Teaching Cats to Jump Hoops Page 3

  After special education, the children were sent to a small factory set up by the association to receive vocational training. We saw a teenage boy straining to carve a piece of wood, but his hand shook so violently that he kept missing his target and had to try over and over again. Yet he never lost his temper or gave up.

  As she watched all this from the sidelines, Man-Ru suddenly lost control. In front of everyone, she began to wail, covering her face with her hands as tears streamed through her fingers. Gently putting my arm around her shoulder, I muttered softly, “Go ahead and cry, child. Cry as much as you want.”

  As we were leaving the association, Man-Ru, whose eyes were still red and puffy from crying, tugged at my sleeve and said, “Madam Tham, I’d like to volunteer here.”

  I nodded and said, “I’ll make the arrangements for you.”

  4

  From then on, Man-Ru volunteered at the Spastic Children’s Association after school once a week, and I began to detect subtle changes on her face and in her mood. The differences weren’t big, but I could sense that her low self-esteem was being replaced with confidence. The existence of the disabled children gave her a new understanding and view of her own misfortune, and she discovered her own self-worth by helping them. In turn, they grew more reliant upon her and for the first time in her life, she felt needed and valued by others. The friendly attitude of the staff at the association also gave her a chance to experience the joys and warmth of life in a community, which she found to be a new and sunlit world. Man-Ru continued to come and go on her own, but other teachers also noticed the change in her. As if she was an explorer who had discovered a new world, Miss Foo, who taught English, said to me one day, “Man-Ru used to live in a dark corner. She was like a porcupine whose hard, pointed quills made you uncomfortable, behaving as if the whole world was against her. But she’s turned into a lovely girl this semester. I told a joke in class yesterday and she actually laughed! Sometimes, when we bump into each other, she even says hello first.”

  In the course of one’s life, a person can be backed into a narrow, gloomy corner without knowing it. The corner can be so deep and dark that it seems like there’s no way out, and a life can be wasted. But if an unexpected turn of events puts that person in contact with bright, sparkling sunlight, a change, with the strength to turn things around, is possible. That was what happened to Man-Ru.

  The June school holidays were soon upon us. Before the holidays, I asked the students to share their vacation plans. They were understandably excited, vying for the chance to tell the class. Some would be working at fast food restaurants to earn some spending money; some would be travelling overseas with their parents; some had already made plans to have fun with their friends; and some intended to be bookworms and bury themselves in their studies. When it was Man-Ru’s turn, she stood up confidently and said, “I’ve made a plan. I’ll be helping out at the Spastic Children’s Association. The association will be holding a large fundraiser at the end of the year, so there’ll be lots to do.” This piqued the interest of another student in the class, who asked, “Do they need more volunteers?”

  Man-Ru turned to nod at the student. “The more the better,” she said. A few other students, who thought the holiday was so long that they might get bored, also asked to participate. Man-Ru replied solemnly, “Maybe you should give it a try first.”

  When school was over that day, the students went with her to the association. I tagged along.

  When the head of the association saw me, he gave me a thumbs-up sign. “I have to thank you for bringing us such an outstanding volunteer,” he said with a smile as he took me aside. “Man-Ru not only works hard, she truly cares about these children. Love is really a panacea for them.”

  The students who tagged along that day were eager to help, and immediately signed up to be volunteers. Man-Ru showed them around like an older sister. The snail that had cowered inside its shell was now slowly sticking its antennae out.

  School started again in July. What a pleasant surprise it was to see Man-Ru! She had cut her hair short, letting the world see her birthmark without trying to cover it up. She gave the impression that she was afraid of nothing, let alone the defect on her face. Man-Ru actually had nice features, but had looked unkempt in the past because she had covered half her face with her unruly hair, and her angry, gloomy demeanour had only made her appearance even more disagreeable. Now a confident glow shone on her face, turning her into a real charmer.

  She was obviously in a good mood when she saw me.

  “Are you free this Saturday night, Madam Tham?”

