I can't believe it's been seven weeks.

Dear Great-Grandma,

I’m sorry I had to say goodbye so quickly, and that I won’t be physically there for the funeral but everyone is telling me that you’d understand. You’ve been gone for 12 hours and I don’t think it’s fully sunk in yet that I won’t ever hear your voice again. I don’t think I fully believe that I’ll come home from America and you won’t be there to go through my 3000 photos like we did with Europe tour in 2005. I have some idea that if I went to ask you for advice as to what I ought to do on Monday, that you’d tell me to get on that plane, because life’s too short and unpredictable, and I need to make the most of it now.

I suppose it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock, since you’ve been ill for the past year or so with the spinal fractures and cardiovascular problems (and in fact, I’m so thankful that you held on for my 21st). I know how you had to struggle through every day on your walking frame, and I hope wherever you are now is a pain-free and peaceful place.

I’m sorry I never got around to learning all your marvellous recipes, especially the kueh. Even though when we made cendol I shook my head in exasperation, wondering how someone could cook entirely without measuring cups and spoons, I was actually in awe of you. And I still am, because no one else makes Malaysian cakes the way you could. Or in the quantities that you could, excluding the commercial suppliers. Somehow you managed to feed a hundred Buddhist Group members with five different types of kueh and still have leftovers. Oh, and while we’re on the topic, I’m sorry I didn’t find a guy soon enough for you to be around to make kueh at my wedding. I know you were excited (as was Grandfather, who planted the Stephanotis).

I’m trying to sort through my memories of you and a couple of random scenes stick out. Most of them revolve around me hanging around in the kitchen.

When I was in kindergarten, you told me I needed to eat more because I looked like a “beanpole” and I am pretty sure that the, “Minerva! Get more food!” continued for at least the next five years. At the Buddhist group meetings I was a really picky eater and nibbled at noodles, but you were one of the adults who kept piling food on my plate and telling me that I’d never grow.

One day, I went swimming in the backyard pool and when I was about to go into the house, I saw you squeezing green slimy stuff out of a sieve and I went, aha, so that’s how they make cendol. It’s not worms after all. Around the same time when I discovered sago wasn’t actually frog spawn.

When I was about 9 and started getting pimples you and grandma were babysitting me and my brother, and we were eating rice. You told me that if I ate every grain of rice off my plate, I’d have a clear face.

At some point in primary school, my parents sort of lost interest in my report cards because they were getting repetitive, but I discovered that if I took them to your house and showed you my good grades, you’d never fail to get excited and give me various forms of Ferrero chocolate.

I still have all the toys and clothes you bought me from Chinatown, like the music box, or the Cheongsam-style tops.

I also remember gauging my growth against you because you were about 140cm and you were the first adult I was taller than.

When you came back from Malaysia in 2004, you showed us all the photos of your relatives from Alor Setar and I remember the girl with the enormous eyes, and her mother who looked like a model and was ridiculously tall for a Chinese.

Most of the Chinese banquets I’ve had (as well as all the hours I’ve spent in Chinese restaurants) in my life were thanks to you.

I’ll never forget your fashion advice, but I always found it amusing how you’d tell me straight to my face if something looked good but you’d tell my mother to tell me if something looked bad. Oh, and I’ll never forget the day you scolded my mother for wearing a skirt shorter than mine.

You were always incredibly strong for such a tiny woman, and I think the only time we realised how frail you were was when you contracted pneumonia and had to go into hospital in 2006, which was scary because you were in an induced coma for a few days. And then a few years later you had a fall. Two, actually. But you fought back so hard and went through the weeks of rehab without complaining that I’d have to look at the basket of meds on your desk to remember that you were on the other side of 80. In fact, I remember when you came home from the hospital and then started talking about your mother for the first time, and how she told you about how important it was to be brave and strong. I wish I’d found out more about your family, about your sisters and how you’d made kueh and been a seamstress. And now that I’m older I think I can actually start to appreciate how difficult it must have been to adjust to life in Australia. Or how difficult it must have been, having to care for great-grandfather, who was almost blind, towards the end of his life until he went to the nursing-home.

One of the things I was famous for in primary school was having so many names on my birth certificate that I broke the school database. Your first gift to me was my Chinese name and while I only properly learnt how to write it recently, whenever I write it from now on I’ll think of you. In fact, I’m going to work at learning Chinese until I’m fluent, no matter how many years it takes.

