The empty space

The scene was impressive: physically challenged, wheelchair-bound residents found their mobility in the able-bodied ones, who despite being mentally challenged could push them around. In the garden, the older ones poked at the soil in the pots to plant their seeds and tilted their bottles to water their plants - despite their twisted, frail hands - while the younger ones looked on to learn.

Then, out she came from the darkness of the corridor, with a crooked smile and a clumsy walk. She shook our hands as if we'd been friends for ages, said a few things we couldn't comprehend, pointed outside to tell us her friends were returning from work - smiling always.

We excused ourselves to take a tour around the home on our own, and she walked with us, eager to be the one acquainting us with the place she had known for so long. I've always admired their innocent friendliness. At the corridor, we passed by a board of photographs; each picture had a name below it.

There, she pointed to an empty space in the middle of a sea of smiling faces, saying something indistinct we couldn't understand, "Kawan…". Pressing her finger against that empty blue space where a photo once was, she repeated herself, but this time, gesturing with her right hand. She was trying to say something important.

"Kawan"

"Kawan kamu?"

"Ya"

"No more?"

"Ya"

And then I understood. "Your friend, no more?"

She nodded, still smiling her unassuming, crooked smile. But this time, her face betrayed an ineffable sadness. In her childlikeness, she had wanted to show us a part of her little world - the home - but first she wanted us to know her friend: a faceless person whose story we would never know about, yet was so important to her in life, and now in death. That empty space was not empty for it meant something dear to her. 

That day, I saw more humanity in a place than I've ever seen in most places.

Cik Cheong

So it's official now: I'll be posted to SMK Gemas for the next 2 years (located about 45 min - 1 hour from Bukit Beruang), and I'll be teaching History. Come November, we will be sent to 'teachers' bootcamp' at the Institute, and in Jan, we will begin teaching in schools.

Predicting that my subject was either going to be History, English or Geography (or a combination of these), I insisted on only teaching these 3 subjects to my 2 test subjects students at a tuition centre here, as a way to familiarize myself with the syllabus and prepare for the Fellowship - and it's been fun, but challenging at the same time. I'm amused when I think of my students sometimes. Both are Form 1 students, a boy and a girl, who hate each other's guts. Yet when one of them forgets to bring something, they make up with each other just for the moment, to borrow whatever it is from the other - after which they then resume their squabbling. Like most students who have the opportunity to be tutored, they complain about their school teachers a lot.

It's funny, because my mind raced back to my days as a Form 1 student, upon being told that I am going to be teaching History. Cik Cheong had been my History teacher then, and who could forget her? A tiny-framed, shrill-voiced, bespectacled Chinese lady whose eyes bulged beneath her glasses everytime she emphasized a point or lesson to us. Cik Cheong had a way of making Sejarah an art, literally, for she made us colour our notes with colour pencils and decorate our notebooks with portraits of historical figures and pictures of artefacts - which I hated, because I was never good at art and drawing.

Cik Cheong was the most likeable teacher we knew, and she had this gift of relating with us as a friend without losing her place as our teacher, and we always looked forward to her lessons! She knew how to make a dry syllabus interesting, and in many ways, she made the dead historical figures come alive during our lessons. What a great example to aspire to...

Next History class, I'm going to get my students to draw this :P

To dream - and not make dreams your master

Stories of great social enterprises rarely begin with nods of approval, handshakes of agreement and pats on the shoulder. Most of them actually begin with laughter, or raised eyebrows, from bemused hearers and bystanders.

I'm realising that cynicism is really 'expired hope'; no different from milk that turns sour with time. Cynicism is to inspiration what a clogged pond is to a fresh, fast river, teeming with life. We need a fresh perspective all the time!

Theodore Roosevelt once said,

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, ... because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat"

If you are trying, and are being laughed at, remember that it is a privilege to be in your position; a privilege many squander away in exchange for the comforts of watching from the stands, instead of fighting in the arena.