Spirals of hope rising white ...
and pure in the morning light;
Circles of red—courageous and strong
Hand in hand marshalling
the nation’s throng.
Pleased with her own little rhyme, Marie watched the dance, fascinated, letting the words form in her head.
“Cliches for the occasion,” she muttered as she viewed the five hundred waxed-paper umbrellas, flashing red and white spirals, twirling and whirling in the school field down below in the heat of the noonday sun. She turned away from the window. The needles of light bouncing off the glossy red and white umbrellas were hurting her eyes.
“Higher, higher! Hold them up higher and point your toes!” a voice screeched into the megaphone. “No, no, no! What’s the matter with you all today? Can’t you count? One, two, one, two, and turn with precision! You’re supposed to do a ninety-degree turn—not a half turn nor a quarter turn. Stop the music!”
From somewhere in the belly of the school, a switch went up and the music stopped. The circles of red and white disappeared. The students had folded their umbrellas and stood raising their heads and flexing their arms and legs. The field was now a mass of moving white and blue which froze when Mrs Khoo shouted, “SJI boys, if you don’t stop talking at the back there I’ll keep you here till two o’clock. And stand up straight! Straight, don’t drape over your umbrellas like wilting daisies! You’re supposed to be young and rugged—look at you!”
The convent girls tittered and giggled, a moving mass of blue. Marie, who had gone back to the window, was amused too. Poor guys, she thought, as the boys standing ramrod straight, stared ahead into space; their faces grim with anger and embarrassment. There was just the trace of a smile on their faces when Mrs Khoo, always fair in anger, shouted at the girls.
“Stop giggling over there! Don’t think you were any better—all of you were like water buffaloes. You’re supposed to lengga-lengga and sway gracefully. What were you doing? Stomping around like elephants! Now dance properly this time.”
The music blared out from the loudspeakers again. The umbrellas opened and the circles of red and white were soon spiralling. Ah, brave symbols of a young nation. Red and white. Courage and hope. But not joy, Marie sighed, not joy. All those responsible for this first National Day celebration were carrying out their duties with such grim determination that come rain or shine, this would be a success, otherwise heads would roll. She only wished that the students did not have to suffer so much humiliation “all in the good name of the school”. She got up to go to her first Ethics class with Pre-University One.
“Don’t take the subject too seriously. It may be scrapped next year. The Ministry wants to introduce Civics next year—Citizen Formation,” Mrs Chow said.
“Ya, ya, listen to this, June,” someone else shouted, “your hero said last night that ‘a disciplined and rugged population must be forged, steeled to meet the problems of nation building and the schools must take on this task of citizen formation.’”
Marie smiled and turned away from the general chatter for it was a well-known fact in the staff-room that Mrs Chow was an ardent admirer of the Prime Minister. “Not that he’s handsome but he’s got brains,” she used to tell her students. She could be so childish at times, Mrs Chow, with her pure acceptance, no questioning, and she had always thought that teachers, at least those teaching the upper levels, were supposed to instil in their students a spirit of inquiry and objectivity, not this blind acceptance of “he’s got brains”.
The martial music had stopped and Marie could hear the tramping of the students’ feet along the stairs and corridors. She stood up and straightened her blouse. It would be fun teaching this Pre-University class since the boys from St Joseph’s would join the girls for Ethics each week.
“My, my, aren’t we getting permissive,” the teachers laughed.
“Be careful, Marie, don’t let them take advantage of you,” Mrs Chow was again giving a maternal pat on the shoulders of one of her former students. Marie nodded. She knew that her teachers meant well but she did not need their protection. No student would ever take advantage of her. All she had to do was to treat them as persons, not just names on the school register.
Enveloped in this certainty she strolled down the grey corridor of her beloved convent, pleased with the younger girls looking out of their classes trying to catch her eye.
“Class stand!” a girl’s voice rang out, and forty-four boys and girls obeyed as Miss Marie Wang entered. They liked what they saw. She was small and very young; tastefully dressed in a dark skirt and pale pink blouse. Her eyes twinkled as they chanted:
“G-o-o-d-m-o-r-n-i-n-g Miss Wang.”
“Good morning,” she answered and waved them to sit down.
“I’m new.”
Everyone laughed. “We know.”
“I mean, I must confess I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to do with you.”
“I know, but it’s so vague ... what’s ethics all about?”
There was something attractive in her tentative manner. Such a contrast to those who came dressed in their suits of knowledge ready to enunciate and elucidate.
“Do you know what ethics is all about?”
