confronted with the feeling of being an outsider. My dark skin has always made me stand out, and I've faced discrimination and doubts about my Thai identity. While my light-skinned friends sailed through life with ease, I've struggled to find acceptance. At Golden Mile, I was finally free from judgmental gazes and assumptions. But now, amidst the curious stares of locals at Aperia Mall, I'm reminded that my identity is still a mystery to many. My story is a testament to the complexities of identity and the need for understanding and acceptance in our diverse world.

Growing up, I was torn between my dual heritage, unsure of which identity to share with my classmates and friends. Should I proudly claim my Thai mother or my Malay father? Or would acknowledging both invite unwanted attention and judgment? My fear of being different led to a silence that was both suffocating and shameful. When a new student, who was Thai-Chinese, joined our class, my brief moment of confidence shattered, and I retreated back into hiding. As my classmates assumed I was solely Malay based on my skin tone, I felt like I was living a lie. The anxiety reached its peak during a parent-teacher meeting, where I frantically tried to conceal my Thai heritage, fearing ridicule and embarrassment. But when my mom spoke in Thai, my carefully constructed facade crumbled, and I was left feeling exposed and ashamed. In that moment, I tragically declared my embarrassment at being Thai, a painful admission that still lingers, a reminder of the anguish and self-doubt that accompanied my journey of self-discovery and acceptance.

That fateful day left an indelible mark on my psyche, a painful reminder of the era's misguided beliefs. I was constantly reminded that Malays weren't supposed to marry outside their race or religion, a toxic mentality that made me feel like an outcast. The hurtful words of my Malay peers still echo in my mind: "We can't be friends with you because you're not full halal." It felt like my very essence was being ripped away, leaving me feeling lost and disconnected from my own identity. Primary school became a never-ending nightmare, with each Malay class a fresh hell. I was mercilessly mocked, targeted by the teacher, and ridiculed as a "cry baby" in Malay. The trauma of those years haunts me to this day, leading me to hide my Thai identity when I transitioned to secondary school and ITE, a coping mechanism to avoid further pain and rejection. And the curiosity of my secondary school classmates about my facial features led to a painful revelation - I was called a "bibik", an Indonesian maid, a derogatory term that cut deep. I had hoped that sharing my father's mixed identity would bring acceptance, but instead, it only seemed to invite more ridicule. Exhausted and defeated, I retreated to hiding my Thai identity once again, fearing that revealing it would only lead to further ridicule. But something shifted within me after ITE, and I began to embrace my heritage. I proudly took on my family's surname, including it in all my government documents, with the blessing of my late-grandfather, who wisely told me, "No matter what your name is, your ancestors run through your blood, and you will carry it on to your future kids and so will they." His words echo in my mind as I navigate the changes in my life, like the closure of Golden Mile, which left me feeling lost and scared.

I've clung to routine and familiarity, finding solace in the Thai supermarket's new location at Aperia Mall, followed by comforting visits to Nana Thai Restaurant, Golden Banana & a new thai shop Ramabear Mart. It's my way of holding on to what's left of the past, and slowly finding my way in a world that's constantly changing. The closure of Golden Mile Complex resonates deeply within me, stirring a mix of nostalgia and longing. As a Thai-Malay individual, the loss of this cultural hub feels like a severed tie to my heritage. With my mother no longer residing in Singapore, I mourn the fact that my two young children will never experience the vibrant Thai market, the tantalizing aromas, and the warmth of the community that once gathered there. Golden Mile was more than just a shopping center; it was a bridge to our Thai-Malay cultural roots, a place where traditions were passed down through generations. I cherish memories of Saturday trips with my mother, carefully selecting ingredients and learning the intricacies of Thai cuisine. Those moments shaped my identity and fostered a deep appreciation for our heritage. Now, as a parent myself, I yearn to recreate those experiences for my children, but Golden Mile's absence leaves a void. I worry that our Thai-Malay cultural traditions may fade with time, lost to the pace of modern life.

Thank you for reading until the ending. Appreciated your kindness to understanding and accepting 💜

#mixedrace #lemon8 #RealTalk #sentimental

#identity