penang.

My grandmother was from Penang, and I hear her wherever I go. The streets remind me of a time and space I was once familiar to, but now is foreign noise that my body attempts to sift and mould itself to. My grandmother is no longer with me, but I wished I had asked her how she lived in this space, so that I can find her, with the hope that I find myself too in the process. 

The last time I was in Georgetown, I was running away from a space, time and life perhaps I was struggling to understand. This time, I am back to celebrate a dear friend. This space is just as I remember it. A little weary, just like me, but excited to make itself known to those who stumble across their charms. I wish perhaps to know this space as someone I know, knows this space. Someone who grew up here, whom I am currently trying to figure out if we can be friends. 

I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but Georgetown is filling me with a tension of what was, what is, and what could be. As much as you can take me out of Malaysia, you cannot take out the Malaysian in me. In reflecting on my identity earlier this year, I realized how much I hide behind my accent, and that the accent which defines me as Malaysian only shows in safe spaces of comfort and security. I wish to lead with my Malaysianness but even to others, I am not enough Malaysian to do so. 

As I write this reflection over an iced coffee, I can’t help but feel the tension and anxiety. Coming home is naturally difficult, but what people forget perhaps from the notion of coming home are the things you chose to leave behind, and what you are taught by the world is that often the things you leave behind, don’t matter as much to the things you carry with you. But what if the things you have left behind, you leave behind, because they mean the world to you.