This Modern Life

Class(room) Rage

2012-01-08T13:34:00.005+08:00

I saw an advertisement today in the Sunday Times for a prominent - and very expensive - tuition centre, featuring three top students who referred to themselves as "intrepid baker" and "curious lover of all things Japanese". (I suppose allowing the students to write their own self-descriptions is a nod to their creativity, but give the kids another five years or so and they're going to be very, very embarrassed.)

This, coupled with a recent article on how tuition centres are now making potential entrants take tests, really pissed me off. As a tuition teacher myself, I know better than to take credit for my students' intelligence or ambition, like the ad appeared to do. The fact is, most students arrive already shaped by their parents. If you come from a middle or upper-middle class family, one that sets aside money for your education and takes you to plays and museums and trips abroad, then of course your grammar will be perfect, your mind agile and your personality engaging. You too will write precocious essays on criminal justice and debate global politics in a convincing and intelligent manner. You too will attend a top girls' or boys' school.

Like most educators, I love teaching kids like that. But I don't often get to, because I work in a tuition centre that doesn't require pre-entry testing (except in cases of foreign students who have not yet passed their English requirement). My students are the regular kids I grew up with - the neighbourhood children who hang out at the void deck, speak in their mother tongues and hope to enter polytechnic after Secondary 4. My students arrive in my Secondary 1 English class looking depressed after getting their secondary school postings. For the sake of not embarrassing them in public, I never ask what stream they're in.

These are the students who need tuition most. They need to revise basic skills at their own pace, and get the personal attention that their overworked teachers can't give them. For them, the struggle to learn is more urgent, and ultimately perhaps more satisfying. Last year's major achievement for me was helping a shy, undersized Normal Technical student do well enough to be promoted to Normal Academic. I was moved that he had found the courage to stay back after class and ask for help. Until then, he hadn't said more than two or three words in all the weeks he'd been in my class.

I offered guidance, but he did the heavy lifting of all the extra grammar exercises I assigned. At the end of the year he told me (while smiling, a rare sight) that he had been promoted, and I told him honestly that the news had made my day - in fact, my entire year.

So it galls me that these tuition centres call themselves tuition centres, when they're really enrichment centres. They enrich those who are already wealthy in knowledge. The classes are definitely fun and engaging, but let's not pretend they are essential, or that they are fully responsible for their students' success. They're not.

You know, the students I teach are not oblivious to the differences between the opportunities available to them, and the opportunities given to the better-off. They too would like ergonomic classroom furniture, live animals to play with and high-quality learning materials. They would like to debate Occupy Wall Street and the death penalty, and read something apart from dubiously-sourced online essays. You might even say that for my students, it is all the more essential that they should be exposed to good writing and nuanced perspectives on controversial issues. My students are after all the masses, the common majority. And they deserve much, much better.

Material New Year

2012-01-03T02:03:00.005+08:00

By semi-accident I took on a massive freelance writing project - over twenty interviews and articles in about two and a half weeks, on top of my existing daily workload - and it made sure I spent my Christmas and New Year working frantically. I did find the time to visit the (disappointing) hagfish exhibit at the Underwater World - I am an aficionado of disgusting deep-sea creatures, the hagfish is my totem animal - and have a very nice dinner at Thanying, the royal Thai restaurant at Amara Sanctuary. I love the fact that it's so quiet and empty, you feel compelled to whisper over your food. Any tears caused by the fiery tom yam soup must be allowed to roll down your cheeks silently, or the waiter might frown at you.

It's good, however, that I'm working so hard. I view it as penance for having spent such a horrendous amount on Christmas shopping (primarily for myself). I love designer goods, but I'll never be able to pay full price... so when the sales come, I react like a shark scenting blood.

Unlike most Singaporean women who drop a thousand dollars on assorted coin purses and card holders and wallets and medium-sized handbags, I prefer clothing. I look out specifically for things like tailoring and material - I don't like wearing man-made fabrics unless absolutely necessary. As for labels, the ones I truly love are usually out of reach (even at sale price) so I hunt for less well-known ones: I recently purchased pieces from Martin Grant, Jill Stuart and Amanda Wakeley. But my favourites are usually linked to some childhood idea of cool: a minimalist grey Helmut Lang dress, a cream and gold disco extravaganza by Sass & Bide that I have yet to wear.

Sometimes I justify buying clothes by imagining a future when my daughter (should I have one) will be overwhelmingly grateful for the vintage Marni, the adorably retro Lela Rose. The same way I was for my mother's oversized Loewe tote and 80s' Aquascutum cardigan. But I think what I really want from that imaginary future scenario is the sense that all of this was not in vain. My relentless pursuit of 'good taste', the careful curatorship of my small wardrobe. All those hours spent searching for images of the same garment before taking the plunge. The time spent on the train, in the shower, before bed, contemplating the right shoes and accessories. We women devote so much of our lives to the performance of dress, and for what? (Certainly not just for the benefit of men.) When we dress, we are telling you something about ourselves - this is who I am, this is what I care about - and at the same time, we are also asking a silent, hidden question: do you see me?