What also makes me really sad is that I’m the only one of your great-grandchildren whom you got to see really grow up, leave school and turn 21. Please watch over my brother as he preps for his HSC, and please look out for K and P too, who weren’t lucky enough to know either grandfather or great-grandfather.

Something else that’s bugging me is that you’ll miss my graduation, especially since you were so excited that I got into med school. I hope I’ll grow up to be a good doctor and that I’ll be able to make you proud one day.

Love always,
Minerva.

In Defence of Disney (only one year too late!)

Who is that girl I see, staring straight back at me?

I was procrastinating on Facebook not very long ago when a friend linked me to an article which exposed Disney to be a bay of sexist pigs. It essentially pointed out that all their “Princesses” from Snow White to Belle empty-headed beauties with nothing to offer men except their sexuality.

They even attacked Enchanted, one of my latest obsessions (and I assure you, not solely because of Patrick Dempsey. I don’t even watch Grey’s Anatomy, for the record.)

OUCH OUCH OUCH.

That was me taking a couple of shots for Disney. Like JKR, I will “defend the value of bedtime stories to my last breath” (CHECK QUOTE). Sure, fairytales may not suit every little girl, just as the colour pink, high heels and long hair do not suit every single grown woman. But what harm can they do?

There would have been a time when I was about, say, sixteen, when I was hell-bent on purging the patriarchy from my life. But five years have really made a difference to the way I see housewives and Disney princesses. Women ought to have a choice. Who are you to say that the life of a stay-at-home mum is any less fulfilling for any particular individual? If she’s forced into it, you’d have a good case. But just because a woman says, “I’m happiest when I’m at home with my children,” is that a sign she’s been brainwashed?

Don’t get me wrong – I nearly cried when my flatmate, who’s also in medical school, told me her aim in life was to be a housewife and that the med degree was her “backup plan” – because it seemed like a waste of the health system/university’s resources.

How does Enchanted come into this? Well for starters, everyone’s bitching about “the princess”, or Amy Adams’ character. But I’m upset that they’re completely ignoring Idina Menzel (particularly because since Rent and Wicked I’ve had a bit of a crush on her) because to me, the dichotomy between these two definitely drew me in (that, and James Marsden).

Amy Adams plays Giselle, a princess who learns to stand on her own two feet, while Nancy, a feminist’s triumph (runs her own business, et cetera) learns that there’s nothing wrong with giving into impulsivity once and awhile. One of my favourite bits of the movie was where Nancy, having just arrived in Andalasia and deciding to marry Prince Edward, threw out her Blackberry. The overarching lesson there is that the key to happiness is the middle path. As Giselle teaches Robert that it’s okay to be imaginative and whimsical sometimes, Edward teaches Nancy what happens when you’re all work and no play. I would’ve liked to see Nancy teach Edward a few things about reality, the way Robert helps Giselle grow up and fit into the Real World, but I suppose there just wasn’t enough movie time.

The only Disney princesses I dislike on the grounds of feminism to are Aurora and Ariel (nothing to do with a vendetta against the letter “A”, mind you). Aurora doesn’t really do anything except run through the forest and sing, while Ariel sorely lacks commonsense (who in their right mind would give up their means of communication?). My dislike of The Little Mermaid is intensified by the original version of the tale, which ends with the mermaid ending up in a state between life and death, a spirit “of the air” who must wait out a thousand year or something. It’s the saddest story ever (as the Pottercast team will agree) – even worse than the Cinderella version where the stepsisters chop off their feet when their mother tells them to. My friend did a 5000-word essay on how Sleeping Beauty was a symbolic warning for girls to keep their chastity, which I don’t think is entirely unlikely. But just as there are stories about rape and murder and necrophilia and alcoholism and incest and so on, these stories have a place in the very wide but not-so-wonderful world of literature.

And it’s not as if Disney is exclusively producing the most anti-feminist stories of the lot. I personally think Stephenie Meyer of Twilight fame has lot to answer for too. Now I’m going to pick out my favourites, the “princesses of the 90’s” (excluding Ariel) which I grew up with, and describe them in more detail.

Belle

• Hardcore feminists say: Persists with an abusive relationship, also something of a Mary-Sue because she is not only the smartest girl in town, she’s “the most beautiful girl in town” as well as having the ability to speak to horses (Philippe! Philippe!) and being able to sing/dance.

