As 2016 draws to an end, a year which marks the end of my seventh year as a resident of Singapore, I count down the hours to my first Christmas at home in Co Cork in three years. It will be my son's first cold Christmas and his first trip to Ireland in eighteen months; it will form his first memories of my homeland and my childhood home.
I am bursting with a child-like excitement, yet apprehensive that reality may not do justice to my romantic notions of a much-anticipated homecoming.
Most of all, I wonder how my son will fare; he was born here in Singapore in March 2014, missing the 17th by two days. He could not have been called anything other than Paddy, following a tradition of Patricks, Paddies and Padraigs in my family.
This year has been a lamentable and divisive year for many. History was made when Joseph Isaac Schooling won Singapore’s first ever Olympic Gold medal for the 100m butterfly. Trolls online claimed that his heritage wasn’t “pure” Singaporean; a nod to the British heritage of his father. Singapore, as a nation responded by giving Schooling the honour and hero’s welcome that he so justly deserved. This episode prompted me to examine Paddy’s heritage, cultural influences and sense of belonging.
Paddy holds both an Australian and an Irish passport. He could also claim a British one due to my husband's heritage. He attends a local nursery school where he is exposed equally to Mandarin Chinese and English. When "Majullah Singapura", the national anthem is played, he stands up and sings along; something he does every day with his fellow toddlers who range from ethnicities such as Colombian, Australian, German, French, Italian, both Malay and Chinese Singaporean, among others. Unlike me at his age, he does not respond to "Suig sios", rather he automatically sits down when his teacher says "zuòxià" to him in Mandarin.
His favourite food is the national staple of chicken rice, and he adores noodles and sushi. He loves to eat mild Indian food off a banana leaf. Living in a tropical climate with a daily threat of dengue fever and the zika virus, he knows instinctively that he needs to put on a mosquito patch and repellant spray before going out. He wants to jump in a swimming pool every day. Dress up days at school honour an array of national celebrations: Indian Deepavali, Malaysian Hari Raya Puasa, Singapore’s National Day, Chinese New Year and Racial Harmony Day.
Ireland and Australia are unusual places that we visit once a year, with so many different sights, sounds and tastes. He periodically asks when can we go on a big airplane again and excitedly dances to the sounds of FaceTime and Skype as he anticipates which one of our loved ones he will see next. He often wears Irish, Cork and Australian jerseys, completely oblivious to the significance these have to his parents. He looks blankly at the Irish words in books my family has given him.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me is tinged with sadness that he will not share the same Irish upbringing I did. I am curious how he will react to wearing layers of warm clothes for once, and how he will respond to the new tastes of baked ham, stuffed turkey and all the trimmings this Christmas.
He has never warmed his behind in front of an open fire, and hot radiators are completely foreign to him. There is no doubt that he is a third-culture child and thriving in this diverse environment. His childhood will be defined against the backdrop of a cultural melting pot that is South East Asia. It will also enable him to look at the world with an open and progressive mind. He embraces cultural and racial diversity, because he knows no different. Of this I am inherently proud.