I'm Still Here

2011-11-11T16:24:00.003+08:00

I've been busy with work and a writing workshop I'm participating in, but yesterday my cousin reminded me of the existence of my blog. So I'm back.

Thanks to being cooped up online for two hours every week with other would-be writers, I have been forced to think about things like Derrida and post-modernism. (Luckily, adulthood has bestowed upon me the diminished attention span of a housefly, so I don't actually have to spend that much time thinking about those things.)

But sometimes I worry that I'm too laid back, that I'm no longer smart enough to get excited about deconstruction and semiotics. At the same time, I don't want to churn out tedious romantic novels or chick flick screenplays, lucrative as Twilight may have proven to be. What I want to produce is the novel equivalent of a great rock anthem - something loud, fast and aggressively dumb, with sly flashes of virtuosic brilliance. Something that won't get relegated to the ghetto of weepy Asian women's literature, next to the Catherine Lim.

Maybe this dumb-jock inner self is why I was always bored by the precious, Literature student convent girls who should have been my best friends, based on all the surface commonalities like a love of Jane Austen. At age 13 and 14 I was well on my way to becoming that person: glasses, modest skirts, sentimental-minded, always toting around a book far beyond my maturity level. The Girl Most Likely To Get An English Degree, Fall In Crush With My Professor And Compose Sad Moleskine Poetry While Sniffling Over Tea At Starbucks.

But there was this older kid at school, whose name I can't remember now - Reynard? Raymond? Ray-whatever was two years older and a fellow prefect. He was a goofy slacker with bad posture and a permanent deadpan expression, master of the one-liner. By teenage standards, an incredibly funny guy. The Bill Murray of Presbyterian High.

One afternoon I was sitting in the canteen with several other girls, and Ray-etc stopped by to say hello. He was in top form that day, probably encouraged by the favorable audience reaction. All the girls were giggling non-stop, pausing only to give him speculative looks along the lines of "Why, hello there, funny man! Keep this up and I just might let you slip a hand under my school skirt!"

I don't know why, but instead of similarly dropping my panties, I felt compelled to keep up with him. I wanted to make him laugh as much as he made me laugh. So I slung a few of my own - nothing outstanding, I hadn't put in any practice in front of a mirror - and to my dorky surprise, he actually laughed. In fact, he laughed and said, "Hey, you're pretty funny!"

It was the best feeling, ever. And it sparked an undying craving for more. And more.

Ray-(mur?) graduated and went on to the local university and I never saw him again, but who cared. Far more precious was the realisation that I didn't have to be the appreciative audience. I could be the one getting the reactions, the creator with the power to make people laugh, cry or throw up.

So that's why I didn't grow up and get a job, instead choosing to work a couple of dead-end freelance gigs so I can stay up until 4 am writing paragraphs I'll delete in the morning. I'm 27 years old. I'm worried it's too late for me to accomplish anything noteworthy, and too late for me to find another foothold in the workforce I left behind. That's why I ponied up $400 to take part in a workshop, just for the vague promise of having my work reviewed by an agent at the end of it all. What happens if it doesn't work out? I don't know. In the spirit of my unwritten novel, I try not to think too hard about anything. And that's why I'm still here.

The Problem With Ching Chongs

2011-09-25T22:46:00.009+08:00

Years ago, when I was having a hard time fitting in at secondary school, I often consoled myself that I would soon be away from it all. Away, especially, from my schoolmates, who were like creatures of a different species - speaking a different language (Mandarin), caring about different things (Mandopop, TV drama serials), holding different priorities in life (vacationing in Taiwan or Hong Kong, owning a logo-bedecked LV wallet). Good riddance to all that! I thought at graduation.

Ironically, work has since brought me back to the same milieu I thought I left behind 11 years ago.

I teach in a newly created suburb, and many of my students fall into the same category as my former classmates - the "ching chongs", as I derisively labelled them. The stereotype holds so depressingly true, in every case. The flip flops or Crocs, the jumbled stream of Mandarin and Singlish, the HK-style cafes and Korean pop stars, the defiant loudness and overconfidence, the casual, unthinking racism and sexism. All there, all accounted for.

A student once rudely insisted that there was no such thing as a restaurant that didn't allow people to wear flip-flops or T-shirts in. She didn't believe me when I told her there were even restaurants where you had to make a reservation. They were not present in her universe; ergo, they must not exist at all.

