Secondary 3 was the last time I passed the 2nd Language class. It was downhill from there. I became less interested in the subject, often switched off during class time. I was certain the morning hours had something to do with it. Secondary 1 and Secondary 2 years were held in the afternoons, meaning I slept later and got more sleep. Secondary 3 to Secondary 5 years were held in the mornings, which meant less sleep. Furthermore, 2nd Language was the first class of the day – at least since Secondary 4. I remembered not being fully awake most of that time. That year, I got more scarlet letters for 2nd Language leading to failing that subject in the end-of-year exams. That was carried over to Secondary 5.
Also carried over was Ms. Stink Breath the 2nd Language tutor, who was not replaced despite me failing the subject. I previously mentioned that private tutors were motivated by money. None of them were working in the school system when my parents contracted their services. From primary to secondary education, I had two different styles of instruction for the same subject. The Primary years weren't so bad because I had school textbooks, workbooks, homework assignments and copies of tests to help the tutors be on the same page with the schoolteachers. In the Secondary years, there were no workbooks; homework assignments got fewer over time. Experiencing two contrasting styles of instruction made the learning process gradually infernal starting in Secondary 4, switching off during Ms. Stink Breath's sessions and during school classes simultaneously. No tutor would have done better. The problem wasn't the tutoring. It was my parents’ co-dependency on it.
During the Primary 2 mid-year 2nd Language exam, I didn't complete more than ten questions; during the Primary 4 mid-year one, I didn't complete at least three pages (out of close to ten). I passed the Primary 2 mid-year but not the Primary 4 one. Primary 6 was the Primary School Leaving Examination year. Mom – ever the poster child of Krypton's "kiasu" culture – obtained sample 2nd Language tests from mothers and schoolteachers connected to other schools. I never attended those schools and was not familiar with their styles of instructions or grading. Mom took those tests – a tall pile of them – painted out the answers using correction fluid, xeroxed them, and then had me do those tests. They were extremely difficult. Each test took up an entire morning. I rarely completed them when it was time to go to school in the afternoon. When the tutor graded them, I consistently scored poorly.
As far as Mom was concerned, it meant I had to do more of the same difficult sample tests. Practice makes perfect when repeating it works. When it doesn't work and is repeated, there's another word for it:
Insanity: doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result.
Thankfully, Mom did not follow up on this insanity when I went to secondary school. It'd have made things worse, not better.
Western influences played a huge part in the choice of material consumption in English over 2nd Language. Literature – especially comic books – TV, movies, music and everything else in-between, there were all in English. It was the common language of Krypton in public and business sectors. I spoke English at home, school and church. English was better. That was what I thought. Not only that, 2nd Language was difficult to read, write or remember, and became increasingly alien to me in the final two Secondary years. I could not write an essay without relying heavily on a dictionary. So how did I do in the composition exams? I barely wrote half a page of material, using only rudimentary words that I knew. Of course I failed. I did only slightly better in the comprehension exams, which didn't mean much because I failed that too.
Secondary 5, 1989. I took the 'O' Level exams for 2nd Language two weeks after the school's mid-year exams. Along with the rest of the class, I was administered the exams for the same subject twice in one month. They included both composition and comprehension, tested separately. Unlike the rest of the subjects, the 2nd Language exams did not go to Cambridge in the UK but were graded by our local Ministry of Education. Those that didn't do well had the option to retake it in November.
I didn't do well. Got an 'F' and was satisfied by it. I was given the retake form that required my parents' signature. Was very clear to my mother that I didn't want to retake Chinese. She said to let Dad decide. He decided that I should retake. "What if you pass?" he said. It would be worth it. "What if I fail again?" I countered. He wouldn't consider that because he maintained that I could pass.
Dad did not like to lose an argument. Dad never lost an argument, especially not to his son. I tried to point out it I had given my best effort, and the retake wouldn't make it better; would rather spend the time on other subjects that I could excel in; and not spend money on exam fees. The more I stood my ground, the more frustrated Dad got. He threw every possible hand, claiming that he 1) was fed up with me (because I didn't want to do the retake), 2) knew what was better for me than I did (citing piano lessons for instilling a sense of cultural appreciation), and 3) called me stubborn. Dad refused to lose.
How did Mother handle it? She acted as if she was the one getting hurt. When she came into my room, I couldn't tell whether she was trying to be supportive or to contribute additional rebuke. But she clearly leaned towards Dad's position. I didn't want her help, because she wasn't helping. That got her flustered. Dad wasn't done with me, and Mother was trying to start another argument.
After a few hours of Dad's browbeating, I was hurt and crying. Dad finally claimed that I could decide whatever decision I want. I chose to retake. I cried some more after filling out the form. Dad tried to play nice about it but it felt hollow. Mom came into the room, screaming and demanded that I tell her what I did wrong. There I was crying and hurt, and Mom was acting as if she was the victim. I didn't want to look at her, and waited for her to leave the room before doing anything. I spent the night crying and didn't want to go to sleep.
The following day was National Day. I couldn't enjoy the school festivities celebrating my homeland's independence. I spent the time moping and wallowing in pain, and didn't talk to anyone. I already wasn't talking much to my parents. The previous night's experience provided another excuse to continue doing so.
It was quite interesting how Dad easily flipped on issues to serve his own arguments. Prior to the end-of-year 'O' Level exams for all subjects, we received the results for the school's end-of-year exams. Mine were promising. Classmates talked about spending the first three months of the following year in a Pre-U of their choices. I wanted to be part of that if for no other reason than to hang out with them till the release of the 'O' Level results in March. A few months earlier, Dad insisted that I should retake the 2nd Language exam because he argued I could pass. When I brought up Pre-U, he immediately exclaimed I could fail the exam and therefore ineligible for Pre-U. Suddenly, he wasn't optimistic that I would pass the retake. It was just his argument to win. Mom was of no help. If neither of my beloved parents were confident of me going to Pre-U because I might not pass Chinese, why re-take it then? Instead of a sensible, reasonable response, I was attacked for being stubborn. I remained silent as Mom continued her brief tirade, because I did not want Dad to rehash the entire brutality of his soapbox from a few months ago.
"You can drag a horse to water, but you can't make it drink." I didn't prepare for either the school's or the 'O' Level's 2nd Language exams. Instead, I focused much of my energy on the other subjects. When I showed up on the day of the 2nd Language exams, I brought materials of other subjects to study. I knew my strengths, focused on them and scored well on the other subjects. To the surprise of only my parents, I failed 2nd Language. I proved Dad wrong, but the damage was done.
One big lesson I learnt from this entire debacle was that my parents didn't care about what I needed or wanted. They only cared about what they believed I should have regardless of what I felt or thought. They lied when they claim to support any decision I made. I had already started to make my own decisions behind their backs, and continued doing so with increasing frequency since. As long as I didn't tell them about it, I didn't have to relive the drama. I looked out for other people I could ask so that I wouldn't have to go to my parents.
1989 also marked the first time I didn't accompany my parents on family vacations. I have not accompanied them since.
No comments:
Post a Comment