Small and Capital Losses
By Jonah Sheen Tan
Singaporeans are kiasu, they fear loss, and said this way it sounds very profound, like something Nietzsche or Heidegger would say about death, God and the million black holes coming for every last star in our sky. This is a misunderstanding. It's not the big, capital-L Loss we’re talking about, but the small one, the fear of losing out. Just yesterday I was at the grocery store for blueberries, which were well-stocked, so I grabbed a few cartons, tossed them aside, reached to the rear of the cooler, picked out the furthest carton, and put everything else back onto the rack. This is serious stuff, the blueberries. If you don't get the freshest ones, someone else will. Heck, if you're good at this, you'd even hide the best cartons with the strawberries on the other rack, just in case. It feels intuitively wrong for someone else to also get the good stuff, as if your blueberries, by the mere act of sharing, become jealous and sour.
This appalling behavior didn't come from nowhere. I was taught it, by a family whose rot spans generations. My great-grandfather was once in the back of a crowded truck, which was whizzing to the beach, so that everyone could go for a swim before heading home. He so desperately wanted to be home before everyone else, he put his arms in front of his face, flung himself off the truck, and tumbled into the bushes. While everyone else went swimming, he ran home. Because he could not wait his turn, he was not made to disembark, step onto soft sand, face the horizon, and be shot in the back by Japanese soldiers. So, my great-grandparents survived, and bought a house, and so did my grandparents, who bought a piano, and so did my parents, who bought an SUV, which is a feat made possible because we were always running, and pressing every advantage.
At least this is the story my grandparents have always told us. Truth is, though, it's become harder to believe. This is chiefly because I can't, in good conscience, hear the gunshots, no matter how hard I try. It feels hollow to invoke a colonial past whenever I reach for the blueberries, as if my great-grandpa defied death so I could be a jerk at the fruits aisle. To nudge me on the right path, I occasionally saw, during grade school, an upright lion walking around wearing a red bib. It came with a slogan: Courtesy, try a little kindness. The lion ran ads, gave out posters, and held talks. I never once asked him what he thought about our kiasu behavior, but underneath painted whisker and smile, I doubt he would've approved. He was the mascot for what was called the National Kindness Movement, and we were the children destined for a new age.
Somehow, though, I always knew we were doomed to fail. Case in point: two months ago, I brought my grandparents out, wheelchair and all, for lunch. We ordered many things, but it was only when the plate of grilled fish arrived that I was told to eat it. They couldn't speak much, but they made sure to insist that I eat the fish, eat it before it was gone, eat it before anyone else could. I wanted to tell them that there was no more war, that fish was no longer rationed by military diktat, that we could always get seconds. I wanted to tell them to ease up. Yet somehow, almost by an instinct that preceded me, I plucked the bones out from under the gills, pinched a piece, and put it on their plate, exhorting them too to eat it. To be kiasu is to fear loss; to be kiasu is to fear losing out. Either way, how to stop being kiasu? As long as they lived, both of us would forever pass the fish around, each fearing that the other would starve, shrivel up, and die.
About the Author
Jonah Sheen Tan is a writer living in Singapore. His print and online writing has appeared in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Pithead Chapel, where it was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and elsewhere. He is a graduate of Columbia University.