It's not the lack of worldly knowledge that I find troubling. (At that age, I'd never been to a fancy restaurant either.) But what is most disturbing - the essential point about being a ching-chong - is the total and absolute lack of curiosity about the outside world, except where things like money and advancement are concerned.

My former classmates, who are mostly upwardly mobile professionals, now drink wine and celebrate their birthdays overnight at Marina Bay Sands. They dine at Au Petit Salut and spend their holidays in Europe and Japan, according to Facebook. But nothing else has changed, no inner being has emerged or developed. They go to Rome for the Prada store, not for the museums or art. One restaurant or bottle of wine is generally as good as another, but the best ones are the most expensive ones. Books are always of the self-help bestseller variety. There is no connection to anything greater than the sum of their lives - nothing but empty darkness outside their brightly impenetrable spheres of work, friends, family. The rest of the vast and richly varied human race exists only as mild entertainment, or a source of income.

I know most of my students will grow older along similar lines. And to them and their families, it will be just peachy. But no wonder our society is so unhappy, so dull and seething with deep discontent. How can there be more Singaporean art or music, design or architecture, books or films, when there are so few artists and writers and intellectuals, or even an audience? All those scenes are dominated by the English-speaking products of top schools and Ivy League universities, flown home to set up galleries and artisan coffee shops and macaron bakeries. A heavily outnumbered demographic, and one that is also inclined to sticking with its own kind.

Immigration is not helping matters, since in this case it means an influx of people who don't have a tradition of questioning or thinking. But then, how can you fault the Indian or Chinese student, who just wants to keep his head down and cement his family's position in the middle class? You can't ask them to indulge in creativity when their home countries are only just emerging from poverty. Like their parents before them, they must be economists and scientists, not curators or visionaries. (We never seem to extend invites to the whistle-blowers, the activists and starving artists.)

Perhaps their presence - while arousing a good deal of resentment from the ching chongs - is also, bizarrely, a safeguarding of the ching chong ways. There is no need to speak English with the China-born. No need to leave one's comfort zone - they stick to theirs and we stick to ours. No need to push for gay rights or social welfare issues, not with new citizens who are still conservative enough to believe that homosexuality is a perversion and people should pull themselves up by the bootstraps. True globalisation would have resulted in the collapse of the ching chong's insular mindset. This carefully calibrated version just extends it, like how the Great Firewall of China preserves Chinese ignorance by only letting approved information in.

Anyway. Maybe I'm being pessimistic, and snobbish, and too Westernised - all things I have been accused of being. But as I walk through the teeming crowds at Compass Point, or try to persuade yet another recalcitrant student that she needs to speak English in the classroom, I think to myself that maybe - just maybe - I'm right.

Palate Cleanser

2011-08-30T14:05:00.001+08:00

Nicole bought from a great list that ran two pages, and bought the things in the windows besides. Everything she liked that she couldn't possibly use herself, she bought as a present for a friend. She bought colored beads, folding beach cushions, artificial flowers, honey, a guest bed, bags, scarfs, love birds, miniatures for a doll's house and three yards of some new cloth the color of prawns. She bought a dozen bathing suits, a rubber alligator, a travelling chess set of gold and ivory, big linen handkerchiefs for Abe, two chamois leather jackets of kingfisher blue and burning bush from Hermes - bought all these things not a bit like a high-class courtesan buying underwear and jewels, which were after all professional equipment and insurance - but with an entirely different point of view. Nicole was the product of much ingenuity and toil. For her sake trains began their run at Chicago and traversed the round belly of the continent to California; chicle factories fumed and link belts grew link by link in factories; men mixed toothpaste in vats and drew mouthwash out of copper hogsheads; girls canned tomatoes quickly in August or worked rudely at Five-and-Tens on Christmas Eve; half-breed Indians toiled on Brazilian coffee plantations and dreamers were muscled out of patent rights in new tractors - these were some of the people who gave a tithe to Nicole, and as the whole system swayed and thundered onward it lent a feverish bloom to such processes of hers as wholesale buying, like the flush of a fireman's face holding his post before a spreading blaze.

- Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1934)

An Unloved Woman

2011-08-07T16:49:00.008+08:00

When I was 14, in secondary school, we were taken in school buses to the chapel at Kuo Chuan Presbyterian Secondary on a blinding hot Saturday morning. The air was so mercilessly radiant with heat that we practically ran into the building, jostling for standing space in the lobby with about a hundred other students.

Their chapel was far larger than ours, and the air-conditioning was stronger, too. We were ushered into seats that sloped downwards to face a small stage with a large white canvas screen. Almost without warning, the projector flipped on and a close-up photograph of a smiling white woman's face appeared on the screen. Her hair was long and dark, and she was heavily made-up with lipstick, fake lashes and eyeshadow. The flash seemed to reveal something like begging in her wide open eyes.

