By Patricia Pinto
The pain was like nothing she had ever known. It spread from her heart to her eyes and through her soul. The tears as she lay in a ball on her bed, her spirit crumpled. In her mind, she replayed her "conversation" with her father.
"Why every week must go out? Cannot stay at home, is it? Nowadays, you very big, no need to ask permission lah! Just tell and then go out, huh?" he shouted at her. His anger shocked her.
"I tell you cannot go means cannot go. The other time, after play futsal, I already told you cannot go out again. That was the last time."
Her face fell; she could not remember him ever saying that. But father did not give her a chance to reply. He ended abruptly and she went into her room, careful not to slam the door and fuel his anger.
She phoned her boyfriend and told him about her father's harsh words. He reminded her that her father had no legal right to keep her in the house. He also expressed his frustrations with her parents, particularly her father, who seemed opposed to her making friends with guys.
After the call, she curled up in a ball and tried hard not to let the tears fall. All this time, she had stomached her parents' accusations stoically. But what hurt most was that they persisted in treating her like a 10-year-old kid, and not the 20-year-old woman she had become.
Hoe many years had she followed their orders blindly, giving them what they wanted? When they wanted good grades, she had scored them and waited to hear their praise. Instead, they had complained that she was not a straight-A student.
She did not have a good time at school either. People had mocked her because of her figure, and later, her name. Then things got worse. Her "friends" had teased and bullied her. But she took everything good-naturedly, letting them run roughshod over her. She felt left out because whenever they made plans to go out, she could not join in. She was lonely.
Talking to her parents had never been an option. They cared more for her brother, although lately, she'd noticed that even he was getting the brunt of their tongue. They never heard her cries at night, and never knew her frustration when she could not answer a question. They always stifled some of her interests with this question: "Is it in your books?"
Even when she had a boyfriend, she did not tell him everything. She did not dare confide in anyone because she'd learnt from a young age, that expressing a "forbidden" feeling would incur harsh words and humiliation, especially in front of her other relatives.
How she longed to have a shoulder cry on; to have someone hug her and tell her that it was okay, that she had done her best. Was it so wrong to ask that her parents say they love her?
Her lips twisted bitterly as she thought of the idiom: "Blood is thicker than water."
Which father would hit and kick his only son just because his favourite hat had a small, insignificant part missing? Which mother would use her own daughter as an excuse to turn herself into something she was not? What kind of parents would poison their own children against their cousins?
She held up her hand and looked at the faint blue veins on her wrist. Smiling to herself, she went to the kitchen, took a small knife, then returned to her room. She locked the door, then stared at the metal blade. She began to think of everything good in her life.
Those friends who did not mind hearing her prattle away. Her grandmother, who loved her unconditionally . A boyfriend who loved her too, but who - from their latest conversation - she felt she did not really deserve. Her little cousins, who would wonder why she had chosen this road.
Then she thought of the "bad" things. The father whose expectations she could never fulfil. Her mother, who wanted her to be what she herself could not be. Her aunts, who always took advantage of the fact that she lived near them. Her godmother, who she had thought of confiding in in once, but was now glad she didn't. And of the loneliness of not being able to talk to the very people who were responsible for her life.
Then she thought of what would happen if she slit her wrist.
There would be the funeral to be arranged and paid for. Her brother would truly be alone, without her around to confide in and share his secrets. Her cousins would be shocked, but the aunts would gossip behind her mother's back.
The shock of a beloved granddaughter's suicide might kill her grandmother. There would be one less mouth to feed, but her mother would be angry about all the money she'd spent on her tertiary education. Her little cousin, who'd lost her mother and now clung to her, would be devastated. But good might come of this: if the cousin clung to her father's girlfriend instead, it would bring them all closer to each other.
Then she looked at the teddy bear her boyfriend had given her long ago for Christmas. It looked worn but was still fluffy. And she knew then that doing something stupid would cause him even more pain.
She put the knife away.
From Starmag
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Bully
By Roger Kiser
I walked into the Huddle House restaurant in Brunswick, Georgia, and sat down at the counter as all of the booths were taken. I picked up a menu and began to look at the various items, trying to decide if I wanted to order breakfast or just go ahead and eat lunch.
"Excuse me," said someone, as she touched me on the shoulder.
I looked up and turned to the side to see a rather nice-looking woman standing before me.
