Remembering My Teachers

None of the institutions of my childhood education exist anymore, not my primary or secondary schools or my junior college. While the sites have been repurposed and the buildings demolished, the memory of my experiences and the teachers in them have not fallen victim to the wrecking ball of Singapore’s ever-changing educational landscape.

The Discipline Mistress

My group of friends and I weren’t role models in secondary school. We weren’t bullies, vandals or shoplifters, but we had our share of discipline problems. Then, our discipline mistress made us all prefects. Everyone was surprised, us most of all.

While we sometimes let our latecomer friends slip through to class, I believe we generally did a good job. And as we went about our duties, often reporting directly to the discipline mistress herself, I think the group of us started to become more responsible. I suspect that was her plan all along.

From my discipline mistress, I learned that discipline is sometimes not about punishment and deterrence, but often, it’s about creating the environment and opportunity for the errant to do things right.

The Quirky Tutor

My General Paper tutor was one of the most eccentric people I have ever met. She had the intense stare of an owl and she would glide about the class with her head bobbing in the most unnatural way. She was like a character out of a Roald Dahl book.

Her pet peeve was clichés, in particular the phrase ‘paper chase’. If you wrote that in your essay, she would first show you your script that was marked only up to that phrase. Then, she would fold up your essay into a paper aeroplane in front of you and throw it out the window, gesturing towards it and taunting you with, “You like paper chase is it? Chase lah! Go! Go and chase your paper!” You could only watch in helpless embarrassment as your hard work flew out the window.

Sometimes we were given articles to study, and she would know exactly which of us were didn’t even read the cover page. She would interrogate us, and failing to answer, we would have to stand at the door of the class, where a small circle had been drawn on the floor with chalk. She would continue to pick us off one by one, making us squeeze in her tiny circle of punishment. All the while, those inside ‘the jail’ had to hold up our hands as if we were holding the bars of a prison and mutter, “Help… help…”

I can’t recall a single essay I wrote or topic I studied in General Paper class, but I’ve never used the term ‘paper chase’ in any essay since.

The memory of each good teacher’s influence goes far beyond their own lifespans, as each batch of us, their students, is a human epitaph to them, retelling of our love and admiration for them until the last of us can remember no more. Happy Teachers’ Day to all teachers!

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