Still, it was an attractive face. But then a man in an ill-fitting dress shirt and jacket - poor preacher's clothes - walked up to the podium on stage and said good morning.

His American accent was flat, curiously easy for us to understand. A Midwesterner, perhaps. He moved energetically, but I had the odd feeling that beneath his surface there was another self who could not be tamped down, despite his efforts. It was like catching glimpses of skin sliding underneath layers of clothes - the tender underside of a blue-veined wrist, the pale, slim curve of collarbone, now hidden inside a man's striped shirt. The washed out whiteness of the skin around his eyes.

"Do you see that person?"

He gestured to the screen, without looking at it himself.

"That was me, ten years ago."

Gasps and laughter from his teenage audience. The woman on the screen continued to smile broadly, unaware of being mocked. I understood then that she was dead and gone.

For the next half-hour he recounted his story. He had always felt like a woman inside. By his 20s he was living as one, and saving up for the big operation. The night before he was due to check into hospital, Jesus appeared in a vision and told him not to do it.

"With His blessing and through His strength, I abandoned my sinful lifestyle in the city," said the man on stage. "I found a circle of new brothers and sisters in church and grew stronger in my faith, day by day. Through my pastor and his wise counsel, I was introduced to my wife, with whom I have two lovely daughters." Applause.

"I was lost, but now I am found," he continued, his voice quivering. "The devil almost had me in his clutches, but Jesus saved me and pointed me in the right direction. He lifted me up into His arms and told me that He has loved me all my life. Today, I stand here before you as living proof of His salvation! Hallelujah!"

That was the cue for an altar call. People streamed out of the pews and down the aisles towards the stage where he prayed softly for them, almost drowned out by the music.

The woman on the screen was still there, smiling down on all the souls accepting Jesus into their lives. She looked like she had been caught in a moment of fun, vamping for the camera amidst lights and drinks and music of a very different kind. How easily she had been destroyed, in a kind of death worse than real death, with no grave or urn or ceremony to mark her passing. Jesus did not love her, and she hadn't even loved herself.

The man below was flushed as he prayed, his hands outstretched towards the bent heads of teenagers. His voice was steady and his arms raised high, but still there was the faint shiver of fragility that I saw in the woman's face. It was better to be dead and barely remembered than to be in a living hell, I thought. Better to be her, than him.

Those Perfect Strangers, My Family

2011-07-30T01:33:00.007+08:00

Every year for my grandparents' birthdays in July and October we have a three-table celebration at a restaurant, with the traditional 10-course menu. Every year my family rushes to leave the house on time, and every year we somehow manage to be late. Every year I resolve to act like an adult, but somehow the sheer awfulness of having to spend time with my relatives seems to squash me back into a petulant five-year-old, kicking the table leg with one high-heeled foot.

First course - steamed longevity buns filled with sweet bean paste

All the fuss over where to sit has finally been settled. My eldest uncle's wife (she has facial hair!) tried earlier to kick my grandfather's maid out of their table, citing a lack of space. El Moustachio's attempt is unsuccessful; the maid celebrates victory by valiantly preventing my diabetic grandfather from eating his bun, and thus prolonging his 84-year-old life. Nobody notices their little wrestling match - they're too busy stuffing their own faces.

Second course - cold lobster combination with spring rolls and baby octopus

In stark comparison to the raucous laughter and hoarse voices at the neighbouring table of aunts and uncles, the conversation at our table centres around Japanese buffets, European tour packages, foods that prevent cancer. No surprise - both my father and uncle married a certain type of woman: the kind who makes your life beautifully comfortable and civilised, and also has your balls zipped up nice and safe inside her Coach handbag. Hey, it's a fair bargain.

Third course - shark's fin soup with crabmeat

The soup is ladled out into little bowls by our waitress from China. My pathetically weak protest is overruled by my father, who insists I eat my bowl of soup. I compromise by eating half. Yeah, that's definitely going to make things better for the sharks.

Fourth course - roasted duck

Over at the next table they've broken out the beer and XO. Somebody reports that my alcoholic grandaunt has already knocked back two glasses of the hard stuff. Needless to say, nobody's drinking at our table. ("Dear, aren't you driving us home later?") My father - perhaps feeling slightly guilty for making me eat the shark's fin - offers to get me some XO. I decline. Like that's going to make things better.

Fifth course - steamed pomfret with preserved vegetables

It's not fresh. I hate steamed fish, I hate preserved vegetables, and I am rapidly devolving into a sulky teenager with every passing course. My cousin, only three years older, walks by with his toddler in his arms. I suggest letting our alcoholic grandaunt take the kid for a spin outside. My cousin doesn't smile, but he does pulls his child closer to him. Fucker never had a sense of humour, even when we were growing up.

