Notes From an Even Smaller Island Page 8

  In one drama lesson at VS, I caught a secondary two boy sleeping. He was not just dozing, he was in one of those ‘I’m in such a deep sleep that I would barely notice if you ripped my vital organs out’ types of sleep. In fact, it was his snoring that brought him to my attention. Without wishing to embarrass the boy further, I asked to see him at the end of the lesson.

  After class, he apologised sincerely and promised that it would never happen again. After considerable prompting, the boy told me that he had been up until 2:30 a.m. that morning doing his homework. As he got up at 6 a.m. to come to school, the boy had only had three hours sleep. Moreover, he had been staying up late for most of that week to get all his homework completed. The poor boy was under intense pressure at home to lift his marks as one or two of his recent test performances had been deemed below par by his parents. He was thirteen. Bearing in mind it was around February and the school year was just two months old, I asked him what kind of academic work was so important that a thirteen-year-old boy had gone without sleep? After all, he was not doing his degree finals or writing a PhD thesis, he was just doing run-of-the-mill school homework. Yet the lad felt obligated to push himself to the limit to satisfy those around him, even if it meant snatching sleep during one of my lectures on Stanislavsky’s method acting. The poor sod did not know what he was missing.

  The worst part is, of course, that we all know he is not an exceptional case. I recently read a story in the Straits Times about the latest batch of O level results. Make no mistake, the majority of Singaporean students performed extremely well and ended up with a long list of As and A+s, which is undoubtedly impressive. However, my attention was drawn to the photographs, which accurately depicted the joy and despair of successful and slightly less successful (after all, there is no need to use the ‘f’ word here) students. In both pictures, the teenagers were crying. In the case of those who did not perform so well, the reasons were obvious. But tears were still shed by those who had achieved straight As. It was only after I had read one or two of the quotes that the penny dropped. The word ‘relief’ kept cropping up. On several occasions, students who passed with flying colours spoke of relief before they spoke of joy. The pressures must have been unbearable.

  Of course, this is the case for students in any country. I remember the relief I felt when my GCSE results were satisfactory. However, there was one crucial difference. That relief was a result of pressure I had applied on myself. My parents trusted that I would perform to the best of my ability and left it to me. Not a single tear was shed over an exam result and my school had the dubious honour of churning out some of the worst GCSE and A level results in England.

  That is how life was in Dagenham. Education did not and still does not have the prestige that it has in Singapore. Parents simply do not put such store in it. Their rationale is that there will always be enough jobs to go around as there was in their day. Such an easy-going, working-class upbringing does have one major advantage: social skills come in abundance.

  If Singaporeans of all ages have one failing, it is that they are not streetwise enough. This rare type of intelligence is developed in most English children when they are very young. The sharp, fast-talking language of the living room is soon transferred to the school playground, the local park and then the street. English kids spend far too much time together messing around when they should be at home studying. That goes without saying. However, constantly being around their peers both in and out of school improves their communicative skills tremendously. Walk around any housing estate in Singapore at 8 p.m. and how many groups of kids do you see hanging out? Not too many because they are at home learning about the basics of supply and demand for an economics project.

  I do not doubt for a second that if you pitted an average Dagenham classroom against an average Singaporean classroom in a general knowledge test, the results would be painful. The Singaporeans would win hands down. However, if the two groups were put together after the test and given the chance to chitchat, I am certain that the conversation would be extremely one-sided. I have lost count of the times that I have played ‘Just a Minute’ in class, a game where you speak spontaneously on a given subject for one minute, and been left wanting to scream. Singaporean youngsters are just not used to speaking freely. If given fun subjects like ‘hairy armpits’, ‘bananas’ or ‘why I love Baywatch’, they just freeze. If, however, I give them subjects like ‘the Internet’, ‘computers’ or ‘Singapore’, they simply regurgitate the relevant encyclopaedic entry for sixty seconds. In contrast, a typically brash Dagenham teenager will happily waffle away about bananas for hours. Yet I know that the former will end up earning US$10,000 a month working in property while the latter will probably end up in an office performing clerical duties.

