Perhaps my flawed understanding of musical counterpoint explains my life's persistent dissonance. It's a recurring theme.

        During  the  segregation  of   Chinese   and   English  schools, 

friends mistook me for an English school student.  “Hi! I'm Jack. You're……?” They expected me to reply with an English name.

      In the army, a Chinese lorry driver asked me for directions in Malay. Confused, I glanced down, noticing my dark skin. The puzzle solved, I answered in simple Malay.

      On the train from London to Paris, a fellow Asian repeatedly tried to connect with me in Japanese, mistaking me for a compatriot.

     Back in Singapore, the initial question, regardless of whether the speaker was a high-profile editor or a humble taxi driver, always began the same:

      “Are you Chinese from mainland China? ”

      “My grandfather was, I'm not. ”

      “Hong Konger? ”

      “My aunt is, I'm not. ”

      “Then you're……?”

   Why the persistent disbelief that I'm a Singaporean? The constant questioning breeds self-doubt, a gnawing insecurity.

      Am I truly Singaporean? 

      I lack many typical markers: sharp business acumen, financial savvy, a constantly upgraded home.

      This misalignment extends beyond appearance to values and life choices.

  A renowned columnist, a friend, urged, “For cultural preservation, you should write more.” I smiled. Such statements ring hollow. I can't match his passion. Why bother?

      Many writers ask:

      “Are you a columnist? ”

      “Have you published a book? ”

      Columns are licenses, passports, providing easy access to the public. Books are writer's ID cards. But before this book, I drove without a license, rejecting the rules. I wondered: Can I forge a different path? Write when I feel like it. Publish when the time is right. Life's too short for commitments, for adhering to norms.

       Anthony,   my   printer,   asked,   “Why  a  book,  if   you   teach 

music?” 

      This echoes other questions:

      “Why screenwriting, if you're a musician? ”

      “Why write plays? ”

      “Why study counselling? ”

      “Why photography? ”

      My answer: displacement.

    

     Life's dissonances built bridges for my life and thoughts. They challenged my stability. This dissonance forms the core of Asking the Pines.

      Perhaps our meeting is a displacement.    

      Perhaps your discovery of this book is, too.

      This displacement brought us together. 

      You shared my journey.   

      Your presence justifies my meanderings.

      May life's displacements be beautiful misunderstandings.

      My gratitude to the National Arts Council, the Lee Foundation, the Singapore Writers' Association, and the volunteers who helped bring The Pines book to life.