My earliest memory is that of my paternal grandmother singing to me "Jesus love me yes I know, for the bible tells me so, little ones to him belong, they are weak but he is strong..." Of course she sung it in the Hokkien dialect, not in English, the words are exactly the same in meaning. Of all things, she is the greatest influence on my choice of belief. She was the one who instilled in me Christian values even before I could speak.
I don't know how old or young i was when she first sung that song to me, but I guess I would be a toddler.
My earliest memory of my mother, was her reading storybooks to me. We would sit down together, with book opened in front of us and read together. I was hooked on reading after that. I think I must have been five or six when I read my first book. I know that's probably late by today's standard. In today's world, once the kid is a year old, the parents might sent him off to playschool. I'm not too clear on the system but it seems to me that kids go to school earlier than they did back then.
There used to be just kindergarten, now there's playschool, preschool and heck knows what. At least that's how it is here.
My earliest memory of my dad is of him getting angry. Barking, growling, snapping. If you think this is unfortunate, you are right. It's hard to recall him not being angry. My earliest memory of him is of him yelling at my mum. Just that one scene that probably lasted for about five minutes - I can't even recall why it happened or how it ended.
I remember on my fifth birthday, he bought me a nice creamy cake and put candles on it. He loved taking photos, so he had his camera out and everything. After that, he instructed me to stand behind the cake and smile. I must have gotten it wrong. He got angry as I recalled. He was becoming absolutely monsterous about it. When you are kid, adults are huge and when they yell down at you, you can feel the angry wind from their shouts. I think I began to cry instead, which just made him all the more angrier.
He insisted to have those pictures taken. Because today I still have those pictures. A little girl, eyes red and puffy, standing in front of her birthday cake, with a forced smile.
I don't think he gave a damn that day that it was my birthday. Father took lots of pics of me when I was a baby. That was supposed to mean he loves me. But his actions throughout my memories of him, was one of control, not love.
My father is long dead and gone. He died from cancer about 18 years ago. 18 years, I'm trying not to become like him, but there is no doubt in my mind I have inherited my father's tendency to rage. I'd like to think I'm not entirely like my father, but I suspect it would be easy to become just like him if I don't watch myself.