"Is your name Roger by any chance?" she asked.
"Yes," I responded, looking rather confused as I had never seen her before.
"My name is Barbara and my husband is Tony," she said, pointing to a distant table near the door leading into the bathrooms.
I looked where she was pointing but did not recognise the man sitting alone at the table.
"I'm sorry ... I don't think I know you guys. But my name is Roger. Roger Kiser," I told her.
"Tony Claxton. Tony from Landon High School in Jacksonville, Florida?" she asked me.
"I'm really sorry. The name doens't ring a bell."
She turned, walked back to her table and sat down. She and her husband immediately began talking and once in a while, I would see her turn around in her seat and look directly at me.
I finally decided to order breakfast and a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I sat there racking my brain, trying to remember who this Tony was.
"I must know him," I thought to myself. "He recognises me for some reason." I picked my coffee up adn took a sip. All of a sudden it came to me like a flash of lightning.
"Tony. TONY THE BULL," I mumbled, as I swung around on my stool and faced his direction. "The bully of my seventh grade Geography class."
How many times had that sorry guy made fun of my big ears in front of the girls in class? How many times had this sorry son-of-a-gun laughed at me because I had no parents and had to live in an orphanage? How many times had this big bully slammed me up against the lockers in the hallway just to make himself look like a big man to all the other students?
He raised his hand and waved. I smiled, returned the wave, turned back and began to eat my breakfast.
"Jesus. He's so thin now. Not the big burly guy I remember from back in 1957," I thought to myself.
All of a sudden I heard the sound of dishes breaking so I spun around to see what had happened. Tony had knocked several plates off the table as he tried to get into his wheelchair, which had been parked in the bathroom hallway while they were eating. The waitress ran over and started picking up the broken dishes as I listened as Tony and his wife tried to apologise.
As Tony rolled by me, pushed by his wife, I looked up and I smiled.
"Roger," he said, as he nodded.
"Tony," I responded, nodding my head in return.
I watched as they went out of the door and slowly made their way to a large van which had a wheelchair loader located on its side door.
I sat and watched as his wife tried, again and again, to get the ramp to come down. But it just would not work. Finally I got up, paid for my meal, and walked up to the van.
"What's the problem?"
"Darn thing sticks once in a while," said Tony.
"Could you help me get him in the van?" asked his wife.
"I think I can do that," I said, as I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled Tony over to the passenger door.
I opened the door and locked the brakes on the wheelchair.
"Okay. Arms around the neck, Dude," I said as I reached down, grabbed him around the waist and carefully raised him up onto the passenger seat.
As Tony let go of my neck, I reached over and swung his limp, lifeless legs, one at a time, into the van so that they could be stationed directly in front of him.
"You remember, don't you?" he said, looking into my eyes.
"I remember, Tony."
"I guess you're thinking, 'What goes around comes around'," he said softly.
"I would never think like that, Tony," I said, with a stern look on my face.
He reached over, grabbed both my hands and squeeze them tightly.
"Is how I feel in the wheelchair how you felt way back then when you lived in the orphan home?"
"Almost, Tony. You are very lucky. You have someone to push you around who loves you. I didn't have anyone."
I reached in my picket, pulled out one of my cards and handed it to him. "Give me a call. We'll do lunch."
We both laughed. I stood there watching as they drove toward the interstate and finally disappeared onto the southbound ramp. I hope he calls me sometime. He will be the only friend I have from my high school days.
Story sent in to Starmag by Vincent.
I walked into the Huddle House restaurant in Brunswick, Georgia, and sat down at the counter as all of the booths were taken. I picked up a menu and began to look at the various items, trying to decide if I wanted to order breakfast or just go ahead and eat lunch.
"Excuse me," said someone, as she touched me on the shoulder.
I looked up and turned to the side to see a rather nice-looking woman standing before me.
"Is your name Roger by any chance?" she asked.
"Yes," I responded, looking rather confused as I had never seen her before.
"My name is Barbara and my husband is Tony," she said, pointing to a distant table near the door leading into the bathrooms.
I looked where she was pointing but did not recognise the man sitting alone at the table.
"I'm sorry ... I don't think I know you guys. But my name is Roger. Roger Kiser," I told her.
"Tony Claxton. Tony from Landon High School in Jacksonville, Florida?" she asked me.
