More Classics, Less Polemics

S asked me last week what songs made up the 70s and 80s for me. She remembered few from songs she heard her cousins listening. She hummed a few of them, but could not remember the names nor the singers. I realized I could not too.

The 70s and 80s seem like so long ago. By S bringing up this topic, it only reminded the both of us that time is indeed catching up on us. Classics now are from the 70s and 80s. It is people like us that has made them classics.

I got up from the chair in the study room and sat down beside S on the living room sofa and started searching the internet for 70s and 80s classics with Cat Stevens in the background. We talked about childhood and how things were back then and faded 3R photos and Honda motorbikes.

Born in the 70s as a Malaysian meant that we escaped the turbulent era of the Japanese occupation of our grandparents, the communist insurgency of Malaya our parents faced, and the racial conflicts of May 13th of our older cousins. We came into an era of transition, of political adjustments to do the “right” thing.

The 70s meant a lot of families (Malays, Chinese, Indians and others) finding their footing in the “new” Malaysia. We were no different. With government-servant parents, S and I led almost the same life, decent but subdued.

If the 70s and 80s defined us, then we are the Malaysians that do not speak up, the silent voters, not because we are cowards, but because we were taught to respect the prevailing hegemony in Malaysia.

Eventually, opportunities came and we saw friends and family members benefitting from this new Malaysia. Some entered universities, some given scholarships, some went overseas on government support. And some of them will eventually be part of the group of elitist that will determine and shape the politics of Malaysia.

But if politics are contested between those that serve only personal interest, than I leave them to it. I can only mourn that we have lost the ideals that our fathers of independence fought for in the chambers of negotiation, now that we live in a time where racial and religious sensationalisation is mainstream politics.

We are children of the 70s shaped by the 80s. We know not the struggles of years before except to listen, believe and remember. We fight for the rights we think we are due. We want more and more and more, and that’s all we ask for.

It’s funny how listening to Behind Blue Eyes by The Who now (on repeat) can make me think of things that I can’t be bothered to contemplate most the time. I guess that’s why they called it a “classic”. It evokes emotions and thoughts, and reminds us the greatness that once was. And that’s why I’d rather listen to old classics than to new polemics (or what they call Malaysian politics).

Learning to Teach and Learning to Learn

I don’t remember my Dad ever coaching me in my studies. I only remember him reading stories to me when I was very young, and even that was a rare occassion. He’d sit me on his lap, and the story I remembered most vividly was that a big book on the story of Ulysses, complete with pictures of cyclops, sirens and the Trojan Horse. He is the type that allowed us to develop at our own pace.

He often finished his work in the office, marking exercise books, exam papers, preparing schedules and such. It was only laborious work like the annual plan and exam papers that he brought them home to complete.

When S asked me yesterday whether my father actually gave any tuition classes before, I told her no, definitely not after he married. The only time he ever did was when he was a temporary teacher in Bachok, Kelantan, fresh from teacher’s training college in Penang. Even then it was not a big tuition class, but a favour, and it was a short stint before he was transferred out.

The reason S asked me was she saw a Taiwanese TV program that interviewed teachers getting rich from operating tuition classes and tuition centres. But my Dad never bothered with it. He was never the type to enter into classes merely to go through the formalities just because pupils are attending tuition classes out of school. My father even rejected a headmaster’s request to give private individual tuition simply because “lessons should be learnt in a classroom school, not in a tuition class.”

One of the things we have in common between S and I is that our fathers were teachers, and both of them were not tuition teachers. It is something that S and I understood well the reasons and principles behind that decision our fathers made.

Both our family survived entirely on our fathers, and we weren’t rich, surviving entirely on the wages as government servants that still had the mark of British colonial rule. Despite the obvious economic benefits from providing tuition, our fathers never walked down that path.

To a certain degree, they were opposed to the idea of charging privately for lessons that should have been taught in school, even those from other schools. It will be like paying to get your car washed again after just returning from a car wash.