Sixth course - Yam ring with prawns and scallops

I love yam rings. Eating a large chunk of it calms me down somewhat. Or maybe it's the latent streak of traditional thinking just waiting to burst out of me. By the end of dinner I'll have married a doctor, enrolled in an accountancy degree and bought a three-bedroom condo in the suburbs. My mother is going to be so happy.

Seventh course - Sea cucumber with broccoli and clams

My younger cousin abstains, saying he's allergic to shellfish. Bubble Boy is allergic to everything, and has a mysterious back injury that got him out of strenuous NS duties to boot. Even my brother - the walking, talking, PS3 playing definition of "sheltered" - thinks of him as a giant pussy. My father tries to make my cousin eat some clams. "A little bit won't hurt," he says. My aunt does not look amused.

Eighth course - Braised abalone with spinach

Everyone's talking about how full they are and which dishes should have been removed from the line-up, arguing over whether the yam ring or duck was more fattening. I'm not sure if it's rage or boredom, but I'm still going strong. I have a second helping of the abalone and spinach. If I had to live with these people 24/7 I would be morbidly obese.

Ninth course - Fried noodles with prawns

My mother and aunt are discussing slimming therapies. My eldest uncle swings by with yet another cousin's baby in his arms. "Babies like me a lot," he says proudly, his face flushed with alcohol. It's because he looks like a big old baby himself, in that flabby, liver-spotted way some middle-aged men have. The baby's mother, my cousin's wife, rolls up and makes a joke about leaving the kid behind so she can finally get a night's sleep. I'm so desperate at this point that it comes across as the funniest fucking thing I've heard in my entire life.

Tenth and last course - orh nee (yam paste) with gingko nuts

"This is what my daughter came for," says my father to the entire table, thus exposing my greed to all the relatives present. Then he runs over to the next table to help the maid, who is now trying to stop my grandfather from eating more than two spoonfuls of the sweet, oily dessert. I eat my bowl, and then I eat half of another bowl. My relatives observe in awe. Got to live up to the gluttonous reputation.

After dessert has been cleared away and the birthday cake brought out, the birthday song sung once in English and once in Mandarin, and the remains of uneaten cake cleared away, it's finally time to go home. People jingle their car keys. Somebody helps my alcoholic grandaunt into an uncle's Honda. I get into my dad's car, sitting on the left-hand side of the backseat like I have for the last 27 years. Nothing changes. We'll be doing this all over again in October.

Kids These Days

2011-07-10T00:21:00.004+08:00

The great thing about working with teenagers is that they are wonderfully capable of surprising you with their wit, intelligence or insight. I genuinely enjoy talking to them, listening to their ideas, helping them explore their own opinions and test their conclusions. Not all of them are kids from top schools either - some of my most mature and interesting students come from neighbourhood schools most Singaporeans wouldn't know the names of.

Some of the girls are amazingly sweet and kind, old-fashioned darlings who make you understand what Louisa May Alcott and L.M. Montgomery were forever wittering on about. Then there are the more complex adolescents, more willing to experiment and likely to become chain-smoking sophisticates overnight. These unpredictable young women are always amusing to watch, even if they do intimidate most of the other students.

Among the boys we have the good-natured sweethearts, the angry young rabble-rousers, the socially awkward cerebral pretenders. The last group is both infuriating and heart-breaking at the same time. Unpopular at school and resentful of charitable attempts, they can be purposely hurtful, obnoxious and childish. But the point to remember is that despite them being of shaving age, these boys are still only children, bewildered by their own inability to blend in. Occasionally they can surprise you, with rare caveman grunts of approval or grudging gratitude.

So much for the good side of things.

The other day, a 14-year-old girl - a known teacher's bully - told me in class that I was lame for trying to tempt them with a word game. It was 9pm and despite the cheerful front, I was in a decidedly bad mood from having to work on a Friday night. The last thing I needed was a kid clothed in pimple scars and a pasar malam T-shirt, telling me I was lame.

"Excuse me?" I drawled, employing full use of my (fake) accent. "You're calling me lame? Hate to break it to you, but I'm much cooler than you. In fact, I'm cooler than all of you combined."

Great, I thought inwardly. While my peers are going out for drinks after work, I'm stuck in a fluorescent-lit community centre classroom arguing with a 14-year-old about how cool I am. No wonder their previous teacher upped and quit.

Surprisingly, the girl sat down and shut up. I felt a little bad for pulling the accent trick on her, but not bad enough to regret it. After all, this is Singapore. She's the majority in power, not me. And I felt that her teachers at school - not to mention at the tuition centre - would be secretly grateful to me for temporarily deflating her ego.