"I'm really sorry. The name doens't ring a bell."
She turned, walked back to her table and sat down. She and her husband immediately began talking and once in a while, I would see her turn around in her seat and look directly at me.
I finally decided to order breakfast and a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I sat there racking my brain, trying to remember who this Tony was.
"I must know him," I thought to myself. "He recognises me for some reason." I picked my coffee up adn took a sip. All of a sudden it came to me like a flash of lightning.
"Tony. TONY THE BULL," I mumbled, as I swung around on my stool and faced his direction. "The bully of my seventh grade Geography class."
How many times had that sorry guy made fun of my big ears in front of the girls in class? How many times had this sorry son-of-a-gun laughed at me because I had no parents and had to live in an orphanage? How many times had this big bully slammed me up against the lockers in the hallway just to make himself look like a big man to all the other students?
He raised his hand and waved. I smiled, returned the wave, turned back and began to eat my breakfast.
"Jesus. He's so thin now. Not the big burly guy I remember from back in 1957," I thought to myself.
All of a sudden I heard the sound of dishes breaking so I spun around to see what had happened. Tony had knocked several plates off the table as he tried to get into his wheelchair, which had been parked in the bathroom hallway while they were eating. The waitress ran over and started picking up the broken dishes as I listened as Tony and his wife tried to apologise.
As Tony rolled by me, pushed by his wife, I looked up and I smiled.
"Roger," he said, as he nodded.
"Tony," I responded, nodding my head in return.
I watched as they went out of the door and slowly made their way to a large van which had a wheelchair loader located on its side door.
I sat and watched as his wife tried, again and again, to get the ramp to come down. But it just would not work. Finally I got up, paid for my meal, and walked up to the van.
"What's the problem?"
"Darn thing sticks once in a while," said Tony.
"Could you help me get him in the van?" asked his wife.
"I think I can do that," I said, as I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled Tony over to the passenger door.
I opened the door and locked the brakes on the wheelchair.
"Okay. Arms around the neck, Dude," I said as I reached down, grabbed him around the waist and carefully raised him up onto the passenger seat.
As Tony let go of my neck, I reached over and swung his limp, lifeless legs, one at a time, into the van so that they could be stationed directly in front of him.
"You remember, don't you?" he said, looking into my eyes.
"I remember, Tony."
"I guess you're thinking, 'What goes around comes around'," he said softly.
"I would never think like that, Tony," I said, with a stern look on my face.
He reached over, grabbed both my hands and squeeze them tightly.
"Is how I feel in the wheelchair how you felt way back then when you lived in the orphan home?"
"Almost, Tony. You are very lucky. You have someone to push you around who loves you. I didn't have anyone."
I reached in my picket, pulled out one of my cards and handed it to him. "Give me a call. We'll do lunch."
We both laughed. I stood there watching as they drove toward the interstate and finally disappeared onto the southbound ramp. I hope he calls me sometime. He will be the only friend I have from my high school days.
Story sent in to Starmag by Vincent.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Angel In My Heart
By Jade Cheng
On this Cheng Beng (All Souls Day) Sunday, when the Chinese remember their dearly departed ones, let me tell you about a darling angel who almost came into this world, and who has never left my heart. If she had lived, she would be 21 now, a full grown adult!
It was my first pregnancy, and it had gone well ... for seven months. Then I was told by a gynaecologist friend that I was bigger than normal.
"You must see your gynae for a check-up," he stressed. He was very serious, but still I couldn't imagine that anything could go wrong. I had been so healthy, I had worked throughout without any problems. I hadn't even suffered much from morning sickness.
My gynae immediately put me on full bed rest. Something was not right, but nothing had shown up in the ultrasound scan ... until one week later. The baby had a growth around its neck that was preventing it from swallowing, hence my enlarged water bag. More observations showed that the growth was increasing at a phenomenal pace. It was not known yet if the tumour was malignant or not. But the doctor said it would be very difficult for the baby to survive or live a normal life. He recommended inducing birth and not reviving the baby if it could not breathe. My husband agreed.
I hesitated, but was too shocked, confused and numb to put up a fight. I went along with the decision. But inside me, I felt like a murderer, of my own baby, whom I was supposed to protect and nurture. I was relieved when the post-mortem tests showed the tumour to be malignant - she wouldn't have survived.