The class looked at her. Why on earth was she asking them? Was this a new teacher’s trick to expose their ignorance? Not used to being treated like this they remained silent, heads bent. Wasn’t she going to continue and give the answer? Why didn’t she just teach instead of asking them questions knowing full well that they wouldn’t be able to answer?
“Hey,” she said softly, “you’re not used to answering questions. Why?” “Scared!” someone offered, but she was not quick enough to see who it was.
“Scared of what?”
“Of being wrong!” and this time Marie caught the girl’s challenging eye.
“Scared of being wrong? Young Singaporeans like you?”
Unsettled by her tone, the students looked at her blankly. She returned their look, sizing them up in turn.
“How long have you had this fear?” she asked, clinical now, like a doctor.
“Oh, ever since we can remember.”
“Then you haven’t been educated.” Enjoying the surprise that flashed across their faces she continued, “Education is freedom from fear, especially the fear of being wrong. It is a liberating process. Only when we are free from these fears do we dare to do new and unfamiliar things.”
“But we will be shamed if we admit that we don’t know.”
Tan Siew Yean, the girl who had just responded, felt that the new teacher needed to be told how things stood.
“Who will shame us?”
“Our teacher or our classmates. We know they don’t mean it but we feel it all the same.”
“If that’s the case, what you’ve experienced is not education but competition. We’re all caught in a power struggle. The teacher to maintain his superior position, and you not to be put down, must show your mastery over whatever knowledge doled out to you by the expert.”
Pre-University One looked at Marie. Here is someone different.
“In a power struggle, who wins?” Marie was gaining confidence.
“The teacher.”
“Why?”
“Because he has more power.”
“Where did that power come from?”
“The Ministry of Education.”
“I see, the Ministry appoints them and automatically they have power and authority over you.”
“No, not if they do not know their stuff.”
“So it is their superior knowledge that gives them authority too, right?” The class nodded their approval. This was much more fun than the usual monologue of the Ethics class.
“What happens to those who are not appointed by any power and have no special knowledge?”
Silence. They had not thought of that before.
“Surely the rest of us have some authority. As the children of God, aren’t we worthy of respect too? What about the authority that comes with age, experience or wisdom? Do we always need an outside source to give us authority?”
Perhaps a habit of acceptance was being broken here. At any rate some of the students were openly surprised by Marie’s assertion that teachers were only paper tigers.
“Yes, we are paper tigers, didn’t you know? We have power only so long as you feel you ought to obey us. But if you decide to disregard me by yawning or folding your arms like this to challenge me, what can I possibly do? I can’t send all of you to the principal simply because you looked bored. What would she think? Ever thought of that?” And she was teasing them now, “The teacher tyrant is helpless in the face of group power!”
Marie took off her shoes and entered the school’s chapel. She sat on the bench, hugging one of the scatter cushions, luxuriating in its comforting warmth as she gazed into the dim red glow of the tabernacle lamp.
Daily duties and activities settled to the bottom of her mind. She straightened her back, leaned against the wall, pulled up her legs on to the bench, crossed them and rested her hands lightly on her lap, yoga-style. In this posture, she closed her eyes and emptied her mind, turning her thoughts to God.
“Dear Lord, thank you for the pains and joys of all these months. Although I resented them at that time, they have been good for me. Now I’m beginning to see the unfolding of your design. Failure has forced me to re-arrange my priorities. I had been selfish, thinking only of my own accomplishments. Now I want to be able to do some good quietly—to help these students grow. Give me the grace to help them grow.”
Marie sat there for another few minutes and then sensing she might miss out on something going on outside, she made her apologies to the Lord and slipped out. Her restless feelings were accurate; girls were waiting to talk with her. She would have to hurry them today since Paul was coming to fetch her. Nevertheless she was mightily pleased with herself. Barely six months in the school and already she had acquired the reputation of being the most understanding teacher on the staff.
I walked one morning by the sea
and all the waves reached out to me
I took their tears and let them be.
The hymn came naturally to her who was doing the Lord’s will. She was proud to have taken their tears and let them be. Love is free with no strings attached, she had always told her students.
The driver in the red Mini had been waiting for more than an hour. Paul Tan Wei Jin, his face an impassive blank, stared ahead at the chapel door as if his determined gaze could will Marie to come out sooner. A young man in his early twenties, Paul was short-haired, clean shaven and immaculately dressed in a light blue shirt, dark blue tie and dark blue pants. He had what the local ad-men called “the young executive look”. Today his usually handsome face was dark and angry because of the long wait. Leaning back into his seat while his hand rested on the steering wheel, tapping out the seconds and minutes, he was trying not to fume at a pattern which had become all too familiar—Marie, torn at the seams unable to say ‘no’ to a request for help, and he was left to fend for himself while the angel of mercy went about her work: somebody having trouble with parents or teachers, boyfriends or girlfriends, with dogs, cats or mice!
