Colin Goh and Woo Yen Yen

The following was published in the Sunday Times on 7 October 2007:

Sunday Times 7 Oct 2007
Marching with the Monks
by Colin Goh

No, not those monks. (Much as I have great sympathy for their cause.)

Rather, last Sunday, I found myself walking alongside a group of Shaolin monks in a Mid-Autumn Festival parade held in Flushing, home to New York’s largest Chinese community.

This was naturally at the behest of the Wife, who’s been taking Shaolin kung fu classes for two months now, due to what I suspect are unfulfilled childhood aspirations stemming from watching too many Condor Heroes serials.

“My sifu wants all his students to march in the parade under the Shaolin school’s banner,” she told me one evening.  “And we’re allowed to bring friends. Come with me, lah! You can take pictures. It’ll be fun!”

“Fun? When was the last time you marched in a parade?” I retorted. My last time was during National Day yonks ago, when I was in my secondary school’s military band, playing the Colonel Bogey March. It’s hard to be enthusiastic about participating in parades when what you remember most about them are sweating profusely, clomping about in uncomfortable boots, and playing a song that most people associate with building the Burma Death Railway.

“It’ll be very informal,” she assured me. “Like most parades here.”

It’s true.  As Singaporeans, we tend to think of parades as huge, mega-produced extravaganzas like the NDP or the Chingay. But when we first came to New York, we were surprised at how laid back many of the parades were, even famous ones like the upcoming Halloween Parade. Aside from a few contingents with elaborate costumes and props, the vast majority of the marchers were ordinary folks in everyday wear, merely toting flags or banners signalling their affiliation.

And similarly, the Flushing Mid-Autumn Festival Parade was an exemplar of informality – it made even my secondary school’s parades look like the Pasadena Tournament of Roses.

There were two lion dancers (one of whom seemed to be less interested in prancing up and down than putting the moves on a nubile flag bearer); a platoon of aunties and grandmas dressed in white qipaos, bashing cymbals together; a NCC-equivalent group from a local high school; a traditional Korean pungmul troupe; a lantern-toting Malaysian Chinese family in baju kurung and baju melayu, replete with sampeng and songkok; two Indian ladies waving an embroidered flag; and a lone guy in a weird homemade dragon outfit.

Then there was us – the Shaolin contingent.  Only two of the monks were in their robes. One arrived in a windcheater and t-shirt, claiming he’d injured himself. Some of the students came in white t-shirts with the school’s logo, and black slacks. Many didn’t, preferring their regular togs. The Wife was in jeans, a blouse and sunglasses.
No one was “marching” much either. The monks and their motley crew of acolytes occasionally burst into a flurry of leaps and spins that got the crowds lining the street cheering, and the Korean pungmul dancers twirled their long-ribboned hats, but overall, it was more of a stroll for everyone.

As I snapped photos, I kept wondering if Singaporean audiences would put up with this level of informality.  The parade was more than just rojak – it was positively “chapalang”. In my head, I thought, “So no standard compared to Singapore.”

The parade concluded at the Queens Botanical Gardens, where some of the troupes also put on a little show. The monks strutted their stuff, some girls did a fan dance, and the guy in the dragon suit capered to hip-hop. Again, all very impromptu.  Then something happened.  During their performance, the pungmul troupe began dragging audience-members in to dance with them.

Watching all these folks, of different races, ages and rhythmic ability, gyrating unselfconsciously on the lawn to traditional Korean drums, I felt thoroughly charmed, the first time I’ve ever felt so about a parade.  And I realized I’d misjudged everything - badly.

I’d expected a discipline, choreographed spectacle because that’s what I was used to back home. But this was a simple community event – a chance for friends and neighbours to see and mingle with each other in a slightly different light.  It wasn’t inferior at all. In fact, the informality was an asset: no affectation, no competition, no stress, and frankly, just as enjoyable, if not more so, as it wasn’t yet another spectator/consumerist experience.

We Singaporeans have much to be proud of, but this experience has taught me once again that pride can also lead to presumption.  I deserved a kick in the head, and it’s fitting that it was administered by a motley bunch of Shaolin monks.

Colin and the Wife’s film, Singapore Dreaming, is opening shortly in Taipei, Tokyo and the Sun Festival in Singapore

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