I didn't know if I could make it through the ordeal of labour and delivery with the knowledge that there would be no bundle of joy at the end of it all. I longed to just go for caesarean - get knocked out and have everything done while I was unconscious. But that meant undergoing a major surgery and I was advised against it.
The night before the delivery, I asked for a sleeping pill. In those days, they didn't allow husbands in the delivery room so I was alone most of the time. I got the thickest novel I could find and fixed my mind on it to shut out all other thoughts. The delivery itself was not overly painful - perhaps I was too numb to feel much pain. My husband had told me to close my eyes and not look at the baby. Again, I was too numb to think independently. I remember the nurse telling me I had a beautiful girl and asking me if I wanted to see her. I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head.
I agreed to give up my baby's body for scientific research. When later, I changed my mind about not seeing her, there was nothing left. The doctor showed me a photograph and yes, the nurse was right - she was beautiful. But we have nothing physical to remember her by. She is buried nowhere but in my heart.
Family and friends were stunned by the turn of events. Not knowing how to react, they pretended that nothing had happened. There was no acknowledgement that the baby had existed at all, that we had lost a baby.
When my mother-in-law caught me crying, she told me not to cry or I would go blind. It was her way of trying to help me get over my loss. My husband, fraught with anxiety over my well-being, was a bundle of nerves. In those days, when nobody understood the psychology of the grieving process, my crying indicated to him that I was not doing well and it made his heartburn worse. In order to help him calm down, I tried not to cry in front of him. That way, they thought I was putting the loss behind me and was on the way to recovery.
My colleagues who knew about the tragedy thought they were respecting my privacy by not gossiping about it to others. Thus, many in the office didn't know any better. For more times than I could bear, the cleaning ladies, the telephone operator, and people form other departments would come beaming to me and ask me if I had a boy or a girl. I broke down many times. But many more times I learnt to say, "I lost the baby". The smiles would turn to shock as the enquirers slinked away in silence. I forcibly pushed down the cry welling up inside me and turned back to work.
I wished my close friends would have the sense to tell others not to ask me about the subject, but they didn't and I couldn't talk about it at all. For months, I sobbed uncontrollably almost every day on the drive home from work, hoping that people in the cars around me wouldn't notice.
Slowly, the months stretched into years. Other events in my life took centre stage. We didn't have other children and I couldn't decide whether or not to go all out to try for kids. My husband said it didn't matter to him whether or not we had kids. "If we have kids, fine. If not, we'll travel," he used to say. I didn't know if I really wanted to be a mother, or whether I wanted a baby to make up for my lost angel. On the outside, I acted normally. But deep inside, I never got over the tragedy ... not for a long time.
It wasn't until eight years later that I had to make a choice. I was about to go all out to try for a baby to avoid possible regret in later years. Then the opportunity arose for me to pursue a course of studies I had dreamt about for more than 10 years. But if the baby effort turned out successful, I wouldn't have time for the studies. Examining myself deeply, I realised that I preferred to pursue the course, that being a mother was not important to me. Then and only then did the last boulder of crippling a corner of my heart dislodge and I was whole again.
It doesn't mean that the sadness is completely gone. Indeed, writing this article made me cry buckets all over again. But it does mean that I am free today to enjoy other people's children - my nephews and nieces, my friends' kids. I am also able to emphatise with the unbearable pain of a mother's loss, even though I never quite got to be a full-fledged mother. I appreciate the need of those who have suffered the tragic death of a loved one to undergo a healthy grieving process, and the role that family, friends and third parties can play in this process.
While I would not have chosen such a painful experience, I thank my darling angel who, in coming so briefly into my life, made me a better, more compassionate and sensitive person. I regret that I never held my baby and kissed her and told her that I will always love her. But I know that she knows. And just as she has moved on, so have I.
Starmag
On this Cheng Beng (All Souls Day) Sunday, when the Chinese remember their dearly departed ones, let me tell you about a darling angel who almost came into this world, and who has never left my heart. If she had lived, she would be 21 now, a full grown adult!
It was my first pregnancy, and it had gone well ... for seven months. Then I was told by a gynaecologist friend that I was bigger than normal.
"You must see your gynae for a check-up," he stressed. He was very serious, but still I couldn't imagine that anything could go wrong. I had been so healthy, I had worked throughout without any problems. I hadn't even suffered much from morning sickness.