Although it is unfair to fault teachers or students relying so heavily on tuition for improving their odds on personal gain (money or educational success, it really doesn’t matter), I’m proud that my Dad taught all he could in school rather than waiting till after school to give tuition.

My only hope now is that J’s education, whether here in Shanghai, Malaysia or anywhere else in the world, will be blessed with dedicated teachers, knowing that apart from just a job, education is a privilege for both teacher and pupil – one’s to teach, one’s to learn.

Emptying Myself Out

I could sit down now because my darling wife, M, is kind enough to let me have some time to myself. I did ask her to help distract J and keep her occupied. I need some time alone after a mentally-exhausting day. I just needed time to empty myself.

Surprisingly too, J has stopped circling me asking me to draw something on her “chalkboard” book because she is back to watching her “miqi” (Mickey), even though M is off doing some household chores in the kitchen.

The fact is that I really have nothing much to empty or perhaps I’ve forgotten how. It is just a feeling that comes once in a while as if there is this urgent need to pour everthing out or risk exploding from within.

I remember about 20 years ago when I went on a sort of retreat with my Dad to a village without my Mom and Sis. We stayed in my aunt’s small low-cost two-bedroom terrace  house there that was no longer in use.

It was here that I first hand-washed clothes, hung them out to dry, boiled coffee, swept the floor and did all the household chores. Perhaps it was my Dad’s idea of character building.

I learnt that villagers sleep early because most of them will head out to farms and plantations in the wee hours of the morning. I realised that guppies exist in storm drain too because it was clear from pollution. I understood how easy it was to catch grasshoppers, but frogs require a different technique. I became grateful for the common house lizards because they can take out a lot of insects and make night time more comfortable especially in a village where the farms and plantations are natural habitats for these insects. I became aware that rain, especially at night and in the village, smells sweet. I found out that silence at night in a village can be eerily deafening.

… … …

Apart from all the chores I did and the little experiences I went through, I learnt to be silent. Everything fell out from within like the water draining away from a bath. Everything poured away. It became quiet. It became still. It was like a single cobble in a vast sea of pure white sand.

I never quite understood it back then. And I never thought that it will take me 20 years to want to experience emptying myself out again.

Summer of J-Emotions

It is sometimes easier when there is a distance, when there is physical separation, because absence does make the heart grow fonder. For many, many years, this has been the case with my parents. I use to only spend term holidays at home. And then I only spend Chinese New Year with them, about a week or two, after I started working. But nowadays, it is a bit more than that. The annual trip north has become an inevitability.

With a separation, there is a tendency to romanticize a person, beautifying the person into some sort of a near perfect being. The kind words, the inspirational moments, the pep talk all surface to the top whilst the negativity slowly sinks into the abyss. It is like remembering only the rainbow in the blue sky after the storm has passed. It is like enjoying the newborn and forgetting the pain of labour. It is like enjoying the feast after all the preparation and cooking have been done.

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Ono’s Asia and Balik Kampung with Rasa Sayang

It has been a while since I last listened to Malay songs. It has been longer still since I last caught with up with its development. During my secondary school days, my Malay friends would keep me up-to-date, and I used to love singers like Ella, Nora and KRU. We didn’t have CD then, only cassette tapes. I have even used a classic and damn good P Ramlee song, Getaran Jiwa (great song that KRU did a brilliant cover too), for a home video once.

It was a nice surprise when I saw a Malay song on a CD in Shanghai. When I saw Lisa Ono‘s recent album, Asia, yesterday, the first song that caught my eye was a Malay folk song, Rasa Sayang, and not Chinese songs like He Ri Jun Zai Lai (何日君再来) and Ye Lai Xiang (夜来香), even though I also know of them.

I bought it without much hesistation, and simply because it had Rasa Sayang on it. It must have been that Malaysian part of me, in a foreign land and country, and being someone that knows that particular song.

Lisa Ono - Asia

Lisa Ono - Asia

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