Carynn's Intercultural Collaboration

PROMPT #1 I stare at the line of people increasing in front of the small counter. There was a family right at the front, a baby in the father’s arm, and the mother struggling with the backpack as a young boy tugs at her arm. I hope I would not have to sit with them, else this would be a much longer flight than it already was. It was true that it can’t be helped, they can’t do much to control their children, but I’ve flown enough to eventually stop caring. Especially on this flight to this place – again. All these years and I’ve never once flown peacefully there. I waited until the line dwindles and head off myself. Double checking my pockets as I inched across the aisle to my seat. As always, I stashed my bag under my seat and watched as the compartment below closed silently then the moment my back hit the seat, the seatbelts emerged from both sides and met in the centre. There was a pressure before they loosened and adjusted across my stomach. Adjusting my posture, I scan th...

Sai read the email again. Her big, slanted eyes reflecting the words from the email. An icon bounced up and down at the bottom right of her screen, telling her that she has 7, 9, 12, and now 27 unread messages. She swiped her finger down to preview the messages, not ready to go into the app just yet. Her friends were talking about the email as well, but theirs were different from hers.                They sent in their applications together. Scanned their fingerprints and clicked the button on a countdown. Just a week ago, they were looking at pictures and searching for good restaurants near the university they were supposed to go as one.                The messages flooded in as they expressed their excitement over their acceptance to University of Reia. She could barely read the messages on the preview screen, they were going too fast. She...

In Malaysia, I studied in a Chinese government school from the age of 7 to 12 before going to a private high school. Despite the shift from a government school to a private school. Their teaching methods were quite similar. Although the private school was slightly more relaxed in terms of teaching and homework, but the teachers I had were still strict and most of them came from teaching at government schools. Since young, we were taught to be silent in class. There should be no noise when the teacher is speaking, no noise when we were assigned work to do. Even during the small breaks between classes when we wait for the next teacher to come, we were expected to be quiet. In primary school, my teachers had what we called a 'rotan', which means rattan. Those things you use to make baskets, except they were used to punish us. Whoever was too noisy would be called out and receive a hit or two on their palms. A couple of times, my teacher threw chalks or dusters at my friend...

As we become more educated, we grow into individuals with deeper feelings, deeper thoughts. Some say that people now gets offended by everything; we are too sensitive even if the issues are not related to us. Of course, this affects the writing industry because writing is a form of expression. With the positive increase of people of colour becoming published authors and books including more diversity, comes several issues. Most commonly: cultural appropriation. Disclaimer: I'm not a scholar nor am I an expert in this field. I'm just a very tiny person in this huge world expressing my very tiny thoughts.  Writing is a passion, it's a form of escapism, it's an art. I believe that anyone can write anything they are interested in writing. Saying no to someone's interest is like me waving my baby cousin's favourite fruit (strawberries) in front of her without giving it to her. I don't think we have the power or the right to suppress someone else's inte...

In week 2 of this course, we had the opportunity to learn from Sanaz Fotouhi, the general manager of Asia Pacific Writers & Translators. The lecture was heavily based on discussion and in one of them, she asked about fears (forgive me if I got this wrong, my memory is not the best). I mentioned that I was afraid of not being 'Chinese' enough to write about Chinese inspired stories. I was scared that as someone who grew up in an English speaking household surrounded by American content, I would not be qualified to write about Asian stories. I would be told that I wasn't enough. Recently, I've noticed a surge of books published by people of colour, especially in the YA section. And as usual, we can't have nice things. While many of us are celebrating these marginalised authors, there are those that lurks in the shadow with their slimy tongues and nasty fingernails waiting to pounce. Here are some tweets I found where these authors speak of their experiences. ...

After a harsh and terrible journey into the depths of Bourdieu's habitus, I conclude that habitus is what makes you you. The aspects in life that shapes who you are. It affects the things you do, the things you know, and the way you see things. Therefore, it affects my writing. As a writer, my habitus plays a huge role in what I write. They say to write what you know, to draw from your own experiences so your story is more realistic. Growing up in Malaysia, a multicultural South East Asia country, defines what I know and what I am interested in. It dictates the way I see the world. Despite writing mostly fiction, the words I pour out reflect the words I consume. I could try extremely hard to erase my knowledge of my home country, but try as I may, my influences and perceptions are innate, and will seep through the filters. As mentioned before, habitus is affected by where I grew up in; the class, family, culture etc. Naturally, it establishes my creative process - how I write. Si...

With the flat of her knife, she crushes a few garlic cloves and peels the stubborn skins. She chops them with a steady beat, a rhythm, and scrapes them onto the side of a plate with the chopped broccoli, diced onions and all the other ingredients for the feast. It has been a while since she was back in her parent's kitchen cooking proper meals. but cooking to her, is like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never really forget. Her hands have not forgotten to slice, to chop, to fry, to stir. And her tongue has not forgotten the salty, the sour, the sweet, and the bitter. She starts out awkwardly, pulling open cabinets and drawers to look for the right utensils. There is only a small space for her to work with and she regrets not using her other kitchens from her temporary houses to its full potential. She couldn't remember turning on the oven in her house at Italy. Despite the space and her rusty skills, she is determined to cook the best meal. The fridge overflows with t...