My gynae immediately put me on full bed rest. Something was not right, but nothing had shown up in the ultrasound scan ... until one week later. The baby had a growth around its neck that was preventing it from swallowing, hence my enlarged water bag. More observations showed that the growth was increasing at a phenomenal pace. It was not known yet if the tumour was malignant or not. But the doctor said it would be very difficult for the baby to survive or live a normal life. He recommended inducing birth and not reviving the baby if it could not breathe. My husband agreed.
I hesitated, but was too shocked, confused and numb to put up a fight. I went along with the decision. But inside me, I felt like a murderer, of my own baby, whom I was supposed to protect and nurture. I was relieved when the post-mortem tests showed the tumour to be malignant - she wouldn't have survived.
I didn't know if I could make it through the ordeal of labour and delivery with the knowledge that there would be no bundle of joy at the end of it all. I longed to just go for caesarean - get knocked out and have everything done while I was unconscious. But that meant undergoing a major surgery and I was advised against it.
The night before the delivery, I asked for a sleeping pill. In those days, they didn't allow husbands in the delivery room so I was alone most of the time. I got the thickest novel I could find and fixed my mind on it to shut out all other thoughts. The delivery itself was not overly painful - perhaps I was too numb to feel much pain. My husband had told me to close my eyes and not look at the baby. Again, I was too numb to think independently. I remember the nurse telling me I had a beautiful girl and asking me if I wanted to see her. I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head.
I agreed to give up my baby's body for scientific research. When later, I changed my mind about not seeing her, there was nothing left. The doctor showed me a photograph and yes, the nurse was right - she was beautiful. But we have nothing physical to remember her by. She is buried nowhere but in my heart.
Family and friends were stunned by the turn of events. Not knowing how to react, they pretended that nothing had happened. There was no acknowledgement that the baby had existed at all, that we had lost a baby.
When my mother-in-law caught me crying, she told me not to cry or I would go blind. It was her way of trying to help me get over my loss. My husband, fraught with anxiety over my well-being, was a bundle of nerves. In those days, when nobody understood the psychology of the grieving process, my crying indicated to him that I was not doing well and it made his heartburn worse. In order to help him calm down, I tried not to cry in front of him. That way, they thought I was putting the loss behind me and was on the way to recovery.
My colleagues who knew about the tragedy thought they were respecting my privacy by not gossiping about it to others. Thus, many in the office didn't know any better. For more times than I could bear, the cleaning ladies, the telephone operator, and people form other departments would come beaming to me and ask me if I had a boy or a girl. I broke down many times. But many more times I learnt to say, "I lost the baby". The smiles would turn to shock as the enquirers slinked away in silence. I forcibly pushed down the cry welling up inside me and turned back to work.
I wished my close friends would have the sense to tell others not to ask me about the subject, but they didn't and I couldn't talk about it at all. For months, I sobbed uncontrollably almost every day on the drive home from work, hoping that people in the cars around me wouldn't notice.
Slowly, the months stretched into years. Other events in my life took centre stage. We didn't have other children and I couldn't decide whether or not to go all out to try for kids. My husband said it didn't matter to him whether or not we had kids. "If we have kids, fine. If not, we'll travel," he used to say. I didn't know if I really wanted to be a mother, or whether I wanted a baby to make up for my lost angel. On the outside, I acted normally. But deep inside, I never got over the tragedy ... not for a long time.
It wasn't until eight years later that I had to make a choice. I was about to go all out to try for a baby to avoid possible regret in later years. Then the opportunity arose for me to pursue a course of studies I had dreamt about for more than 10 years. But if the baby effort turned out successful, I wouldn't have time for the studies. Examining myself deeply, I realised that I preferred to pursue the course, that being a mother was not important to me. Then and only then did the last boulder of crippling a corner of my heart dislodge and I was whole again.
It doesn't mean that the sadness is completely gone. Indeed, writing this article made me cry buckets all over again. But it does mean that I am free today to enjoy other people's children - my nephews and nieces, my friends' kids. I am also able to emphatise with the unbearable pain of a mother's loss, even though I never quite got to be a full-fledged mother. I appreciate the need of those who have suffered the tragic death of a loved one to undergo a healthy grieving process, and the role that family, friends and third parties can play in this process.
