林叔超 Forest uncle, leap.

Miss you forever, Papa.

林叔超 SC Lam 1930-2024

When Papa found out Ma was pregnant with me, he wasn’t keen. He had three nearly-grown sons already, he was married to another woman, plus he was almost sixty. At the time, mistresses, second, even third families were common but condemned, and money and talk were king in the crowded city. Born and bred Hong Konger SC Lam loved his hometown. He was a Hong Kong boy and always would be, Kowloon, specifically—no matter where else in the world he would go. He’d do some travelling over the course of his career in the construction supplies business; around Asia—the Philippines, Thailand, China, Japan—Australia and Europe, possibly America. He pocketed some of the bank that flew around the 1970s and ‘80s construction boom in Hong Kong. A time when the then-British colonial outpost went through rapid development: land reclamations, the opening of the MTR and cross-harbour tunnel, public housing developments—and the expansion of Kai Tak airport where Papa trained and worked as a pilot sometime in his twenties. He also worked as a boxer, a nightclub co-owner, and an assistant in his father’s garage.

He survived the Japanese occupation of 1941–45, full of war memories from his boyhood years. When we first reconciled, we drove around Kowloon and he shared some of them with me. Human carnage on the streets, buildings destroyed, people confined indoors out of fear. He also remembered moments of survival and resilience (overused and double-edged as those words may be); literally shining the boots of Japanese soldiers with an old rag and a block of wood he’d found on the street in exchange for biscuits to feed himself and his hungry siblings; or the time he narrowly missed being hit by an airstrike on the harbour, when he was thirteen or fourteen.

He got married in his thirties and had three kids, all sons. Then he met my mother in the 80s and they had a love that would turn into a ‘bad romance’. They also had me. He had another girlfriend, ‘Maureen’, his soulmate, and partner of 30 years.

Papa was complicated, like everyone. He didn’t always take the high road, he lied, kept secrets, sometimes he was toxic. He was a lover, clearly, with his (known) record of girlfriends—and he was a romantic. He never really got over his first love, Maureen once said, the one who got away and was arranged to marry someone else. He loved love songs and jazz about heartache and longing, and the man had deep appreciation for fashion and style. I remember him toting a tan leather LV purse in the 90s, and he loved a good silk or satin Gucci shirt. He carried a travel-sized Evian water face spray for on-the-go hydration, and everyone always said he smelled good. I remember that as well. Dior Fahrenheit was one of his favourites. He taught me how to blow dry my hair when I was a little girl, using the heat first before setting it to cool. He talked about racism based on his own experiences of it, “the Chinese man, the African man, we have to work ten times harder than the English man”, he’d laugh bitterly. He was interested in things. He took interest in people’s lives, he knew about people’s worries and milestones, sending well wishes for so and so’s surgery or Aunty someone’s son’s wedding. He took pride in being able to help people how he could.  

Mama once said that after his initial reservations, Papa fell in love with me at first sight. He came to us in the Philippines, mama and her newborn baby, and that was it. We had a complicated, strained, tense relationship, but throughout my twenties, we reconnected. There were speedbumps and traumatic potholes but we got to understand each other. Even with over half a century between us, we talked easily. He got my jokes quickly; even references he had little context for, and he mellowed out a lot from the man I remembered from childhood. He was still dynamic, his energy still commanding. People still fussed over him wherever we’d go, women attending to him with particular care, maybe an older demographic than previously. He was still assertive, but he was also more chill, gentler. Grandpa vibes.

 I’ll never forget our time together in 2023, driving around Hong Kong in our own little bubble, Papa, Maureen, Ollie and me. I’ll always remember our last special moments, his face lighting up as he realised I’d slipped past the guard to see him. His cheeky toothless grin and his little double handed wave as he clocked me and Ollie through the gate.

Every time we talked, he wanted me to know I could do anything, and he wanted me to know he’d always be there for me. Even now, I know he is.

Rest in peace and power, Papa.

林叔超

SC Lam

1930-2024

Love always,

your lotus 林嘉蓮