The more I work, the harder it becomes to maintain a teacher's identity. I sometimes wake up and feel so terribly bored at the thought of wearing sensible flats and high necklines, of enduring kids' constant assumptions that I have no social life and no past or future - nothing apart from being their teacher. I am tired of living in fear of parents calling up to complain that I have taught their teenagers to think for themselves, to approve of gay people, atheism and liberal politics, to read books with swear words and sex (violence is A-OK, however). I have a growing collection of designer clothing that I don't wear, because the last thing I need is to walk past the rows of waiting parents and have one of them realise that my shoes cost $200 (in their books, tuition teachers should not dress better than them). Small wonder then, that I actively encourage my students to feel sympathy for the domestic and foreign workers around us. I have to do it, because I have a sneaking feeling their parents won't.

Perhaps the conflict within me will grow strong enough that I'll drop out of the tuition gig. It will be a pity, but the problem with kids these days - as it has been for kids of all time, and all days - is that they are always, always, always, the products of their parents. Poor things.

Everybody's Personal Mystery

2011-06-19T23:44:00.003+08:00

I think at a certain point in anybody's life, you have to stop saying who you aren't, and start figuring out who you're going to be.

When I was a tiny girl in white stockings and patent leather shoes, people always came up to my mother to say, "She looks just like you!"

My mother would reply, "No, I always think she looks more like her father."

To which I would angrily howl: "Nooooo! I don't look like anyone. I look like ME!"

But who was me, to ask an ungrammatical question? All my life I have been very certain of what I am not: not a top student, not a Chinese-speaker, not a bigot, not a suit. Not a civil servant, not a public relations executive. Not religious. Not conservative. Not my parents.

In trying so desperately to define all the things I didn't stand for, I assumed vaguely that I stood for the opposite. But what is the opposite? If you don't believe in working for The Man, who do you work for? Because it is still necessary to work, to eat.

I'm luckier than most. I've found a way of supporting myself that doesn't clash with my ideals and earns me a good living. I'm a little too comfortable, in fact - I could stay like this forever, but there's always something in me that wants more out of being alive. It reminds me: I'm not done becoming me yet.

At 27, it's time to iron out the soft, wavering outline of who I am, to push the shape into its full and permanent definition. If I want to be a writer, I have to be one. The years are short, and they get shorter and faster the older I get. The new flat, marriage, possible children, definite aging parents - the milestones will fly past before I know it, and there won't be so much time left to answer that small and defiant creature who was so sure - but still so uncertain! - of who she was, or what she really looked like.

My Opinion on Opinions

2011-05-05T17:35:00.005+08:00

If you have the balls (or ovaries) to post an opinion up... then you should have the balls (or ovaries, again) to defend it.

Like most people, I have a diverse group of Facebook friends. My list includes real-life friends, relatives, former acquaintances and work contacts. This election, a good number of them have come out in favour of the opposition, and I always enjoy reading the statuses, articles or Facebook notes they post up.

Then there are the PAP supporters. Fair enough, I might not like their opinions, but they have the right to say what they want and vote for whoever they want. I read their postings too, and often think about why they might hold those positions on issues.

What really irks me is when someone posts an opinion and refuses to engage in debate on it. I mean, what the fuck is the point then? It's like a kid saying something to annoy others, and then covering his ears while he runs away so he can't hear their retorts. This behaviour wouldn't fly on the playground, let alone in an online space where colleagues and friends can see you do it.

The other thing that brings me dangerously close to cardiac arrest is people who don't have an opinion at all. Completely apathetic, they don't like hearing about the elections or politics, and they don't want to discuss anything beyond their immediate sphere of interests.

If they are old and uneducated, then fine. But the worst are the younger lot who don't bother to think about the impact the ruling party has on their lives. If you are truly apathetic, then you shouldn't be allowed to complain while you take it up the ass afterwards, like when you buy a flat or when you fall ill without adequate insurance coverage.

I know I sound more than a little aggrieved (and possibly unhinged, to some). But this is important.

One last note: In 2006, I was studying in Melbourne, and my constituency went uncontested. I wrote something very vague and precious about wanting 'change' to come (I think I compared it to spring-time). This year, I finally get to vote at the age of 27. I've grown up a lot since then. After five years as a working adult, I know now that change is not the weather, is not a statistical phenomenon, is not a butterfly or dove or Jesus returning for the righteous. All that change really is, is us.

That's all.

Five Stupid Things I Hear, Pre-Election

2011-04-17T20:19:00.006+08:00

In the lead-up to the General Elections, I have heard so much complete and utter rubbish that is routinely prefaced by "Everyone knows that..." It's not stupidity, just a lazy reluctance to think. Most people would rather be parrots than human beings.

I can't blame them, I suppose - it's hard enough working to stay alive (and it's very convenient for the establishment, since people who are slaving away don't have the time to read or think or ask too many questions). For fear of blowing a blood vessel, I tend not to discuss politics with acquaintances or family members - but I do listen to the things they say when they think everyone around agrees with them.