While I would not have chosen such a painful experience, I thank my darling angel who, in coming so briefly into my life, made me a better, more compassionate and sensitive person. I regret that I never held my baby and kissed her and told her that I will always love her. But I know that she knows. And just as she has moved on, so have I.
Starmag
Friday, May 27, 2011
Carl's Garden
Carl didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighbourhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very well.
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through out changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random voilence, gangs and drug activity.
When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and toughest-looking of the guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch and wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.
A few weeks later, the trio returned. Just as before, their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time, they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried on with his watering.
The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.
"Don't worry, old man. I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, when pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"
The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us. You kept showing us love."
He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.
Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."
The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour him."
The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory.
One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"Carl."
Sent in to Starmag by S.T. Koay
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through out changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random voilence, gangs and drug activity.
When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and toughest-looking of the guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch and wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.
A few weeks later, the trio returned. Just as before, their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time, they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried on with his watering.
The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he struggled to regain his footing, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.
"Don't worry, old man. I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, when pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"
The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us. You kept showing us love."
He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.
Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."
The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour him."
The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and vegetables just as Carl had done. In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory.
One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"Carl."
Sent in to Starmag by S.T. Koay
The Pickle Jar
The pickle jar, as far back as I could remember, sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he get ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy, I was always fascinated by the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.
When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big thing. Stacked nearly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully and say: "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back."
Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly, "These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me." We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice-cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla.
When the clerk at the ice cream parlour handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again." He would always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. Dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.
Even during the summer when he got laid off from the mill, and Mom had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. In the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. "When you finish college, son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again ... unless you want to."
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild, Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms.
"She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, her eyes looked teary. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room.
"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.
To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to it, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar.
I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
Story sent in to Starmag by Margaret Kam
When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big thing. Stacked nearly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully and say: "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back."
Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly, "These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me." We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice-cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla.
When the clerk at the ice cream parlour handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again." He would always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. Dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.
Even during the summer when he got laid off from the mill, and Mom had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. In the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. "When you finish college, son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again ... unless you want to."
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild, Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms.
"She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, her eyes looked teary. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room.
"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.
To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to it, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar.
I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
Story sent in to Starmag by Margaret Kam
Thursday, May 26, 2011
A Lesson for Life
By Cikgu Oh
One morning, Sanggat, an eight-year-old pupil of mine knocked on my door; he was here to help me sweep my quarters. He noticed some thick books neatly arranged on my reading table.
Curiously he asked, "Sir, what books are these?"
I told him that those were books that I needed to study for an important exam so that I might go to the university someday. He frowned because in a remote area where we were, even a bicycle was unheard of. I tried to explain "university" to him with the help of pictures that looked like a university campus. At that time, Sarawak did not have a university and the nearest one was across the South China Sea, in Peninsular Malaysia.
He was surprised: "But, sir, you are a teacher. Why study?"
So we sat down and I told him all about this thing called Education and gave him a pep talk about his chances of becoming someone great in the future. He took one of my books - the thickest one - in his hands and upon opening it exclaimed, "Wow, the words are so tine and there are millions of them. How can you possibly finish reading it?"
I explained to him the importance of learning to read well and to make the best out of the lessons that he was learning at school, and that teachers like me, were specially sent to teach special children like him so that someday they could read great books like the one he was holding. He left my room.
When the other pupils learned that Sanggat always volunteered to sweep my room, they wanted to do the same and soon it became an almost daily ritual which ended up with me buying more brooms to maximise participation. And Sanggat would never fail to show them my books, each time adding a little commentary of his own about them in the Iban language.
I did not realise the impact my words had on him until the day I slipped in the river and broke my neck. I was to be paralysed from my shoulders downward for the rest of my life.
I was carried into a speedboat and transported back to civilisation. As I lay motionless and exhausted, I noticed that the whole school had gathered by the riverside to bid me farewell. A gaze at their faces told me that I was going to miss them. Then, as the engine of the speedboat started to roar, there was a little commotion by the river.
I could see Sanggat making his way to the boat. With tear-filled eyes, he approached and in between sobs he asked, "Sir, are you coming back?" "Perhaps not."
Then after a short pause he said, "Sir, if you can't come back, I'll see you in the university, ya?"