  “Is something going on?”

  “Yes, the association is hosting a celebration, and I was wondering if you could make it.”

  Of course I would go—even if it snowed or the ground frosted over.

  The celebration was held in the association’s auditorium, which was packed with people. Everyone laughed when the silvery screens were pulled apart. A dozen children dressed in bright clothes, looking like colourful flowers, lit up the stage with happiness. One of them, a tall girl, wore a colourful hat and multi-coloured clothing. Makeup exaggerated her facial features, giving her an especially large mouth with upturned lips that made her look happy, even though she wasn’t smiling. When the music started, she led the other children in dancing to the music. All of them moved differently. They were never in step, but that could not hide the joy they felt deep down inside. In fact their joy, like an unstoppable flood, was contagious—parents in the audience were tearing up. I felt my heart beat faster as I watched, and I sat up straight in my seat. Squinting to get a better look, I saw that the girl who had completely lost herself in the dance was in fact Man-Ru.

  Happy tears misted my eyes.

  The girl who had once been called a witch was now happiness personified in the melodious music, transformed into a fairy descending from heaven.

  Calling Out Repeatedly to the Good Boy

  1

  THE MORNING I saw the notorious Tay Heng Yong in my class, my initial reaction had been one of surprise. I looked again and still could not believe my eyes, for he had shed his hooligan airs, and he couldn’t have appeared more different from his former nasty and violent self.

  He was sitting at the first desk by the window. Sporting a crew cut, he had big, round, onyx-like eyes that gave off a pure, innocent sparkle. His thick lips curved upwards slightly as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and the hint of a smile crept naturally out of the corners of his mouth.

  Six months before, while attending another school, he had made headlines in the national newspapers in the wake of a gang fight. His school had hosted a basketball game which his team had lost. As captain, he was so incensed over the humiliating defeat that he had gathered a few of his friends and beat up members of the winning team after the game at a bus stop near the school gate. They weren’t fooling around; they had meant to hurt. By the time the police heard about it and raced over, two of the winning team’s players were already lying on the ground, bleeding from head injuries. The incident shook the school system, and appeared the next day in the local section of the newspaper under the headline: “Dispute over basketball game: Blood spilled at school entrance.”

  Heng Yong, barely sixteen at the time, was sentenced to two years in Singapore Boys’ Home.

  For the first six months, Heng Yong’s good behaviour so impressed the Boys’ Home director that he was allowed to continue attending regular classes at school in the morning and return to the Home after class in the afternoon. The director, however, urged him to transfer to another school so that he would not be the target of criticism, and more importantly, so that he would stay away from bad influences.

  That was how and why Heng Yong transferred to my school and into my class.

  He was enrolled in the Normal Stream of Secondary Four. The arrival of a resident of the Boys’ Home immediately intimidated some of the other students who usually liked to stir up trouble. Feeling dwarfed by h
is presence, these students now behaved themselves and stopped goofing off. The good students, on the other hand, considered Heng Yong a criminal and warily steered clear of him. An uncomfortable chill was added to the already sombre classroom atmosphere.

  Clearly I had been handed a ticking time bomb, which if handled correctly, could actually be turned into living teaching material, an excellent example to the other students. I hated to think of the consequences, however, if the bomb went off.

  I decided that doing nothing was the best course of action, and pretended that nothing was amiss. Opening my textbook, I began class as if it were any other day. When the students saw my indifferent demeanour, they looked around quizzically. A talkative boy in the middle row could not hold back. “We have a new student, Madam Tham,” he reminded me in a soft voice. I nodded slightly, a non-reaction that prompted him to look in the direction of the window and make a face. “A famous one too,” he muttered. I ignored him and turned to the whiteboard to write down a few proverbs that the students had studied before, to check their comprehension. As the students answered my questions, I stole a glance at Heng Yong. He was busy, with his eye on the board, his ears pricked, his hand writing down the phrases and his mind committing them to memory.