  This lack of social skills is about as worrying as it gets as far as Singaporean teenagers go, so allow me the odd chuckle when I hear friends talk about teenage gangsters here. My friend David is always reminding me to stay away from these dangerous gangsters who stalk the streets. These people are apparently so menacing that they have even been labelled with menacing names. The boys are called Ah Bengs and the girls Ah Lians. I have been warned by friends never to make eye contact with them, never to laugh at their ridiculous clothing combinations (white, skin-tight trousers and vest, black belt and a bright yellow handphone stuck to the hip) and never to get into an argument with them because they are usually armed with knives or, wait for it, parangs. Now this last statement floored me. A parang is like a huge sword and something similar to what we call a scythe in England. It is a truly lethal weapon. Think then about these Ah Bengs and their choice of clothing. Believe me, if it is not tight, they will not wear it, so could somebody please tell me where in the name of Al Capone are they going to hide a parang? Do they put it down their trousers and just pretend that they are pleased to see you?

  At this point, Singaporeans may feel entitled to stand up and cry that I am addressing an extremely serious social issue in a flippant manner. There are a number of teenage crimes, often committed by these so-called Ah Bengs and Ah Lians. In January 2000, a lawyer was beaten up by a gang of teenagers outside a cinema in front of his wife. It was not a random attack. During the movie that he had just watched, the lawyer had asked one of the gang to stop talking on his handphone as it was disturbing and irritating the rest of the audience. The whole of Singapore, including me, applauded the lawyer for his actions. This anti-social handphone behaviour is driving the country crazy.

  After the lawyer asked the teenager to stop informing the entire cinema how he had just spent Christmas, the gangly youth brooded in silence. Then, after carefully checking he had at least three to one odds, the anti-social phone guy cornered the lawyer outside. The lawyer’s wife was held back while the rest of the gang gave him a good hiding before running off. The general public was outraged but, thanks to the extremely efficient law and order infrastructure here, the gang was soon rounded up and charged.

  Such incidents occur occasionally and they jar the nation and remind its people that they are not invulnerable to crime, despite living in one of the safest countries in the world. These crimes also remind politicians, teachers and parents to reinforce positive social values into their children and to reiterate the dangers of going off the rails and the punishments that will result from a life dedicated to crime. Generally though, everyone tends to get a wee bit carried away as the majority of Singaporean youngsters are a decent lot.

  To be reminded of the startling contrast, I need only read a copy of the Dagenham Post. My mother sends me a copy of my home town’s local newspaper once a month so I can keep tabs on what is happening at home. You would assume that I could just click onto the paper’s web site and read about the latest events in Dagenham from here but, alas, the Post is not yet online. No surprise there, I know of Dagenham residents who are still struggling with calculators.

  The paper’s content usually provides an unwelcome jolt back to reality and reminds me of what
I have left behind. The lead story on page two of a recent copy was about a teenage mother who was once a heroin addict but had just succeeded in kicking the habit to look after her young son. She then died from an epileptic fit, hence the story. Now be honest, how many similar stories have appeared in either The Straits Times or The New Paper? The most alarming fact to remember is that this is just a small local paper that covers just one of the thirty-three Greater London boroughs.

  In that same edition, the Dagenham Post reported a court story that involved grievous bodily harm. The incident was pretty gruesome. A couple in their mid-twenties had an argument in The Pipers, one of the most notorious pubs in Dagenham. The row was disturbing another group of people so one person from the group told the couple to shut up. Dean, the man who was arguing with his girlfriend, took offence to this interference and pushed a glass into the face of the man who had told them to be quiet. He, in turn, took offence to this, mysteriously produced a penknife and stabbed Dean. In fact, he stabbed him so many times that Dean could actually see his own intestines.