My heart was profoundly touched and as the boat moved away, I realised an important lesson of my own: Teachers must never fail to take time explaining positive lessons to the young ones. Simple and sincere gestures sometimes can have far reaching effects on them and life may never be the same again. It is the small simple pleasures we gather from life that ultimately bear great fruits of profound magnitude. We should watch out for every opportunity we have to assist the young ones towards self-accomplishments.
From Starmag
One morning, Sanggat, an eight-year-old pupil of mine knocked on my door; he was here to help me sweep my quarters. He noticed some thick books neatly arranged on my reading table.
Curiously he asked, "Sir, what books are these?"
I told him that those were books that I needed to study for an important exam so that I might go to the university someday. He frowned because in a remote area where we were, even a bicycle was unheard of. I tried to explain "university" to him with the help of pictures that looked like a university campus. At that time, Sarawak did not have a university and the nearest one was across the South China Sea, in Peninsular Malaysia.
He was surprised: "But, sir, you are a teacher. Why study?"
So we sat down and I told him all about this thing called Education and gave him a pep talk about his chances of becoming someone great in the future. He took one of my books - the thickest one - in his hands and upon opening it exclaimed, "Wow, the words are so tine and there are millions of them. How can you possibly finish reading it?"
I explained to him the importance of learning to read well and to make the best out of the lessons that he was learning at school, and that teachers like me, were specially sent to teach special children like him so that someday they could read great books like the one he was holding. He left my room.
When the other pupils learned that Sanggat always volunteered to sweep my room, they wanted to do the same and soon it became an almost daily ritual which ended up with me buying more brooms to maximise participation. And Sanggat would never fail to show them my books, each time adding a little commentary of his own about them in the Iban language.
I did not realise the impact my words had on him until the day I slipped in the river and broke my neck. I was to be paralysed from my shoulders downward for the rest of my life.
I was carried into a speedboat and transported back to civilisation. As I lay motionless and exhausted, I noticed that the whole school had gathered by the riverside to bid me farewell. A gaze at their faces told me that I was going to miss them. Then, as the engine of the speedboat started to roar, there was a little commotion by the river.
I could see Sanggat making his way to the boat. With tear-filled eyes, he approached and in between sobs he asked, "Sir, are you coming back?" "Perhaps not."
Then after a short pause he said, "Sir, if you can't come back, I'll see you in the university, ya?"
My heart was profoundly touched and as the boat moved away, I realised an important lesson of my own: Teachers must never fail to take time explaining positive lessons to the young ones. Simple and sincere gestures sometimes can have far reaching effects on them and life may never be the same again. It is the small simple pleasures we gather from life that ultimately bear great fruits of profound magnitude. We should watch out for every opportunity we have to assist the young ones towards self-accomplishments.
From Starmag
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Qualities of a Friend
Man is gregarious by nature. He is constantly seeking the company of others. No man is an island. We all need friends for companionship and for meaningful relationships. A person who has a wide circle of friends is indeed fortunate. He will never be lonely or bored.
What are the qualities that a good friend should possess? Trustworthiness and dependability will be at the top of my list. A friend should stick by me through thick and thin. A friend should be there to share my joys and sorrow, my good times and bad. I detest fair weather friends who desert me at the first sign of trouble. A good friend should be willing to listen to my problems and offer me good advice. He should encourage me when I feel down.
True friendship must be anchored in honesty. Friends should never hide the truth from each other. If I ever knew that a friend has lied to me, I would not trust him the next time. I also detest friends who exaggerate. His intentions may just be to entertain me or to impress me, yet I will not feel comfortable with such people.
A good friend must be circumspect in both his words and deeds. He should not be spiteful in his words and actions. A friend must choose his words carefully. A friend who praises me for my achievements, criticizes me when I am wrong and encourages me when I falter is an ideal friend.
Friends should never be afraid to admit their mistakes and apologise for them. After all, to err is human, to forgive divine. Every one of us makes mistakes all the time but a person who is not afraid of admitting his mistakes shows that he is honest and humble.
It is easy to make friends but good friends are not easy to come by. A friend who enjoys your company while you are there but forgets you the minute you are out of sight is not a real friend. The saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ has no bearing in friendship. I value friendship that has stood the test of time.
These are some of the sterling qualities a good friend should have. If I can find all these qualities in a single friend, then without a doubt, he will be my best friend.