  Class was soon over. Before the bell rang, I used the last couple of minutes to introduce Heng Yong to the class. “Tay Heng Yong is a transfer student,” I said. “I hope you will honour the spirit of helping each other and welcome him. I’d like everyone to help him adjust quickly to the new environment.”

  I walked out as the bell rang. Heng Yong got up from his seat and raced to catch up with me. The strong smell of cigarettes enveloped me suddenly like a rank whirlwind, making me dizzy. When he stood close to me, I noticed a short but deep scar under his left eyebrow. Resembling a tiny dagger, the scar reminded me of the Chinese saying “Clean knife in, bloody knife out” and its association with sinister stories of the underworld.

  “Madam Tham, I’m sorry I can’t attend the remedial session this afternoon or any other afternoon in the future,” he said respectfully.

  “I know, you have to return to the Home after class.” I nodded in understanding. When he opened his mouth to speak, I noticed that his teeth were dirty and yellow, covered with unsightly cigarette stains. As he was turning to walk away, I asked with a smile, “Are you a heavy smoker, Heng Yong?”

  He scratched his head and smiled shyly. After a while, he finally said, “I—um—over there—I mean, at the Boys’ Home, the rules are very strict. I hadn’t even smelled cigarette smoke for at least six months, so now that I’m out, I have a few to ease the craving.”

  “What brand?”

  He gave me the name of an established cigarette brand.

  “Oh, they’re not bad. They have a minty taste,” I said.

  “Do you smoke, Madam Tham?” he asked, the light of pleasant surprise shining in his eyes.

  I smiled. “I did when I was very young, but only for a while. To me, smoking is like eating durians. It smells wonderful when you’re eating them, but a stink clings to you after you’re done. The stink was too much for me, so I quit.”

  Rather than lecture him about school rules, I tried to share my feelings as someone who had been in a similar situation. This was something new and interesting to him, and it erased the distance between us. He laughed freely, looking like a young boy who had yet to experience the ups and downs of life. It was a tender, endearing sight to behold.

  “Madam Tham, there’s a new product that eliminates the cigarette smell,” Heng Yong said. He took out an aerosol can, opened his mouth and sprayed something inside. Instantly a light, minty fragrance drifted from his mouth in a shapeless, green cloud. “I sneaked a cigarette into the bathroom and forgot to use this,” he said in a low voice as if letting me in on a secret.

  Smoking cigarettes is like the urge to gamble—easy to start and hard to stop. I wanted to help this boy quit, but I knew the road ahead would be long and the responsibility weighty.

  The next day in class, I assigned an essay topic that would allow Heng Yong to speak his mind freely: “The Thing I Regret Most”.

  Everyone began to write, and the room was quiet except for the sound of pens scratching paper. I watched Heng Yong as he cupped his cheek in deep thought. After twenty minutes, he finally picked up his pen. Then he wrote non-stop, one page after another as if a levee had been broken by an unstoppable flood. When the bell rang, quite a few students still hadn’t finished. They asked if they could turn in their essays at the end of the school day, and I readily agreed.

  When school was over that day, the class monitor collected the essays and placed them on my desk. I could hardly wait to read Heng Yong’s essay. I was surprised to see that several pages of his new exercise book had been torn out, and so carelessly that the edges were jagged. Puzzled, I flipped through his exercise book until a piece of paper fell out.

  “I understand your intention behind the topic, Madam Tham. I wrote about the one thing that I regret most but it was merely a story, not a genuine reflection of how I feel inside. I didn’t want to deceive you, so I tore the pages out. I don’t think there’s anything regrettable in my life, for what I’ve gone through has been predestined by fate.”

  Fate! He actually blamed all his mistakes on fate!

  Realising that this was a delicate situation, my heart felt weightless and dislocated as if it had been plunged into an unfathomable abyss.

  It has been my lifelong conviction that behind every problem student lies a problem family. So I called Heng Yong’s mother and asked her to see me.

