SINGAPORE – In clothes that look like he mugged an elderly socialite and with a habit of naming the price of things he owns, David Yong at first feels a little unreal.
Just when you think you have grasped the audacity of the man, you discover that he must keep his black American Express card on a kind of spring-loaded holster worthy of Batman, allowing him to whip it out in a flash at waiters, realtors or anyone at all to make a conversational point.
For Yong, the card is not so much a payment device as it is a signal, with the signal being “I am richer than you”.
Of all the wealthy people they could have picked to represent Singapore, they picked this one?
We have all met insecure people, but Yong must be the president of that society. It must be exhausting being him. At every social interaction, he must worry about being mistaken for a peasant instead of a member of “the top 1 per cent of Singapore”, to use his phrase.
But then, this is a reality show we are talking about. The six-episode Netflix series Super Rich In Korea, which premiered on May 7, showcases a group of mostly non-Koreans who have settled in that country and who, if what they say is to be believed, love it to bits.
Among them is Yong from Singapore. He is in Seoul to bring talent from South-east Asia to the K-pop capital of the world. He has family money: In published reports, he is often referred to as a “timber scion”, which, like “tin baron” and “copper magnate”, is another way of saying that his family has been wealthy since before the discovery of fire.
If there is one thing we have learnt about reality shows, it is that they lie – producers create good guys and bad. The show creators prefer participants who can provoke, instigate and, as this column is showing, spark conversation.
No one knows the questions producers asked Yong to provoke him to say, “I am one of the top 1 per cent”. And was he asked to wear the Chanel brooch the size of a small asteroid to a blind date or did he choose wear it freely?
It is clear, however, that he likes to bling himself silly, as the scene of him shopping shows – the louder the outfit, the wider his eyes get. “Quiet luxury” is a trend that to him must be like holy water to a vampire.
Yong is doubtless an awkward man, but his awkwardness is that thing that makes him endearing.
In the blind date scene, he is clearly struggling. His businessman friend Teo, the embodiment of Italian smoothness, is in his element. The two women at the table are melting under his Tuscan sun as Yong looks on helplessly, like a tourist watching locals having a lovely chat in a language he does not understand.
As a Singaporean man, I can identify with his predicament. The dating tableau is a perfect representation of the oft-repeated female complaint that, compared with foreigners, Singaporean men are unromantic, passive and generally hopeless socially.
At that moment, with the tragic Yong looking at Teo dancing circles around him in manners and deportment, I am Yong, and Yong is me.
A shudder ran through me: In what other ways am I like him? Do I want to be the centre of attention always? Has my ability to put others at ease atrophied because, as a man, I have never felt the pressure to do better?
Do I think that as long as I pay for the event, people should be nice to me so I never have to learn to be nice to them? Am I the BMW and Audi driver the Kia drivers talk about?
From being embarrassed to have him represent Singapore, I turned to being a bit more sympathetic because in this peacocking, cringe-making, insecure man, I see something of myself and Singaporeans I know.
Generational wealth appears to stunt emotional growth. For those of us not born into families where the term “scion” applies, I wonder what the cause might be?
