Early Childhood Memories

This is a part of a series of posts I'm writing about my life. For the purposes of creating a second me trained on my life.

What are your earliest childhood memories, and how have they shaped who you are today?

The funny thing about earliest memories is how unreliable they truly are. If I were to really start outlining my early childhood memories, I'd have to admit that the earliest ones are those I find quite hard to remember with clarity. There's this fascinating dual aspect to memories - by recalling them, you essentially run a process on them and end up rewriting them in subtle ways. But if you never recall them at all, they simply fade away. It creates this paradox where someone who thinks about their past often, likely has modified versions of original memories, unless they're of a traumatic nature that sears them permanently into the brain. Meanwhile, those who live primarily in the present or avoid looking backward don't have clear memories to begin with. I'm someone who doesn't think about their past often. So I don't remember much of my past. But what I DO remember, I'm quite confident in.

My earliest memories are all snippets of Indonesia. Just flashes. Visions, basically. Of pre-primary school or kindergarten. The wooden desks. The bleak sky. The wooden buildings and walls. The concrete gutter systems that seemed to be everywhere. So much concrete. The rain.

I remember our old house before it was sold, with its courtyard in the back. I remember riding bicycles up and down my street in Jatijajar, marveling at how enormous everything looked through a child's eyes. I remember looking at the bamboo forest at the end with fear and trepidation, worried that a kuntilanak would be there.

I remember being taught Quran. A lot of pride. A lot of tears. A lot of struggle. Mostly taught by my mother and sometimes by our domestic helpers, the bibis who cared for me and my family.

These memories even extend to Kalimantan, Borneo, where I was born - memories I scientifically shouldn't even have because I was so young. What's peculiar is that I wonder sometimes if I even remember the memory themselves. Instead, it's as if when I was three or four, I had fever dreams that was set in these places, which somehow preserved them in a longer-term format. So like feverish reflections of real places that existed. I don't know if these memories are even real - like the old car I used to lose my ball under and had to crawl beneath to retrieve it. These fragments from Kalimantan feel both distant and strangely vivid.

Then I have these memories of my grandparents, who passed away more than ten years ago now. Flashes of their houses. In Bangka, Belinyu. The smells of cooked food, and the feeling of hanging out with them. How I used to troll my grandparents quite a lot, which is a trait I carry into my relationships as an adult. But these memories are sparse because I didn't go back to Indonesia much as a kid, perhaps only two or three times in total. Now that I'm older, with in-laws of my own, I understand why. The logistics of taking children overseas is a hassle - they cost almost the same as adults in airfare, they need constant supervision, and sometimes it just doesn't feel worth the effort. Still, I wish I had gone back more often, to have collected more memories of my grandparents and my homeland while I had the chance.

When I think of Australia, Townsville in Queensland marks my first Australian home. My dad had moved there after a stint in Japan, as a BHP employee. We lived close to the beach, just a block or two away. I went quite often, just to ride there on my bike. I also climbed the nets a lot. For some reason, I don't remember swimming IN the ocean, but I swam at the Strand Rock Pool close by.

I remember biking to school, navigating roads that seemed enormous then. The school itself remains in my mind as a layout of concrete and tropical plants, hot under the Queensland sun. There's this one embarrassing memory that stands out clearly - me peeing myself while sitting on a bench outside. The seat was so hot that I just sat there waiting for it to dry, hoping nobody would notice. Then strangely, the principal - I think his name was Ryan - came and sat beside me, probably concerned about why this strange Asian kid was just sitting alone on a scorching bench in the heat. Little did he know I was just waiting for my accident to evaporate. Some memories stick with you for all the wrong reasons.

School in Townsville gave me my first taste of social dynamics. I remember having a rivalry with a girl named Alison - the smart girl in class who competed with me in everything academic. I also formed lasting friendships with families that I still see occasionally today - Hisyam, Rahmah, and others from the Muslim community. I'd often get dropped off at Rahmah's house, or I'd go to Hisyam's home to play video games. Those PlayStation 2 sessions playing Star Wars Battlefront and Ratchet & Clank remain vivid in my mind.

That's where I also developed my deep seated fear of cockroaches. One day, my younger brother Hanif had been playing on my Ratchet and Clank when he overwrote my (likely hundreds) of hours savefile. I remember getting very verbally violent, and getting punished for my violence by my dad, who locked me in a room with a flying cockroach. I kind of deserved it. But my brother deserved it too.

Townsville is where I credit learning proper manners. I remember using "please" or "thank you" with a teacher in the courtyard near this massive tree (massive to a child, anyway). This teacher, who liked to stand there watching over the playground, looked at me with surprise and said, "Oh, finally, someone has manners. At least one of the kids has manners." That throwaway comment helped shape my behavior going forward.

It's also where I first confronted my athletic shortcomings. Coming from Indonesia where organized sports weren't emphasized for young children, I found myself woefully behind Australian kids who'd been playing cricket, footy, and soccer since they could walk. I remember falling after hitting a cricket ball, skinning my knees repeatedly, bleeding after face-plants, and unsuccessfully trying to get the ball from other kids during AFL games. Physical sports just weren't my forte.

