To be honest, the motherly love that permeated Tuesday's "account check-up" press conference held by legislator Hsieh Chi-ta (
I found the press conference extraordinarily moving: it reminded me of my mother, who must have been sitting in front of the TV at the same time, watching a soap opera as usual.
During my childhood, my mother, just like others in the neighborhood, echoed the government's "the-living-room-is-the-factory (客廳即工廠)" policy by taking up all kinds of handicraft jobs to make some extra money and supplement the family's income.
They were mostly cut-and-paste or sewing jobs that you do not need to sweat over.
Not until Tuesday, that doleful sentimental night at the end of the year, did I recall so vividly the many nights my mother, my younger sister and I spent doing those little chores.
In the legislature, former judge Hsieh is often known by the nickname "Nanny Hsieh" (
Auntie Chen is also well known in financial circles as a sharp financial manager.
Only after her sorrowful countenance was displayed on TV in the wake of the exposure of her son's bank account did viewers realize that she also has normal maternal feelings.
While watching the two ladies conduct a public "account check-up," I was struck by how much the scene resembled my childhood trips to the market in my mother's company.
I recalled how I watched my mother haggle with the vendors, and heard her mumble to herself: "NT$15 for a catty of pork, NT$3 for half a catty of carrots."
She was always complaining about the bad times and the lack of money, but that was all that my father could afford to give her.
My father, just like James Soong (宋楚瑜), worked as a government employee for more than 25 years. For him, just like other ordinary men in Taiwan, giving his salary directly to his wife was the responsibility of a good husband.
Who would blame a man who, like James Soong, had all his money managed by his wife or sister-in-law?
As a housewife, my mother knew only too well how hard it was to make ends meet. Keeping all the receipts was her way to keep track of how much was left.
Auntie Chen couldn't agree more.
Likewise, during the press conference, Auntie Chen looked more like a friendly obasan next door than a professional financial expert who makes NT$3 million a year.
Who said a "strong woman" can never be warm and tender?
On the other hand, I could find no trace of the cold-face of justice in Hsieh's performance.
At the flick of a switch, she became a "star journalist" on her first assignment. She would not allow anyone else to ask questions -- she herself would untangle all the confusion.
That night, Nanny Hsieh fished out Auntie Chen's personal account book, made a lengthy calculation, and declared: "All the money is here, NT$20 million in total."
To my surprise, Auntie Chen said: "That's not correct. It's NT$200 million."
I bet my mother would have reacted in the same way as Nanny Hsieh. She smiled broadly and said: "For me, there is no difference between NT$20 million and NT$200 million. I will never have so much money in my life."
As she talked about her remittances, Auntie Chen looked even more like my mother, calculating the money she put into the informal loan associations maintained by herself and some of her friends.
Of course the sums of money involved were a different order of magnitude, but Auntie Chen seemed to be thinking much the same way as any mother.
"On Feb. 21, 1995, I remitted US$100,000 to my sister in Costa Rica," she said. "I also remitted US$200,000 to my second son, who was studying in the US. In that same year, I remitted US$150,000 to James' son, Soong Chen-yuan (
When she said "that was much less than the amount I sent to my son," I was reminded how my mother so often said "blood is thicker than water" (
"How I came to be Soong's financial advisor is a long story," Chen said. Indeed, it was a three-hour-long story.
Again, the similarity to my mother was striking. She and her neighborhood obasans liked to sit on little wooden stools in the front yard and chat while doing their handiwork for at least three hours at a time.
They kept both their hands and mouths busy, occasionally calling kids to come over to help.
All that work of pasting bank checks on the board at the press conference reminded me of the old days.
My mother may not understand that "ruling a large country is like frying a small fish (
But Nanny Hsieh and Auntie Chen proved the truth in this saying.
While Soong was mired in the financial scandal, these two ladies bravely stepped up and tried to "hold up half the sky (
The method they employed was very "womanly," or to be more precise, very "traditionally womanly."
Some old women say that to control a man's stomach and wallet is to control him -- body, mind and soul.
Is this the lesson that the women of Taiwan should learn from this affair? My mother's answer would be: "Children should be seen and not heard. (
Some critics said Nanny Hsieh and Auntie Chen were nothing but backstage voices (唱雙簧) for Soong, but for me, that is just a negative attack on women in general.
The strategy of holding so many long-winded press conferences late at night is clearly aimed to manipulate the media and the public.
But will all the nannies and aunties buy it? I don't know, I'll have to ask my mother.
Cheryl Lai is a senior editor at the Taipei Times and former vice chair of the Association of Taiwan Journalists.
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