What are the qualities that a good friend should possess? Trustworthiness and dependability will be at the top of my list. A friend should stick by me through thick and thin. A friend should be there to share my joys and sorrow, my good times and bad. I detest fair weather friends who desert me at the first sign of trouble. A good friend should be willing to listen to my problems and offer me good advice. He should encourage me when I feel down.
True friendship must be anchored in honesty. Friends should never hide the truth from each other. If I ever knew that a friend has lied to me, I would not trust him the next time. I also detest friends who exaggerate. His intentions may just be to entertain me or to impress me, yet I will not feel comfortable with such people.
A good friend must be circumspect in both his words and deeds. He should not be spiteful in his words and actions. A friend must choose his words carefully. A friend who praises me for my achievements, criticizes me when I am wrong and encourages me when I falter is an ideal friend.
Friends should never be afraid to admit their mistakes and apologise for them. After all, to err is human, to forgive divine. Every one of us makes mistakes all the time but a person who is not afraid of admitting his mistakes shows that he is honest and humble.
It is easy to make friends but good friends are not easy to come by. A friend who enjoys your company while you are there but forgets you the minute you are out of sight is not a real friend. The saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ has no bearing in friendship. I value friendship that has stood the test of time.
These are some of the sterling qualities a good friend should have. If I can find all these qualities in a single friend, then without a doubt, he will be my best friend.
From an essay book during my secondary school years
Saturday, May 21, 2011
:: Ash Greig's 10 Steps to Being a Good Educator ::
I have just completed my first semester as an English Language lecturer in Sunway University. Only a little over two months, but I've learnt so much already. This is my first time being in the shoes of an educator, and not a student in academia - took me quite a while to get adjusted. I had been extremely lucky because the students I taught had been a wonderful bunch. They were the main reason why I looked forward to waking up each morning and going to work.
I'm not saying that everything had been hunky-dory. There were ups and downs - problematic students and telling-offs to fun lunch and dinner sessions. I'm not perfect either - there had been times I screwed up and made a mess of things. I certainly do not have a lot of experience doing this (although I'm planning to stay on for a long, long time to come), but I've learnt enough to somewhat know how things work. It's not about being the most popular or friendliest lecturer around - it's all about how you leave an impact on a student's life, and how he/she will remember you for years to come.
So here it is, my 10 Steps to Being a Good Educator.
Step 1: Gain respect the right way. A lot of educators demand respect from their students. All they get is forced (fake) respect and sometimes fear, perhaps even hatred. Some lecturers earn respect from their students. What do they get? Respect and love, even going as far as friendship. :)
Step 2: Loosen up and have a little fun. Being a teacher/lecturer isn't just about how much knowledge you can impart to your students through countless exercises and homework. It's also about knowing when to crack jokes and letting them know that knowledge doesn't just come from textbooks, but through life experiences. :)
Step 3: Be a friend. If he doesn't have anyone to talk to about his family problems, or if she has no one to turn to for advice on boys, be there for him/her. Give them a hug, let them cry in your arms. Hold their hands and tell them that no matter what, you'll be there for them. Sometimes that little bit of assurance is all that's enough to make a big difference. :)
Step 4: Be confident. Even if you've no idea what you're doing, stand tall and be sure of yourself. :)
Step 5: Be someone they can look up to. Teach them to be considerate human beings through your actions, not words. :)
Step 6: Open up. It's okay to let them in a little. So you had fun attending Justin Bieber's concert the weekend before, or if you're feeling a little down because you just had a fight with your best friend - open up and talk about it. Trying to show them that you're invincible/emotionless isn't going to help in strengthening bonds. :)
Step 7: Explain, not insist. They have their mothers to tell them what they should or shouldn't be doing. As an educator, lay out options and let them make their own choices/decisions. Treat them like adults, not children. :)
Step 8: Practice patience. Perhaps some of them aren't very good in expressing themselves. Take the time to listen to them. Inspire and motivate them to go on, and get better with time. :)
Step 9: Look at things from their point of view. So you've been a little too strict with the marking - listen to them when they come to you and lament. Stand in their shoes and try to understand where they're coming from. We all make hasty judgments sometimes. The important thing is to admit it and make amends. :)
Step 10: Lay down the ground rules from the very beginning. Make sure they know how much they can push you, and not overstep the boundaries while they're at it. :)
~Ash Greig
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)