The space
between
Granny’s wardrobe and bed
was the safest place the
world could afford at age six.
I knew every inch, nook
and cranny, (excuse me)
Where I hid my treasures,
The stale smell of newspapers, her spittoon,
Uncovered boxes as dust-covered
as the paths I’ve since trodden.
Coming back to finish it another day…
the world was simpler because the world was smaller,
it never mattered how many times we met. We met.
a lunchbox meal was a pretty romantic thing to do.
long train rides and walks didn’t make your feet hurt
as much as they now do.
It seems your world had grown beside me,
who smiled gaily and perhaps stupidly
exploding in a million shiny, platinum covered luxuries.
And our world seemed barren of promise,
tread-bare, over-eaten, missing the zest of champagne bubbles.
Bubbles that float on effervescent dreams,
which are too big for me.
There was a time when we was enough for you and me.
I felt so sure that I would be ok.
It started with that question, in that tone, at that time of the night. He knew something was going to change, but he didn’t know what or how. There had been such times before, preceded by that question, that tone, which gave him that feeling like first days of school. Unease and hopeful curiosity.
……
In the cool morning air, he shrugged his bag further up his shoulder, standing by the road as he had many times before. That same tree of uncertain height that made one conscious of it grazing one’s hair. A cab approached and slowed, anticipating his flagging, All neon and blue cast in orange, coming to a rest in front of him. He hadn’t raised his hand. As he pulled the door shut, the driver glanced back and asked if he was waiting for someone and he had to strain just to say “No.”
……
As he secured the familiar clip of the bracelet she had given him, the same thought came to him as it had many times before; she had once teased him about how he had more accessories than her. This time, the quiet smile to himself was a bittersweet one. This was certainly going to be painful, he thought, as the ring they had bought together followed next.
……
But it had been the best day. One of those that come few and far between. One of those that made the world seem right, motion-picture-perfect. The wind in their faces, the sun turning their faces pink, the colors around them standing out like airbrushed photos. And she looking so good.
Maybe it would indeed be the best day, he prayed.
On rainy days when
the world’s a rivulet-curtain,
grey,
Impassive sky over
busy pitter-patter of droplets I
have a longing.
Have you?
If it ain’t broken, don’t break it. Not all things can be fixed.
Age is NOT just a number - my hamstrings are still aching after Friday’s race in college.
No matter what I think at times, my family is the most important thing to me and what they think of me matters.
When she is in ‘that mood’, just be quiet.
Driving is not something you pass, it’s something you constantly improve on.
Yes, some people need to be spanked when they were children. When they grow up, it becomes caning.
Blaring your music out into the streets - no matter what you think of it - is noise pollution.
There is no such thing as moderated detention - make them suffer.
If I can’t remember your birthday, I won’t expect you to remember mine.
Students are masochistic. Teachers excel at it.
Not many people know this, but teaching is probably the best job in the world.
Getting so drunk you puke in the streets is only ok up to age 21. Ok, maybe 29.
It’s got to be jazz.
Who wants to be unique?
I will never be a sports legend. But community league tennis looks possible.
Staying in is only terrific if I don’t get to do it often.
We can live without TV.
One main mission in my life is to make sure I don’t love the sound of my own voice too much.
What one does doesn’t define what one is.
Wit and knowing how to dance are probably the best babe-magnets. Six-packs sell magazines and health supplements.
If you were counting, you have too much time on your hands.
Heard this during a meeting today, which I remember as:
"Common space is not about homogenisation, it’s about the sharing of space and…
Harmony (ethnic) is not about ignoring differences but making efforts to understand and share a common space…
And that is why we have student wearing uniforms…"
And I wonder, is there a difference between homogenisation and wearing uniforms? Isn’t that a way of erasing what may stand out? (i.e., amulets, religious paraphernalia and ethnic wear).
I understand the necessity to, especially in such a global climate, I just can’t quite figure out the difference…
And the fact that the freedom of self-expression in a common space isn’t quite working out the way it was supposed to is also worrying. What is the way?
I’ve just finished a book which probably qualifies as the longest read of my life - that is, if I exclude Immanuel C.Y. Hsu’s ‘The Rise of Modern China’, which served as bedtime reading and pillow as well as drool-absorber during my JC days. During my dalliance with McCourt’s book, there were others, but never one which I actually finished, as such is the fate, as McCourt also admits to share, of the English teacher. One would think that we gobble books down three times a day, before and after meals, but no, the sad truth is that one probably only picks it up at bedtime, nicely propped up by pilows, when most of the world is snoozing already, only to doze off five minutes and 3 pages later. None of this long read has anything to do with stuffy writing or the book being a word-monster - it’s less than 300 pages on a hardcover edition. Rather, this is one book which I swore I would take time over, reading, and thinking, and it was pretty rewarding, mostly because I found traces of myself in it, minus the Irishness of course. It doesn’t pretend to be the biography of a master teacher, who rose up the ranks of poorly paid middle school teachers who worried about rent and kids and were hassled by students who couldn’t be bothered to the echelons of the elegant University professor. He admits to weaknesses, uncertainties, not knowing things, not being able to grasp the so-called true meaning of education that some politicians and edu-officials proclaim un-selfconsciously to know. When it comes to these, McCourt is at times humorously self-deprecating, satirical but never sarcastic. The latter he saves for his ex-wife, I suppose.