Instead, I gravitated toward handball - mostly played by the girls at school. So it ended up that from grade one to about grade four, most of my friends were female. I also picked up jump rope, and spent my lunch times playing handball and jump rope with the girls. These friendships fostered emotional intelligence I might not have developed otherwise. I learned to understand feelings, to navigate social complexities, and to communicate in ways that many boys my age couldn't. While sometimes I felt sad about not fitting in with the boys, those early friendships with girls gave me insights into human nature that serve me well to this day.

Despite my lack of athletic prowess, I excelled academically. Even in Townsville, I took great pride in scoring distinctions and high distinctions in national ICAS assessments - from mathematics to science, and even in English, which was my second language at the time. I had a head start on nursery rhymes too, strangely enough. They were the one thing I'd picked up thoroughly from Indonesian kindergarten, giving me a foundation that even some native English-speaking kids lacked.

My competitive nature found an outlet in academics, particularly in my rivalry with Alison. When we eventually moved away, I received a goodbye card from my classmates. I don't know where it is now - this was nearly 20 years ago - but I distinctly remember one snarky comment from Alison, my primary competition. Something about how she would now be the undisputed #1 in the grade. Of course I had a crush on her as a kid. The competitive streak she stoked in me would carry through much of my academic life.

After Townsville, we relocated to a rural town called Moranbah, where I spent the remainder of my primary school years at Moranbah Primary School. This move marked a significant transition in my social life. Thanks to two particularly patient boys named Tyler and Jeremy, I finally formed my first genuine male friendships. They embraced me despite my initial loner tendencies, inviting me into their activities and teaching me the unwritten social codes of boyhood.

While I continued playing handball and jump rope, I gradually expanded my repertoire to include soccer, BMX riding, and other "boy" activities. Swearing, wrestling, doing stupid shit. Through these friendships, I learned what it meant to be rough-and-tumble, to take physical risks, to value daring and skill over the emotional intelligence I'd previously prioritized. It was like developing a completely different side of my personality - one more aligned with traditional masculine traits. But now, always tempered with an understanding of interpersonal relationships and emotional nuance. I gained an understanding of the way that boys play together, the ways they express love, the ways they battle.

For all its small-town limitations, Moranbah felt complete to me as a child. I had a proper mix of friends, both female and male. I had my friends' houses to go to. I had books to read and games to play. I didn't have many regrets, outside telling my friend Kevin that I had a crush on this one blonde girl. That destroyed all my chances of having a relaxing last year of primary school.

Video games became a significant part of my childhood, starting in Townsville and continuing through Moranbah. Sometimes I wonder how different my life might have been if I'd invested that time in sports instead, but I believe gaming expanded my general knowledge and problem-solving abilities in ways many of my peers missed out on. Gaming was an early gateway into virtual worlds, complex narratives, and logical thinking that would later serve me well.

In Moranbah, my academic achievements continued to distinguish me. My high ICAS scores and the general knowledge I'd accumulated from gaming and voracious reading set me apart in our small rural school. And read I did—especially during our weekend trips to Mackay, an hour or two drive each way. Some Fridays, we'd make the journey for Jumu'ah (Friday prayers), and sometimes stay for the weekend. Those long car rides fostered my enduring love for books and music, as I'd spend hours immersed in stories while listening to tracks from my dad's iPod.

Books became my escape and my education. I devoured fantasy series and even romance novels, an unusual combination for a boy my age. The fantasy novels—with their quests and adventures and heroes—appealed to the masculine side of my developing psyche, all about conquering challenges and exploring new worlds. But the romance novels connected with the emotional intelligence I'd developed from my early friendships with girls. I could understand the interpersonal drama, the subtle emotional currents that many boys my age dismissed. Together, these genres gave me a remarkably balanced perspective on human experience.

I remember reading The Hunger Games while my dad fished in one of the local creeks—a creek where we later realized crocodiles lurked. But in true Asian fashion, we pushed boundaries without fully considering consequences, wading into the mud to catch the bottom-dwelling fish. Those moments—reading dystopian fiction while my father taught me practical skills like fishing for mud skippers—epitomize the rich duality of my childhood in rural Australia. I got to do crazy things with my dad, even in a place where there's as much of a safety culture like Australia.

Looking back now as an adult, I realize how formative those early years were. The constant movement between worlds—Indonesian Muslim and Australian Nothingness—shaped my adaptability. The early friendships with girls gave me emotional insight, while later bonding with boys taught me resilience and daring. The academic achievements built my confidence, while the physical struggles taught me humility. The books expanded my imagination, while the practical experiences grounded me. I became a blending of seemingly contradictory elements: emotional yet analytical, contemplative yet adventurous, traditionally academic yet widely curious about the world beyond classroom walls.

These childhood memories, incomplete and selective as they may be, contain the seeds of who I would become. The shy boy who peed himself on a bench in Townsville, the bookworm who read romance novels in the backseat during long drives, the foreigner who gradually found his place in rural Australian boyhood—all versions of me that continue to exist within my adult self. Where once I sought to recover lost memories, now I cherish these fragments for what they are: the imperfect but authentic building blocks of my identity.