  There were two things that immediately struck me upon finishing this story. First, the story was tucked away somewhere after page ten, indicating that the editor had realised that its news value, in a Dagenham context, was nothing extraordinary.

  The second thing was that I actually knew Dean, the ‘ooh, I think I can see one of my intestines’ guy. I went to the same school as him. I only knew him because we both needed to take the train to get to school and his younger brother, Dennis, was in my year. Being reasonably close to his brother meant that I was usually spared from the bullying that would be routinely dished out to the other boys who took the train to and from school. His favourite pastime was to lift new students and plonk them onto the railway tracks as the train approached in the distance.

  In stark contrast, his younger brother was quiet, placid and could not say words that began with ‘sn’ properly. For three years, I would use his speech impediment to break the monotony of the train journey home. After which the poor sod moved with his dad and scumbag brother to an even rougher council estate because they could not maintain the rent payments. When the two boys were younger, their mother had died of a brain haemorrhage in front of them. Admittedly, it must have been an awful childhood but at least the younger brother proved that it did not have to end up with a knife in the guts. You do not come across many youngsters like these two in Singapore, yet when I grew up in England, I went to school with quite a few.

  So I remain convinced that the way things stand currently, Singapore has little to fear from its younger generations. They respect family ties and values, are dedicated students (perhaps too dedicated) and cause few disciplinary problems. However, I cannot say that Singapore has nothing to fear.

  Young Singaporeans are spoilt. No, let me rephrase that. The majority of Singaporean children rank among the most pampered children on the planet. Unlike their parents and grandparents, most young Singaporeans have experienced nothing but economic growth. Their childhood has been one of continual housing upgrading, decent education, modern shopping centres and fat hong baos, or red packets containing money that are given out at Chinese New Year. It does not take a sociologist to realise that such a comfortable lifestyle will have detrimental side effects.

  In my classroom, I once had to pull a five-year-old boy away from his maid. He was kicking her because she had forgotten to bring his toys. On another occasion, my colleague Lawrence told me about a ten-year-old girl who submitted a composition about the family’s maid. In the piece, she detailed the poor woman’s incompetence and how she was so stupid because she did not always obey the instructions given by the girl. Lawrence consulted the girl’s mother about the ‘Why I hate maids’ composition. She just sighed and said, ‘But the maid is so damned lazy.’

  If this is the attitude that is being instilled into Singaporean children, then the future is bleak. If they grow up believing that they must treat their family with respect but everybody else can be treated shabbily, then we have got a problem. If they also believe that the pursuit of money is the only pursuit in life, then I shudder at the consequences. I have come across enough brain-numbingly boring executives, with a fat wallet and a fast car, to last me a lifetime. These people are never satisfied. They buy a four-roomed flat, then they want a five-roomed one. They buy their first car, which has to be replaced by a Mercedes within five years. Their boss plays golf (squash is now so passé) so they buy a set of clubs and take lessons. It is unoriginal, predictable and depressing. As all of these pursuits take up so much time, they get the maid to wash the car because that is what she is paid for while they get an auntie to clear away their tray in a fast-food restaurant. Then, when they have children, they send them for extra tuition to keep them occupied. The children get everything they want because it appeases them and they shout at the maid because they have seen their parents do it. Suddenly, we have come full circle – Singaporean greed has reproduced itself in the next generation.

  As today’s teenagers become adults, they are understandably restless and ambitious. The prospect of having a modest flat, a maid and a small car does not pacify them because it is nothing new. So they either go out to chase the dollar at any cost or they emigrate.

  I watched Prime Minister Goh Chok Tong give a speech to students a while back urging those who decided to study overseas to enjoy themselves but to make sure they came back to ply their skills here. He sounded like he was almost pleading with them and I cannot say I blame him. When I was teaching, students used to tell me how lucky I was to have grown up in England and how much more exciting it must have been. I used to tell them one or two not-so-good stories from my childhood, adding that the chances of similar incidents occurring here were almost negligible. In a nutshell, schoolchildren are better off here.

