It wasn’t the first time someone called me “Uncle,” but somehow, standing at the butcher’s counter a few days ago, the title hit me like the twist ending of The Sixth Sense.
I was innocently asking for an inch of pork belly when the butcher called to his wife, “Please bring out the nicer pork belly for Uncle.”
Uncle.
Once upon a time, this title was reserved for my parents’ male siblings or what my friends’ kids called me when I handed them angpow during Chinese New Year. But somewhere along the way, I’d unknowingly crossed that invisible threshold—from sir to uncle. When? How? Was there a ceremony I slept through?
Thinking back, I suddenly realized the butcher had been calling me Uncle since I first discovered his superior—and surprisingly affordable—cuts of meat. From tabulating my purchases to complaining about inflation, it had always been Uncle-this and Uncle-that.
But I don’t feel like an Uncle—or, more accurately, I don’t resemble my mental image of one. In my mind, Uncles are those mysterious creatures who take fashion cues from Factory Outlets and are not shy about dispensing outdated wisdom. They run regimented schedules for trivial activities. Having very strong political opinions, they will chastise you for not understanding how the world “really “works.
That’s not me. I still play video games and get giddy before every superhero movie, for heaven’s sake.
Naturally, I panicked. I mumbled something to my butcher about my freezer being too full—and walked away, leaving him surprised while clutching a now unwanted prime cut of pork belly.
As I navigated the market, a montage of Uncle-calling moments replayed in my head. I was Uncle to the Indonesian woman at the fruit stall. The Mak Cik selling vegetables with her septuagenarian husband once scolded her worker for not separating “Uncle’s” chili padis from his kailan. Even the egg Aunty looked me dead in the eye and said, “Uncle, we only take cash. No QR code.”
Even the egg lady.
Between the fishmonger’s stall and the loud chicken lady’s counter, an existential crisis struck. Is this it? Have I truly become… Uncle?
Luckily, I snapped out of it.
As reality gradually returned to my senses: tomorrow is Tau Eu Bak day, and I need my soya-sauce-infused pork belly—or the delicate equilibrium of all existence will collapse.
So I did what any self-respecting person would do—I turned around, walked back to the butcher and claimed my rightful cut of pork belly.
If I must be an Uncle, at least I’ll be an Uncle who eats well.