I applaud the man for fleshing out the English teacher who never pretends to know it all or to be perfect, who eschews bureaucratic approaches to teaching and most of all for appearing to fumble through most of it. Some of his experiences with students which he taught, with education officials, etc, really made me kneel and kiss the earth in gratitude for my relative good fortune. But these have also made him come up with innovations in the classroom which could either be seen as sheer genius or sheer lunacy. McCourt taught his creative writing class to read recipes, which eventually climaxed into a class recipe reading accompanied by a symphony of sorts. Another related lesson saw the students bringing all sorts of food for a picnic. He even introduced lesser-known bisexual Beat inspirer cum small time thief cum male prostitute cum drug addict Herbert Huncke to his class!
One of the more light-hearted but honest anecdotes McCourt relates is the eponymous forging of excuse notes, like the one quoted below;
‘Dear Mr McCourt, Mikey’s grandmother who is my mother eighty years of age fell down the stairs from too much coffee and I kept Mikey at home to take care of her and his baby sister so I could go to my job at the coffee shop in the ferry terminal. Please excuse Mikey and he’ll do his best in the future as he likes your class. Sincerely yours, Imelda Dolan. P.S. His grandmother is OK.’
MCourt’s lyrical narrative slips into one’s imagination easily and smoothly, such as when he describes how even the weather affects lessons, ‘Rain changes the mood of the school, mutes everything. The first class comes in silently. One or two say good morning. They shake drops from their jackets. They’re in a dream state. They sit and wait. … Rain is magic. Rain is king. Go with it, teacher man. Take your time. Lower your voice. … It should rain everyday. Or there are spring days when heavy clothing is discarded and each class is a vista of breasts and biceps. Little zephyrs wafting through the windows caress the cheeks of teachers and students, send smiles from desk to desk, from row to row till the room is all adazzle. Pigeon coo and sparrow chirp to tell us be of good cheer, summer in my room, copulate on the windowsill and that is more seductive than the best lesson by the greatest teacher in the world.’
Kudos to McCourt for his comic and honest portrayal of teaching in the high school. For being both ‘Teacher’ and ‘Man’.
Anxiety…
Sour, doesn’t linger on, but keeps
coming back in the back of my throat
sort of acidic taste,
like bile.
Soft, not comfortingly, but cool
sludge-like soft like too soft mud
on the sea bed, feeling
uncertain because of it.
Like blood throbbing in my head
and ear, silent to everyone else but
deafening loud, booming to me.
Staccato of drilling.
Sickeningly sweet…
like crushed frangipani flowers, cloying itself
in my nostrils, lingering, snatching away
everything else.
A checklist on my
‘STUFF TO DO’ board, just that
the little boxes that neatly list life’s
tasks aren’t checked.
Written as part of rough work during Jacob Sam-la Rose’s workshop. Like I said, it’s rough, may come bak to polish it… one more box to check I guess.
It’s mornings like these that I really dig; the rain that must have come while the world was warmly ensconced in bed has washed away the fumes of the previous day, leaving a clear sky made paler blue by the sun which has been shining exuberantly the past few days, as if to make up for the days it was smothered by a cloud of haze. A cool breeze picks up and wafts into the room from time to time - an enervating breath of fresh air.
What better way to spend a day like this than at the beach, oiled and lounging on a deck chair at KM8 or supine anywhere along the powder white beach of Sentosa, Lush 99.5 oozing out thickly from a radio. A day of tofu-brained, langourous existence. Punching in a couple of sun-drenched-brain-inspired word or two onto a laptop, writing a blog.
But of course, that’s not what I’m doing now, or where I am right now. I’m usually somewhere else from where I am.
On days like these, I think about what woould inspire me, and at this time of the year, what would inspire me next year. What would fill me with that sense of purpose, firing up the burners inside me, like a smoldering ring that draws Frodo-like me to search and brave dangers untold for it. What would pry my eyes open - and more importantly - keep them open on lazy-dog days when the rains fall from a barely brightened, iron-grey morning sky, trying to drown the world and float Noah’s Ark again. What Holy Grail to pursue next year?
Actually I do know the answer, have been considering it, turning it over and over again. It’s the simplest thing, and yet, I find the most difficult thing.
Make people read. More specifically, make students read.
‘Only Read’, I would like to call it - whatever ‘it’ might be depends on what sort of shape ‘it’ will take. But I suspect such a mod-advertising, pseudo-maxim sounding title has been used somewhere, maybe by the NLB before. No matter, I only pretend to be original.