  Of course, Singaporeans may not be the most socially adept youngsters in the world and children here are expected to work far too hard. Paradoxically, English pupils do not hit the books half as much as they should, yet they are never short of an answer or two in the street. It is a classic case of swings and roundabouts. If I had to choose between an environment in which the kids were a little shy but produced outstanding academic results or a place where youngsters were more outgoing but far less studious and were randomly flung onto railway tracks from time to time, I know which one I would pick, don’t you? Quick! Make your mind up, a train is approaching.

  Chapter Six

  I cannot stand shopping in Singapore. No, that is wrong. I cannot stand shopping with my girlfriend in Singapore. I spend so much time with her in Orchard Road and Bishan that I am considering taking a sleeping bag with me from now on. You see, like most women, she is a feeler. She simply cannot walk past an unfamiliar product without giving it a quick, discreet fondle. It does not matter what we are looking at, her hands impulsively shoot out to touch that unidentified sitting object. I would not mind but there are parts of my body that remain unidentified but she has never been overcome by an uncontrollable urge to touch them. I have seen her feel the most ridiculous of products ranging from baby clothes to tin openers. The most mystifying part of the process comes after she has given the unfamiliar product a squeeze, which, incidentally, she never has any intention of buying. Seemingly delighted that, for example, a roof rack for a BMW (we do not even have a car) feels exactly how she anticipated, her lips form a tiny, self-satisfied smile as she lets out a little ‘hmm’. She can do this all bloody day.

  So, after spending the whole day shopping one Sunday, it should come as no surprise that I was not in the best of moods as we queued up at a taxi stand outside Junction 8 shopping centre in Bishan. The sticky humidity that precedes a thunderstorm was not helping matters either. I was perspiring heavily, I had things to prepare for work the next day and the taxi queue did not seem to be going anywhere. There were about six taxis’ worth of people in front of us when the most irritating thing happened. A Chinese lad, aged about twenty, swaggered towards the queue
with his girlfriend. He was speaking Hokkien extremely loudly into a yellow handphone, throwing in plenty of swear words here and there just to remind his academically-challenged girlfriend how hard he was. As a taxi approached, the pair arrogantly walked to the front of the queue, flagged the taxi down and got in. As the unknowing driver pulled away, the Chinese guy dragged himself away from his phone momentarily to wave at the queue before disappearing into the night.

  There were grumbles and disappointed sighs from a few weary shoppers waiting in the queue but I was livid. I had travelled to the other side of the planet to get some peace from these shitheads and I was furious with myself for letting the little prick get away with it. My home town was full of people like this.

  I was still fuming when the Indian couple standing behind us walked away. I sympathised with them. They were just as pissed off as we were. When they left the queue, I assumed they had given up trying to get a taxi. Curiously, I watched them plod along Bishan Road. They had walked no more than fifteen metres when they stepped off the kerb and hailed a taxi that was making its way towards the stand. The couple quickly got in, probably hoping they had not been spotted, and the taxi then pulled away sharply. I could not believe it. I had been made to look a fool twice in two minutes. This time something had to be done.

  As the taxi crawled up to the stand, I found myself inexplicably running towards it. ‘You bastards!’ I heard myself shout. ‘You fucking little kiasu bastards. Don’t pretend you can’t see me. There are families waiting to get taxis here, you fucking bastards.’

  So there I was in the middle of Bishan Road on a wet Sunday night screaming abuse at a taxi that was fast becoming a twinkling light in the distance. What was I doing? I still cannot explain it rationally. On completing my incoherent tirade of abuse, I turned, delighted with myself, towards the taxi stand. The sight of ten or so stunned shoppers greeted me, all of whom had no idea what to make of my uncontrolled outburst. Sometimes the Dagenham side of me comes racing to the surface because that is the side that stores all the swear words. There is little I can do about it.