Letter Speech

How the military changed the way I communicate with my parents

Speech for COMMST 223 in 1A

1am in the South China Sea. Hundreds of miles from the nearest landmass in any direction, and I was crying. In fact 25 other batchmates around me were crying too. Apart from the fact that we had been shouted at for our absolute incompetence in being naval cadets, most of us were weeping because of this – letters from our parents. Picture this: the frigate was rolling at at least a 10 degree angle and the tables and benches we were on had to be tied down to the deck with nylon rope. We were a sleep deprived bunch, most of us on the verge of throwing up or with mind numbing headaches, and were barely halfway to our destination, but the emotions I felt that night couldn't have been clearer.

Today, I want to talk about how being in the military changed the way I communicate with my parents.

Growing up in Singapore, I took my parents for granted. I think like many of us, we think that we know better than our parents. Whether it was the latest fashion trends, or the friends that I spent my time around, I didn't want my parents to dictate all of that. I mean, who does? I always thought that I knew better than them – we all, at some point, would think the same way.

This was conveyed the most obviously through the tone of voice. I naturally have a rather deep voice, and it didn't help that I was purposely masking my responses, or making them extremely short, one-worded grunt. "Hey how was your day?" "K"

Using my phone at the dinner table was a norm. To make things worse, I would leave the dinner table immediately after I was done eating. All of that was to convey that I didn't want their company, I enjoyed time alone! For the most part in my high school, my parents were actually reluctant to let me go overseas because of this attitude, this brash tone that I used to communicate with them.

That all changed when I enlisted in the military. Unfortunately for Singaporean males, our heads would be shaved clean and we would be shipped off to an island off mainland Singapore. In the first week, I quickly realized how much I missed home (and my parents). It didn't help that they were enjoying themselves on a holiday in Switzerland that I had planned for them. They were even sending me pictures while I was stuck in a mosquito-infested bunk!

It really hit me during field camp: a period when all recruits are sent further into the jungle with ZERO basic amenities. No bathrooms, no shower, no bed. Just a shovel, your groundsheet, and your rifle.

As a ritual, trainers would haze us through particularly bad physical punishments during the fourth day of field camp. And then they would hand out letters: letters that parents wrote as a means of encouragement. And as you can imagine, we all broke down and wept. You can see here I still have some camouflage stains on the paper (when it mixes with water, or in my case, tears).

I started appreciating my parents more: the food mum cooked, the flawless folding dad executed – I could never take that for granted. Every Sunday night before I made the hour-long commute to camp, I'd always find an excuse to stay a little longer at the dinner table, until I really had to go. If not for the threat of punishment and a later release the following weekend, I'd stay there the whole night.

The 48 hours I had at home, minus those spent sleeping from extreme fatigue, felt a lot shorter than they were back in high school. My body language shifted, my tone changed: I started putting a lot more intention in the time that I'd spent with them, because the slight nagging mum gave couldn't compare to the punishments due to wrongs I didn't commit.

So I treasure these letters, too, as a form of communication because they mean so much in that moment. When I'm feeling down and out, and now literally tens of thousands of kilometres away from home, letters are my form of communication (apart from the weekly video call) – because they pack so much meaning in every written word. That's why I left them letters when I left for Canada too.

And of course, when I'm calling my parents now, there's no way that I'm responding with a simple "yes / no" "ok bye let me go to class". Now, I would take the time to explain why showering with Waterloo water might make me go bald, how a bunch of friends and I have to rush from this class to MATH137 every Monday and Wednesday, and what I had for breakfast – all as a means to spend more time with them.

Now, I treasure the time that I have with my parents so, so much more. Thank you.