I love Belle because it is made clear that her greatest loves are books, family and adventure.
However, as the girl points out to everyone at the end, the Beast is no more monstrous than a man like Gaston. All the >30yr men in the movie are arrogant bastards with no clue about women.

Jasmine

• Hardcore feminists say: Needs to be married before her birthday at the start. Needs to be saved by a man at the end.

Come on, Jasmine is assertive enough to run away from her own family! She’s smart enough to manipulate Aladdin and to change tradition at the end. And may I add, she really does play a part in her own rescue (even if she has to get disgustingly close to Jafar…)

Pocahontas

• Hardcore feminists say: Very little. I think it’s very hard to criticize Pocahontas because all the men (the Chief, Ratcliffe, John Smith et al) are portrayed as idiots compared to the women (Grandmother Willow and the girl herself). Maybe the scene when John Smith sees her coming through the waterfall might be something to whine about, because the only reason he’s interested in chasing after her is because she has a magnificent figure, and her hair/body/etc are just completely unrealistic.

I don’t mind Pocahontas one bit. I mean, she shows more wisdom than all the men of her tribe put together and all the bloody Brits, she stands apart from her family, she doesn’t feel the need to follow John Smith back to the New World (until the sequel, whose existence I refuse to acknowledge), she’s headstrong, independent…what’s there not to love? Also, what is wrong with love/lust/attraction at first sight? It's not like it doesn't exist, or that it's an entirely bad thing. But there's a rant for another day.

Mulan

• Hardcore feminists say: Great start with the emphasis on brains and the jokes about stupid men, but how come the only time she has any influence is when she’s dressed up as a man?

Mulan, I think, mocks both men and women for their particular (though stereotypical) follies. We’re all superficial in one sense or another (the women are vain and short-sighted, the men are…also vain and short-sighted!) I also don’t think Mulan is designed to be the most beautiful girl on the block, like some of the older Disney princesses. And Mulan’s not even a princess, so I personally don’t quite get why people want to stick her in the “eight princesses” group. No, I think any feminist who says she can't stand Mulan probably should go watch the movie again.

So there you go. There are my thoughts on Disney girls. Feel free to disagree or agree.

choose your poison

Most of us are born with a body that's beautiful in its wholeness...so why do we do everything in our power to change this when we grow up?

Don't get me wrong, I definitely have something of the party animal streak within me. But what can really ruin a house party for me is when I see a drunk person throwing up into a bin somewhere.

This might sound slightly odd coming from someone who's worked in aged care, has had baby cousins, studies medicine and comes from a medical family (i.e. I'm okay with fecal incontinence being discussed over lunch, I've mopped up my fair share of toddler vomit, I handle dead body parts, I've stuck my {gloved} hand into a bucket of compost...), but I think I may have some idea why this is the case. Why I rushed to console my feverish cousin who threw up his apple juice all over my floor, but ran away from that college student who started stumbling towards me looking green: I don't really understand why someone who's fortunate enough to have a healthy body would go and deliberately poison it.

Someone who's vomiting because they've contracted a stomach bug is clearly not in control of themselves and therefore is to be pitied. But surely someone who's had 10 standard drinks could have controlled themselves long before they started heaving over the bin/toilet/sink, long before they started wasting medical resources that could be used to help someone who's in dire straits through no fault of their own.

However, those of you who know me will probably yell at me and say that it's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, because I have definitely engaged in my share of self-harm. Yes, I was a "cutter" in my teens, long before the word "emo" came into common use. I got out my blades whenever I needed to punish myself, whenever I felt confused, whenever I was frustrated...okay maybe not whenever, since it wasn't happening on a daily basis, but...

It's a part of myself that I really loathe, because I can't believe I was so short-sighted that I thought I'd never wear a swimsuit in public (most of the scars are on my upper thigh) or that I deliberately interfered with my body's normality. I hate my thunder thighs, but what I hate even more is that they've got these angry pale lines where I slashed away my bad feelings several years ago.

And this self-loathing I suppose is a factor in my dislike of people who decide to get completely off their face on their drug of choice. I fear it's similar to what some people say about homophobes - that the people who are most against homosexuality are those who see such tendencies within themselves and are uncomfortable about it. So feel free to laugh at me, or say that I'm twice as screwed up as you. Who knows, I probably am.

But maybe next time you're at a party, spare a thought for your liver? And the rest of your beautiful body that Nature blessed you with?