He liked her generosity but just couldn’t understand her involvement with her students, with her constant need to be needed. He resented having to wait like a beggar for what was rightfully his, their evenings together. Too often he had wanted to yell, “You take me for a priest!” but she had remained blithely unaware and they continued to discuss the affairs of the world, the complexity of living and the spirit of loving, the dry rot in Singapore, in education, politics and religion, on and on and on. In this cage of silence Paul was compelled to witness Marie’s placid patience with him one minute and exuberant enthusiasm over school kids the next. He had always counselled moderation but with Marie it was all or nothing. Compromise was a bad word. Paul sighed. She was totally unaware of her power to move feelings in him that he longed to release. He longed for those wonderful schooldays when he was her ‘special’ and she had looked up to him depending on what she called his silent strength. He had been the rock of her life then, and when she failed to win her prestigious government scholarship, his silence had comforted her throughout all that clucking sympathy. Now this silence was merely that of the inarticulate Singaporean male, limiting and rigid. Marie had forgotten this in her talk, talk, talk when all he wanted was to hold her after a long tiring day.
Paul pushed the files away. Tomorrow was the interview by the Public Service Board for his scholarship to Harvard. Top student of his year in the University, he was confident of getting it. It would compensate for all the sacrifices his parents had made, and the pride and prestige of having a Harvard scholar in the family would be their reward. He knew already what the gist of his statement to the press would be: “hard work and endurance are the keys,” and he smiled at the thought of his friends and relatives reading of his achievements in The Straits Times. How proud of him they would be! Not Marie though. No, she would see herself on the other end of the see-saw balancing all that praise by plucking out what she would undoubtedly call his peacock feathers. He banged the drawer shut, turned the key and stood up, determined that Marie should not be allowed to destroy his moment of triumph when it came.
Driving out of the car park he backed into a pillar and jerked forward. “Damn it,” he cursed beneath his breath, angry that he had allowed thoughts of Marie’s reactions to affect him like this. He had worked hard. He had given up a lot of things for this moment of success. He deserved it and if the government chose to recognise his merits (and this is a meritocracy isn’t it?) why should he be made to feel guilty because others couldn’t go to Harvard? No, he was not going to allow Marie to do this to him. It was too bad she hadn’t made it to the top. He was sorry about it but since he had not stopped loving her, she should not grudge him this. Yes, she had changed. She had grown more critical of the system now that she was no longer one of the “cream” as she would have put it. A case of sour grapes, a thought he quickly pushed aside, guilty that it should have crept into his consciousness at all. No, Marie was too generous a girl to be like that. They had been together all through their Pre-U days when she was his most ardent admirer and supporter, their minds and hearts in total agreement. Still, could she be right after all about the ill effects of meritocracy? Countries like Singapore, short on natural resources, needed men like himself. And not everybody could be a leader. Leaders had to be nurtured. What was wrong in giving the best to those who best deserved it, and would give the best return? “But surely you’re a human being not an investment?” He had ignored the mockery in her question. Singapore had to make the best possible use of her limited resources. She had no other choice. He turned on the engine of his car and guided it into busy Robinson Road. He felt vindicated. He would be one of those who would contribute to the development of his nation and he was not going to shirk his responsibility.
A red traffic light reminded him of his angry outburst at Marie’s decision to enter the convent. Such a sentiment she had voiced to him time and time again but he had never taken it seriously, confident that she belonged to him. All along he had thought that this was but a way of coping with her failure to live up to her father’s expectations and also a religious fervour carried over from the days when they were both in Christian Youth. He had never expected it to materialise into a definite commitment. He pressed the accelerator hard and the car zoomed forward. She simply didn’t realise how sexy she was! A nun! She would never make it, and he was determined to let her know it tonight.
Marie closed the front door with a soft click. The family was still asleep. Sunday was for sleeping late. They had all done their duty by God at last night’s mass. Saturday evening was for God. Sunday morning was for man. To rest his work-weary limbs? Yet those who were truly weary would still have to work on Sundays to make ends meet.