1. At least we Singaporeans own our HDB flats!

My parents like to say this with justifiable pride. But then again, they bought their first flat in 1985, when the average loan could be paid off in 10 years. It will take me 30 years before I can sound similarly smug about being a home-owner. Also, technically, I'll own a 99-year lease on a flat, not the flat outright. If you think that's a fantastic deal, I've got some magic rocks I'd like to sell you.

2. Singapore's GDP is high, so our country must be doing well.

I love this one, especially when it's voiced optimistically by members of the middle and lower classes, who feverishly polish this factoid like it's a national trophy (one that, unfortunately, doesn't have their names on it).

The 2009 UBS Price and Earnings study already pointed out that despite our high GDP, Singapore's unusually low wage index of 31.3 puts us on par with workers in Moscow. Translation: Singaporeans are making money, but only a small group of people receive most of it - and chances are, they're not you.

3. If you're not happy, you can always migrate overseas and be treated like a second-class citizen there.

This one combines hostility to criticism, xenophobia and an insufferable air of superiority all in one statement. Often, it's accompanied by a story of racism experienced abroad (usually in Australia, holiday destination for hordes of middle-class Singaporeans). Yes, I experienced racism while living in Melbourne, but I also experienced friendliness and genuine warmth.

Which, amazingly, is just like Singapore itself! Life here isn't a chocolate box of 24/7 multi-racial and multi-religious harmony. Try holding hands with another local of a different race, and count how many stares you get. It's hard to feel like you belong if so many others don't think you do.

4. So many foreigners want to come to Singapore, that proves we're good!

Assuming these foreigners aren't here to gamble or shop, it's strange that people who complain about the influx of foreign talent are also the first to take a perverse pride in Singapore's attractiveness. This one is pretty easy to deal with: we attract mostly foreigners who come from shittier places with fewer opportunities, full stop.

The rest come here because of the requirements of their careers, or because they're rich and selfish enough to want a tax-free haven. The Merlion looks pretty good when you're coming from a farm in Vietnam or a small town in the Philippines, but if you're lucky enough to hail from Sydney or Chicago, you wouldn't even think of it unless absolutely necessary. We're not cool, and nobody thinks we're hot enough for a second date.

5. Our society is meritocratic, just study hard and you'll succeed.

Finally, the one that annoys me most of all. Nobody starts out on equal footing. A kid from an upper-middle class background will have his own study table, stacks of assessment books, host of private tutors and expensive enrichment classes. He has parents who will take him abroad, buy him a nice suit for interviews and arrange internships through friends and business connections, no matter how unmotivated or lazy the child is.

In comparison, I once came across a 13-year-old who managed to go half a school year without a Geography workbook. His overworked, low-income parents didn't know he had to buy it, and his teacher didn't give enough of a shit about him to even collect his homework (no doubt writing him off as 'hopeless'). I bought him the book and left. Two months later, he ran away from home. His form teacher shrugged and said she was sure that the police would eventually find him, if he wanted to be found. Does any child deliberately ask to be lost?

Children are all immature, thoughtless, unfocused. The only differences between a runaway and a scholarship recipient are their family environment and resources. It is incredibly unfair to ask a low-income child from an insecure, chaotic background to "study hard" and "be good" without offering long-term support and care on a far greater level than what is currently given.

Sure, there are ethnic and religious self-help groups, welfare organisations, government handouts, subsidies and bursaries. But more can always be done, starting with the destruction of the 'meritocratic' myth, which makes students feel like they deserve to be trapped where they are because they're dumb or lazy.

When all is said and done, there are many good things about living in Singapore - a low crime rate, a wide variety of affordable food, safety from natural disasters, accessibility and a secular state. But there are lots of things we can fix and improve - and some myths that we should discard, for the sake of our future.

Baby's First Break With Reality

2011-03-16T01:46:00.009+08:00

One time when I was still living in Melbourne.

I remember it was winter, July. I woke up early and showered and put on my old black jacket and left the house. I had a morning appointment and the sun was lighter than light; it was air and more than air. I had vision like some sort of forest animal, button-black and beady as hell. I saw for miles, and every building was gold, was sharp like a knife. All the people were submerged in light. They moved with grace, herds of them rippling down the sidewalk.

The air was cold but I was not cold. I felt so superfine I thought I would run. "I'm late," I thought to myself, very reasonably. "I should run."

So I ran, and it did not surprise me when the people ahead parted without looking back, because I knew they could sense my urgent intention from behind, and they should make way for me because I was late.

I liked running so much, I didn't want to stop, so I didn't.

I ran down the sidewalk, and I ran across the slip roads, and I stopped for no one and no vehicle, because I was young and immortal and knew I would live, would continue in some shape or form no matter what happened, but that was a moot point because nothing would happen. I just knew it. I was alive and I would continue.

