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Rated: E · Short Story · Experience · #2329718
Based one thing I discovered from my many taxi rides growing up in Singapore.
It always starts the same way, though I can never remember where I was coming from. Was it after school? Drama club on Fridays? Or maybe after tuition at Far East Shopping Centre? The rides blur together after a while—sometimes the taxi is blue, other times yellow, red, or grey. I slide into the backseat, greeted by the familiar smell of air freshener and worn leather. The driver and I exchange a nod—usually a man, Chinese, Indian, or Malay. Sometimes there are religious icons near the window. If he’s Buddhist, he's got a small golden Buddha or a japamala dangling from the rearview mirror. If he’s Hindu, there’s usually a picture of Vishnu or Ganesh taped to the windscreen.

But no matter who he is, the moment I give my home address, he pauses, tilting his head at the sound of my voice.

“Miss, where you from?”
“I’m Singaporean, sir.”
“Wah! You local?” His voice rises in surprise, like he can’t believe his ears.
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat, already knowing what’s coming next.
“But ah, your English so powerful! You sure you not ang mo?”
“No, my dad’s ang mo. German. But my mum’s local.”
“But your English, ah—no local accent one. Your parents make you talk like that, ah?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I give a small shrug, hoping the conversation will end there.
“Good, good! Now must talk like you, then can go far.” He laughs.

I smile, just a little. I’ve heard this before, and I know he always means well. But it always feels complicated. My dad’s German, and my Singaporean mum was born to Sri Lankan immigrants. I was born in Indonesia - adopted. And so is my sister, who was born in Johor. One family, four countries. But I don’t know if that makes us more at home everywhere—or nowhere at all.

Outside, the city passes in quiet flashes — coffee shops, hawker stalls, neat rows of HDB flats. The driver taps the steering wheel softly, a rhythm I can’t quite follow. I watch the streets roll by and wonder if home is a place you recognize, or a place that recognizes you.

Ang mo (or Ang moh) - a Singlish term used to refer to Caucasians or White people. The term originates from Hokkien, a Chinese dialect. “Ang” means “red,” and “mo(h)” means “hair,” so “ang mo” literally translates to “red-haired.” This reflects the perception of many Caucasians having lighter or reddish-colored hair compared to people from East and Southeast Asia.
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