Onan Road in the grey light of dawn looked beautiful. A light breeze played among the leaves of the angsana trees and sent cascades of small yellow blooms covering the sides of the road with a bright carpet. The family sedans were parked in a haphazard zigzag fashion, shoved into whatever space was available. The human spirit, she mused, would defy and subvert all attempts to control and make its movements more orderly. These drivers would resist all the government’s attempts to box in their cars as it had tried to box in their Singaporean soul. Neat little rows of cars and neat little souls housed in neat little HDB blocks. Three cheers for the spirit of man, alive and tingling right down to his fingertips, conscious of the life flowing in him and in all living things ... with this, Marie stopped, smiled to herself and thought of Paul. He would have stopped her too, if he were with her now. Paul, dear Paul, he could never understand her nor see what she saw. He would look only if she told him to, pushing his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose to give himself a clearer view. Then he would look and nod in agreement but soon enough he would begin his lectures again. He was not interested in Man’s defiant spirit. His special interest was in Man’s ability to adapt to changing conditions and survive. The laws of survival, the ethics of hard work, thrift, stability and orderliness and the defects of her thought processes were his eternal interests. He would methodically and quite clinically tear her arguments to shreds and in a tone of infinite patience point out that the errors of her concepts and criticisms of society were the results of her irrational feelings. How he had scolded her when she had brushed off his pleas for reason.
“Singapore is a small nation. We cannot afford defiance, rebellion and constant questioning of government policies. To survive in this tough world we must be a tightly knit unit; nobody owes us a living, we must look out for ourselves ...”; on and on and on. How they had argued! She was fighting windmills with a broomstick, he had said. And she had laughingly supplied a local equivalent—using a candle to chase away the shadows of the coconut palms. Then, angry, he had accused her of being the eternal rebel refusing to grow up! Spoilt! Pampered! Cloistered! Armchair critic! How she had cried whenever he used that term. It stung her hard and made her want all the more to do something, anything, just to show him how wrong he was. But he had quickly acquired a new set of invectives when he learnt that she was entering the convent. Only the word, Cloistered, remained. And with that he had added Martyr! Nun! Escapist! The perfect Bride of Christ! Yes, he could imagine her in the dim light of the convent’s chapel offering herself as a sacrifice—the perfect virgin; cold, calm and collected. But untouchable. And she had retaliated then with Conformist! Strait Jacket! The numbered Singaporean slaving for four wheels, three rooms, two kids and one wife as the supreme goal in life. How mad Paul became at this. And finally it had become intolerable. The break was inevitable, also they might have destroyed each other, stabbing and cutting, returning thrust for thrust. The grief and anguish of their last meeting before he left for the States on a government scholarship stung her still. He had sold his soul. She could see him in the next few years coming back as the brilliant administrator of a government department; one of the ‘bright boys’ trained abroad and respected as ‘a returned scholar’. A systems analyst—patient, stable and methodical, driving a German-made car because its engine was reliable and buying a house in the Holland Road area because it was a good investment. With a sigh, she dismissed him.
She stood for a moment at the junction of Onan Road and Katong Road and looked across at the Holy Family Church. Filing in for the 6.30 mass were sober-faced women, their hands strangled by dark strings of rosary beads. How childishly trusting and simple in their faith! O God, forgive me. She had no right to deride these innocent women. Who was she to judge their faith? Only the Creator could know and decide.
Boarding the bus she took a corner seat at the back. Pleased at finding the bus quite empty, for not many people travel to town so early on Sundays, she settled into her seat. She could now think without having to be ready to give up her seat to an older person. Following Reverend Mother’s advice, she had waited three years to come to this decision. Now she was ready. The coming meeting would merely confirm what was in her heart from the first. In the nooks and crannies of her mind she searched for the time when she first said Yes to Christ but only broken phrases returned like parts of a musical theme. My God comes to me on the wings of the breeze, she had told Paul. I cannot give you facts, figures and reasons one by one. I don’t think this way. I just know it. He calls me and I must go. Paul had dismissed her with one word, Dramatic! She had kept quiet. She didn’t want to argue with him any more. Other bits and pieces returned to her as she searched like one looking for some coins flung into the lallang and as she parted the tall grasses, here and there, she came across forgotten things carelessly tossed away, long ago when she was much enamoured of Paul.
I cannot escape You.
You are in the sky
Among the clouds.
You are in the valleys
And up the mountain tops.
If I sink into the ocean
You are there too.
Maybe this was part of a psalm she had heard somewhere. Her soul quivered delicately at being so pursued, and in the near-empty bus Marie closed her eyes and bowed her head, grateful to have been so chosen and called. I’m yours, my Lord, take me with all my warts and faults. I leave me in the palm of Your Hand; only give me the grace to do Your work and accept Your will. Yours, not my will be done. A cloud of calm descended upon her and in this state she got down from the bus and passed through the gates of the convent like the pilgrim welcoming the desert that he knew awaited him because he was sure that after forty days he would be stronger and freed to do the work of his Father.