  We had settled on two o’clock in the afternoon, but she was an hour late. Obviously rushing to get there, she was panting hard. The moment she arrived, she began to apologise profusely as she wiped the sweat off her face, looking anxious and apprehensive. I sized her up. She had a large, round and flat face that was oily and wet with perspiration. Trailing her was the nearly imperceptible smell of grease, like deep-fried salted dough cakes that had just been fished out of a pot. Her hair, which was greying here and there, was most unusual. From a distance, one got the impression that she was wearing a spider web on her head.

  “You must’ve been busy,” I said, showing her to a seat.

  “Yes! Yes!” She nodded almost frenetically. “A whole slew of customers came in at once and I couldn’t get away. That’s why I’m an hour late. I’m really sorry.”

  I learned from our conversation that she and her husband ran a hawker stall at a coffee shop in Queenstown. Every morning, they got up before sunrise to steam, boil, stir-fry, slow-cook, bake and fry, preparing a few dozen dishes that were then placed on aluminium trays for customers to choose from.

  “Sometimes we’re so busy, we barely have time to breathe.” She wiped her face as she continued, “Heng Yong is our only child, and I had him in my thirties, so now all I want is to make enough money for him to enjoy a good life. You don’t know how his father spoils him. If he doesn’t like what he’s given at dinner, he flips his plate upside down, sending food all over the place. His father races into the kitchen to make him something else.”

  I was so stunned that my jaw dropped.

  Taking no notice of my expression, she continued to chatter away, “Now that he’s in the Boys’ Home, he can no longer eat good food, so he’s become all skin and bones. It pains me to see him like that. The boy’s downfall is his honesty. After the fight, he shouldered all the responsibility at the police station. I told him he should’ve told the police that he’d only been an onlooker and hadn’t been in the fight. It would’ve been fine if he’d denied everything, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He even said something about a man taking responsibility for his actions. So you see, how could an honest boy like him not always get the short end of the stick?”

  Words cannot describe how I felt as I listened to her.

  The source of Heng Yong’s problems was sitting right in front of me. No good fruit can grow from poor soil, and a pl
ot of land overrun with insects will only be able to yield worm-infested produce.

  Heng Yong was the typical product of blindly indulgent parents. But his problems were worse than other teenagers, because in addition to material comforts, his family gave him misguided ideas on how to get by in the world, and would let him get away with murder.

  How in the world was I supposed to go about tending to and fertilising this insect-infested sapling?

  I sank into deep thought, searching for an answer.

  2

  In class I assigned an engaging exercise. Using “cigarette smoking and life” as the central theme, I asked the students to come up with slogans and illustrations of their own design. They loved the idea, and began brainstorming for ideas and designs with great enthusiasm.

  After collecting the students’ exercises, I checked their work slowly. There were many innovative pieces. One student, for instance, had drawn a ferocious beast with a man whose lower body had been swallowed dangling between its cruel, crooked fangs. The victim’s upper body was struggling. His arms hung outside the beast’s mouth to personify helplessness, powerlessness, fear and panic; yet the man’s right hand was still clutching a pack of cigarettes, and several of the cigarettes were depicted falling out of the crumpled package. The eerie, white cigarettes gave the drawing a heightened sense of creepiness. The drawing came with the caption “I must eat eight smokers a day” to highlight how smoking unavoidably leads to death. It was a creative image, rich with meaning. Similarly, the other students followed my instructions to convey the negative impact of cigarette smoking using images and captions; all except for Heng Yong, who had written a single line: “Great strength can uproot a mountain; imposing airs can subdue the world”. Beneath his caption, he had drawn a brawny giant with one hand holding a mountain in its palm with great flair. Between the middle and index fingers of the other hand was a lit cigarette, with its smoke curling upward. The piece met the standard and demands of a professional advertisement. This Heng Yong was quite something. Apart from his talent in drawing, I was impressed by his precise and concise use of language. He clearly had literary potential.