This Grail mission has been chasing my thoughts ever since I started teaching, and especially after reading an article in ‘Time’ about the adoption of a "college novel" in many American high schools / universities due to falling readership amongst Americans. This rather innocuous and rather innoculation-like way of injecting reading into the student body, allowing it (or hoping it will) to spread in its bloodstream of students is particularly inspiring as it doesn’t enforce, it encourages, it hopes. It’s really like introducing a bacteria into a body and hoping that the best works out, which was what my clumsy metaphors were trying to illustrate earlier on. Of course, the chances of adverse reactions are present.
Why so old-school? Why not think of something more innovative? More sexy to pursue and spice up the resume? The word "read" has become like the other four-letter word that that used to be vulgar but now has become cool. A humongous lexical irony. And to embark on a programme that evinces and advocates the importance of one is to appear as dusty and yellowed as many a book jacket in a school library. Of the many babelicious programmes and initiatives that parade and strut around the table-top of school decision-makers, the reading programme is still one of the many old-timers on its list, but its an old hag now, to be avoided like a hobo. The teacher given this assignment cringes, as the task seems so uphill it looks like what Mount Olympus must look to a mere mortal. (A caveat I hasten to offer here is that this is not the case in all schools and does not apply to all teachers.) But I would say its like this in most. Such a task, where results and (gulp) value-addedness cannot be measured to beef up one’s performance benchmarks (and fatten the April cow) isn’t exactly delectable. But like most good teachers, it is accepted and carried out, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes inconsistently, sometimes creatively for better or worst, most of the time with little success, or measurable success.
Jo and I were talking about how she used to like to read as a child, but seemed to have lost that hobby when she got older. How does that happen, I wonder? And I recalled the period when I was in the army, when ‘life’ happened. Like a mad stallion charging out of the stables, I attacked life where I thought it was - at clubs. I don’t think I even finished one book in those two years or so - unless it was TSR or parts of a handbook about artillery specs or tactics of an infantry platoon. It happened to me too. Environment? Behaviour of a deprived young man?
Flashback to now, do I advocate reading only because I teach? Of course I do. But not before considering that no matter what, I’ve always felt guilty about not keeping up with reading during those years. And admittedly, even though the spiralling night lights were bright and the girls were pretty, it did start to feel empty. And I guess, having experienced that, I’ve gotten to be more realistic about this objective of mine. I wouldn’t expect reading rates to skyrocket, or to see a marked increase in the GP grades of many hopeful students. That just creates another pragmatic reason to read, and pragmatism kills the need to do something when the reason for it disappears. What I would achieve, I know, is that someone would have a book they would talk about whether they "luurved" it or hated it, or tell someone about, impress a girl - or boy - with it, find a common talking point with someone who has read it, or find an uncommon talking point to interest someone in, find something in that book suddenly relevant to their life sometime; spell better; speak properly in such a way that is intelligible and correct English (yes, I use the word correct) and which may not necessarily impress the socks off ‘ang-mohs’ but which at least doesn’t make them cringe or furrow their brows in desperate incomprehension; understand and appreciate the allusions that writers make because they have read enough. I would like my students to have these, and all it takes, my god its simple, is reading.
Where I am now, there are so many initiatives its blinding. They are good, as many good intentions are good. One thing that I’ve observed though, is that one fundamental thing often affects the success of these initiatives, and that is literacy. Not just being literate because that we are, but possessing a strong literary ability. The root of the problem lies in the sort of "Science and Math is important, Arts and languages are good but less important" mentality we had, which was translated into an education system that is strongly linked to the economy. That mentality, even as efforts are made to create a more holistic education model, is still largely present. The offshoot of our success is that some things have been compromised, and some of these things we realise we need now.
But here I am, digressing, something my students love that I do. The example of American high schools and universities adopting the college novel created a buzz in some ways. Students read, discussed it, argued over it. Students who didn’t read, but were curious when others talked about it, dug it out from their crowded lockers. Students who didn’t know each other had a common talking point. The novels chosen were great American ones, I think, and so they had some relevancy to American history and society, which was something that lead to more points of debate or understanding, I would assume. That’s the sort of momentum I would like to see. I wouldn’t necessarily know if Student A-Z has read something, but I could at least be assured that they would know this one book, and maybe, someday they would peruse it, even if it means they have to be marooned on an island to do that. I know I would have to be, somtimes, to be able to settle down to a book, hopefully in the state i described earlier on.
This remains a blog-in-construction, in case you are reading it. And of course these are my opinions but not necessarily representative of all that I think is true about the world. I could be wrong of course, in which case i haven’t read the right text. And in the pursuit of this quest, I may learn more about what I’ve written.
Tomorrow they go, and as they go
these words rest upon my conscience.
———————————————-
The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among
his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith
and his lovingness.
If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his
wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind.
The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of
space, but he cannot give you his understanding.
The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all
space, but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the
rhythm, nor the voice that echoes it.
And he who is versed in science and numbers can tell of
the regions of weight and measure, but he cannot conduct you
thither.
For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man.
on teaching
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