All the time there was a small thin voice that screamed inside my brain, every time I dodged a car or heard the angry blare of a horn, but I knew it must be screaming for joy and nothing else. Because there could be no room for anything else.

When I reached the end of the road - figuratively speaking - and stopped, I was not out of breath. That further confirmed my sudden superhuman ability, my magic that had finally emerged. I felt so good, and so sad, because I knew I would never again experience that kind of innocence, that sense of power from within, without having it smeared with blood and broken talk. I walked back to my apartment, and I wanted to die.

Contra mundum

2011-02-13T01:51:00.005+08:00

But I was untouched by her faith as I was by her charm; or, rather, I was touched by both alike. I had no mind then for anything except Sebastian, and I saw him already as being threatened, though I did not yet know how black was the threat. His constant, despairing prayer was to be let alone. By the blue waters and rustling palm of his own mind he was happy and harmless as a Polynesian; only when the big ship dropped anchor beyond the coral reef, and the cutter beached in the lagoon, and, up the golden slope that had never known the print of a boot there trod the grim invasion of trader, administrator, missionary and tourist - only then was it time to disinter the archaic weapons of the tribe and sound the drums in the hills; or, more easily, to turn from the sunlit door and lie alone in the darkness, where the impotent, painted deities paraded the walls in vain, and cough his heart out among the rum bottles.

And since Sebastian counted among the intruders his own conscience and all claims of human affection, his days in Arcadia were numbered. For in this, to me, tranquil time Sebastian took fright. I knew him well in that mood of alertness and suspicion, like a deer suddenly lifting his head at the far notes of the hunt; I had seen him grow wary at the thought of his family or his religion; now I found I, too, was suspect. He did not fail in love, but he lost his joy of it, for I was no longer part of his solitude. As my intimacy with his family grew I became part of the world which he sought to escape; I became one of the bonds which held him. That was the part for which his mother, in all our little talks, was seeking to fit me. Everything was left unsaid. It was only dimly and at rare moments that I suspected what was afoot.

- Brideshead Revisited, by Evelyn Waugh (1944)

The Natural Life of Malls

2010-12-12T03:14:00.010+08:00

Like a school of fish spiraling upwards in ocean currents, Singaporeans in crowds move from basement to rooftop of a suburban shopping mall. Up the escalators from MacDonald's to Cotton On to Best Denki to Food Junction, and then into their cars to drive the long way down the spiral multi-storey carpark exit. All day, every weekend.

I wish we had something more to do with ourselves. But the mall is part of Singaporean life cycle, a gene activated at birth, strong as salmon swimming upstream.

Window shopping mothers (but there are no windows in malls) hoist sleeping newborns into chest carriers, who become howling toddlers in Crocs. Over time they elongate themselves into bespectacled tweens, slopping noisily in slippers beside their parents at the mall's supermarket. Those tweens put on school uniforms, transform into teenagers holding hands at the cinema upstairs. They sit through one forgettable action movie after another, trying to make the hours go slower.

They grow, a little more. The boys in National Service scarf down a last burger at the last mall, before getting on the bus and ferry back to Tekong. The girls say goodbye to them at Burger King, self-conscious fingers tugging down the hems of their short-shorts. As adults they head home from their first jobs, and the train station opens out to a mall where they buy dinner, get haircuts, pay handphone bills and meet friends. On Fridays they go to the malls in town, flourishing their new paychecks at Zara and Forever 21.

Next comes marriage, and a four-year wait for a flat, and babies to push around in prams at the new mall next door. Their children attend creative thinking lessons at the enrichment centres on Level 5 while Mummy and Daddy pick up groceries at the basement NTUC, just like their parents before them. Those parents are now old, the guests of honour at weekend family excursions to the new malls in the city centre. "Leave me here on this bench, I'm tired." "Alright, we'll just walk around for a while more and come back to pick you up for dinner at Crystal Jade, OK?" Better hope grandma doesn't have early onset Alzheimer's: there are enough shoppers to crush an old woman underfoot without anyone knowing.

There should be something more, there is something more - but where is it, and what do we do with it? It can't be bought in a shop, can't be saved up for and paid for on hire-purchase terms. Not priceless; it has no price. It cannot be bought and sold, and so none of us know what it is.

But it is there. Those of us who manage to find the occasional window catch a glimpse of it, flashing past like quicksilver, like bursts of sunlight on water. Like everyone else I am too tired, too distracted to try to catch it, to even ask, "What is it?" Instead I turn my attention in the same direction as the crowd's. Another sale, another opening, another store outlet from overseas. In the malls we flip through menus, try on new jeans, run our hands over the fingerprint-smeared surface of the latest Apple product. We stroll across every level of every mall, schools of shoppers moving in spirals, always stationary.