Sammy My Emotional Support Luggage

As an immigrant brown kid, I have at least one thing that my parents were always frugal about. And when we, as adults, finally splurge on that thing, we feel immensely guilty—without ever questioning how or why. There’s no logical attachment to it. For me, that item was luggage.

I wouldn’t call my parents travellers, but there was always at least one trip a year. Those trips came with a stack of luggage—too many, if you asked teenage me. Amma would head to the market to buy them, always after a round of hard bargaining. That same luggage came with me on a study trip to Yogyakarta, and again when I moved to Singapore for university.

The same luggage.

I repacked it when I left Singapore, thinking I had lost my dream life—only to return six months later, unknowingly laying the foundation for the life I live now. That luggage rolled with me on more trips—Bali, Malacca, and Hong Kong—before finally giving up on a gravel road outside the Goofy-themed Disney hotel. Such is life.

And so, I had to fork out precious euros to buy new luggage in the quaint La Vallée Village. I ended up with a Samsonite—a brand I had never even heard of—based solely on the blind recommendation of my well-travelled cousin. I only knew it was fancy because of the fresh euro bills I had to part with to get it. It was paid for with the pocket money Appa had given me, along with his usual messaging: “don’t skimp on food or experiences“.

But luggage? Luggage isn’t pasta. It isn’t a gondola ride. It isn’t an overnight train to Paris. It’s a black hole, stuffed with things I still haven’t mastered packing.

I left my broken suitcase in front of my hotel room in the Disney Resort, but the guilt followed me for the rest of the trip—and all the way back to Singapore. Weeks later, over hotpot and Korean bibimbap, I retold the story to my friends. They laughed and reassured me it was a good investment. Their collective nod of approval for this black hole called Samsonite finally put me at ease.

I still remember the melancholy I felt the day I replaced it—so much so that I wrote about it. But that was just the beginning of the story.

Because of its origin story, I grew deeply attached to it. Paying what I did had been worth it. I refused Fafa’s suggestion to take a smaller suitcase—or worse, to share space in his much larger one. What, leave Samsonite—Sam, Sammy—behind? Never. Even when he had to stay home, it never felt quite right. We were a pack. Eventually, we became a trio—with Miaw in tow—and we saw a small fraction of the world together.

When Fafa suggested retiring it, I resisted hard. It had been more than ten years. “Surely a lifetime warranty means a lifetime of usage?” I protested.

When the wheel broke, Amma took it to the same market where she’d once bought all our family’s luggage. And again, a few trips later, back it went. When the zipper failed—too many times to count—I stopped bothering to replace it and started taping it with duct tape.

Appa disapproved, warning that people could sneak drugs into broken suitcases. I promised to be more careful (though I often forgot).

When we moved from East to West, Fafa gently insisted again. This time, I caved. I said goodbye to Sam for good.

Two years later, I needed new luggage again. It was post-COVID. I was travelling for work, and airline luggage allowances had shrunk.

I knew I needed something new.

I spent time online researching. I learned that my good ol’ reliable Sammy was no longer made. The luggage size—like the airline allowance—had shrunk. And honestly, it didn’t feel right to replace Sammy with another Sammy right away.

Eventually, I chose a green hard-case suitcase from a local brand, complete with a lifetime warranty. I didn’t name it. That felt too soon—maybe even a little pretentious. For now, it’s just luggage. But I’m giving it time to grow on me—and giving myself time to let go of Sammy.

May it rest in peace.

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