A revamped version of a speech I wrote for Toastmasters. The speech is titled: “A Cup, Full”. It was the first speech I wrote that held a serious note. I hope this would have made my grandpa proud. :)
“There have been many things in my life that have carried great meaning – past birthday cards, worn teddy bears, and yellowed photographs. Few, though, have had as subtle a meaning as a cup. When looking for an object to recall a memory, many things come to mind, but very rarely something as uncommonly common as a cup. It was in searching for a speech topic that I realized I had been wrong –that cups were, in fact, extraordinary containers for memories, as well as their stories. Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to take this time to share two drinks with you: in memory of a cup that grew old and a cup that was lost.
I had given my parents a Christmas mug as a child. It’s an old mug, with chips and cracks at the bottom; the interior is permanently stained with black herbal teas. It’s the kind of mug you would find at the Dollar Store every holiday season, and then never see again. I was probably around seven-years-old when I bought this, using money I had collected over the year – from tooth fairy quarters and water fountain pennies. I recall the agonizing process of selecting the “just right” gift from shelves of commercial goods – tacky snow globes filled with festive scenes and cheaply painted ornaments of fat men in red suits. My three-foot frame would pace the aisles as my grandfather loomed over the cashier counter, testing every pen in the jar of writing utensils.
I wanted to get something beautiful, but, having terribly practical parents, it had to be useful as well. And as I turned the corner, the answer stared at me with glossy painted eyes: a Christmas mug. There was something incredibly graceful and comforting in a holiday mug, and I knew I was wrapping perfection when I lay the collaged present under the tree. There have been very few times since when I had ever felt so sure about a giving my parents a gift; what I wrapped was not merely a mug, but one filled with the unyielding confidence of a seven-year-old child. This is a cup that has grown old with me.
This next cup is one that I have lost; the cup I have in my hands isn’t the original. It had belonged to my grandfather. When my father’s father arrived in Canada, he was already an 83-year-old China man. Having worked every single day of his life on his farm back in the country, he was most comfortable when he was busy. My younger self helped him plant forests in our garden – potatoes with wizened faces and beans that reached the sky. We also rode our bikes together; my own legs barely long enough to reach the pedals, and his tall, spindly figure peddling towards the Big Lai Palace where he had “high tea” every afternoon. There, he roared like a dragon with the owner; in her younger years, she could snap back like a whip – now the Big Lai Palace is closed and silent.
After we filled ourselves with too much pork and tea, we stopped by Crystal Mall where Chinese familiarities crowded the building with smells of fried rice and pungent herbal remedies. There, my grandfather would buy a bag of dried red dates – it was these dates he would use to boil fragrant concoctions on the stovetop. Sunny, cloudy, and rainy Sunday afternoons were spent removing the pits from the sticky centers of the dates, and watching the strange drinks my grandfather would ladle into his black cup – drinks that could cure indigestion, bunions, and baldness.
There were other ingredients in his drinks besides dates, and he had told them to me before – but in my seven-year-old mind, I had thought he would always be there to tell me how to mix magic drinks, to ride our bicycles together, and to drink “high tea” at the Big Lai Palace. The original cup had broken a long time ago. That was my first lesson on mortality.
Cups are odd; they were never made to be full or empty. Cups are a place of momentary storage: for drinks and for memories. To be slowly sipped away, and refilled again later. Through these cups I have remembered times of absolute confidence – and of humility. So, the next time you share a drink with a parent, a friend, or a stranger, look at the seemingly inconspicuous vessel in your hands. You just might find you have a story to share.”
by: cass chan - written and presented in february 2011
“There have been many things in my life that have carried great meaning – past birthday cards, worn teddy bears, and yellowed photographs. Few, though, have had as subtle a meaning as a cup. When looking for an object to recall a memory, many things come to mind, but very rarely something as uncommonly common as a cup. It was in searching for a speech topic that I realized I had been wrong –that cups were, in fact, extraordinary containers for memories, as well as their stories. Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to take this time to share two drinks with you: in memory of a cup that grew old and a cup that was lost.
I had given my parents a Christmas mug as a child. It’s an old mug, with chips and cracks at the bottom; the interior is permanently stained with black herbal teas. It’s the kind of mug you would find at the Dollar Store every holiday season, and then never see again. I was probably around seven-years-old when I bought this, using money I had collected over the year – from tooth fairy quarters and water fountain pennies. I recall the agonizing process of selecting the “just right” gift from shelves of commercial goods – tacky snow globes filled with festive scenes and cheaply painted ornaments of fat men in red suits. My three-foot frame would pace the aisles as my grandfather loomed over the cashier counter, testing every pen in the jar of writing utensils.
I wanted to get something beautiful, but, having terribly practical parents, it had to be useful as well. And as I turned the corner, the answer stared at me with glossy painted eyes: a Christmas mug. There was something incredibly graceful and comforting in a holiday mug, and I knew I was wrapping perfection when I lay the collaged present under the tree. There have been very few times since when I had ever felt so sure about a giving my parents a gift; what I wrapped was not merely a mug, but one filled with the unyielding confidence of a seven-year-old child. This is a cup that has grown old with me.
This next cup is one that I have lost; the cup I have in my hands isn’t the original. It had belonged to my grandfather. When my father’s father arrived in Canada, he was already an 83-year-old China man. Having worked every single day of his life on his farm back in the country, he was most comfortable when he was busy. My younger self helped him plant forests in our garden – potatoes with wizened faces and beans that reached the sky. We also rode our bikes together; my own legs barely long enough to reach the pedals, and his tall, spindly figure peddling towards the Big Lai Palace where he had “high tea” every afternoon. There, he roared like a dragon with the owner; in her younger years, she could snap back like a whip – now the Big Lai Palace is closed and silent.
After we filled ourselves with too much pork and tea, we stopped by Crystal Mall where Chinese familiarities crowded the building with smells of fried rice and pungent herbal remedies. There, my grandfather would buy a bag of dried red dates – it was these dates he would use to boil fragrant concoctions on the stovetop. Sunny, cloudy, and rainy Sunday afternoons were spent removing the pits from the sticky centers of the dates, and watching the strange drinks my grandfather would ladle into his black cup – drinks that could cure indigestion, bunions, and baldness.
There were other ingredients in his drinks besides dates, and he had told them to me before – but in my seven-year-old mind, I had thought he would always be there to tell me how to mix magic drinks, to ride our bicycles together, and to drink “high tea” at the Big Lai Palace. The original cup had broken a long time ago. That was my first lesson on mortality.
Cups are odd; they were never made to be full or empty. Cups are a place of momentary storage: for drinks and for memories. To be slowly sipped away, and refilled again later. Through these cups I have remembered times of absolute confidence – and of humility. So, the next time you share a drink with a parent, a friend, or a stranger, look at the seemingly inconspicuous vessel in your hands. You just might find you have a story to share.”
by: cass chan - written and presented in february 2011