Back to school (Part 1)

"Let us die young or let us live forever. We don't have the power but we never say never." - Alphaville

Those were the days. Teachers or appointed students with neat handwritings copied notes or questions on the blackboard as we scurried to jot everything down on our exercise books before the first half had to be erased for more notes and questions. We would always run out of space to write on the blackboard – quite a mystery since our blackboards are green. Students from the back seats would shift to the front and share desks, sometimes chairs, with the ones at the front for a better view of the blackboard. Others did not bothered; half of them would borrow notes from the ones who did while the others continued to not care at all. It was brainless, half of the time we need not comprehend what we just copied. Those were the days of chalk-stained fingers and dust-filled air. We did not the whole world on our shoulders. We just need to do good in class and dodge the prefects. And all we had to worry about was our pens running out of ink and fuss over our ever changing handwriting.

I studied in an all famous high school*. Boys from other schools would love to fuck half of the virgins from my school. The other half would love to be fucked by the boys from other schools. We were the higher society. The public always referred us to be the best damn all-girls’ school to put their daughters in for five years. Or seven. Parents would kill any animal to shove their daughters through the guarded gates. I am sure parents without daughters have thought of crossdressing their sons just to pretend their children have gone to such prestige. OK, maybe not. They have their own all-boys’ school for that. Pick anyone who comes from Penang and ask them to name the top five schools, my school will be in one of the spots, if not the first.

However, five years – or seven – in high school was not exactly rainbows and butterflies either. The disciplinary board was cut throat business. Literally. Although no blood was gruesomely shed during my time, kids were this close to killing someone off the board. My high school was all about its strictness and discipline. Hair length not exceeding three fingers away from your earlobes. Nails no longer than the tip of your fingers. School shoes with more than 5% canvas material were forbidden. Banned liquid paper. Banned red bras during PE classes or any classes. No tweezing the eyebrows. No ear piercings more than one on each side. Of course the pierces have to be on the lobes and nowhere else. I refuse to get started on the shapes and sizes of the earrings we were permitted to wear. Yes, I am sure they have a chart. No other Chinese dialects other than Mandarin is allowed to be conversed in school grounds. The list goes on. The board even came up with a lame ass booklet we had to memorise for our Moral Education tests. The discipline teacher even had the funniest sense of humour: “Oh you don’t need to study the entire booklet. You can leave out the cover pages at the front and back.” Yes. I brought it home, shared it with my family and we laughed for one fucking week. Come on.

The rules were ridiculous. But I was not one to land on hot waters with the board. I was one of those students who believed that if you stay out of trouble, trouble will not come find you. I had no intention to rebel anyway. It is not the end of the world if I am not allowed to wear a red bra to school. My demerit card – yes, we have one – stayed clean for five years, save a warning for being caught communicating in bad Hokkien. My incentive card – yes, we have that too – grew immensely when my activity picked up in the school band so I was pretty much on the safe side. I cannot really say I was an ass-kissing teacher’s pet or one who did all her homework on time. But I was not one to frequent the discipline room to get my hair poorly chopped off either. I was one of those who stayed below the radar. Who came as quietly as the midnight ghost and went as swiftly as the haunting breeze.

Form 1: Dorks R'Us
We have all been there so I might as well get over admitting it.

I was 13. Bad haircut. Uncomfortable uniform. Not much lost on the first day of school because most of them were friends from primary school. I was pretty much up in my own world until I was at my first band practice and was yelled at by one of the seniors when at ease. That was when I realised how serious high school was going to be from now on. I remember my first form teacher pouring water on the floor at the front of the class to prove water turns to steam in eventual time. I was considered one of the tall students in class so I was kicked to the back rows. That year was World Cup year. Of course a few of my classmates had their own bouts of gambling, keeping it lowkey to avoid being caught with the heaviest penalty of suspension, possibly expelled.

The English teacher was kind of daft. He once brought in a comic strip and tried to explain the humour behind it. Imagine how entertained we were. The History teacher was nicknamed Nenek Moyang because she and the subject just fit so well. Once she caught a student calling her that and boy was she pissed. Of course that girl was severely punished. All I remember of my Moral Education teacher was him pulling his loose pants higher because he was such a skinny fellow.

Failed subjects began to become common in my books. I had a few failed subjects even in the first year. I remember my one-man protest against my Art teacher. She set forth the due date for a homework without a reason I find worthy of accepting, therefore I refused to hand in that artwork and earned myself my very first zero grade. I remember sneaking the report card for my dad to sign well after he was in bed, hoping that he would not notice it or sign it in the dark, which was not the case. It caused quite a stir in the family and I was left enduring my sister lecturing me about the world’s suckiest protest ever.

Spot-checks were introduced to us. It was like my high school’s renowned drill other than the fire drill. It was serious business. The prefects would fly in swarms – if you were not from my high school, you would not get this inside joke – and take over the classroom while we were locked outside looking in. The trick was to take heed of them while they were doing their rounds on other floors. The news would spread like wild fire downstairs and students would scurry around like headless chickens finding the most suitable hideout for the forbidden knickknacks. All of these while the teacher was at the front teaching. Headless and fried chickens. Most of the time the secret spots would be revealed. Under the desk. In the cupboards at the back of the class. Your pockets. Liquid papers. Celebrity magazines and pictures. CDs. Whatever. They would find it. They would always find something. Picking up anything vaguely suspicious and questioning the owner until she bends and repents. You would feel like a sinner of six counts even if you have done nothing wrong. Fucking birds – again, inside joke. Like vultures swept down from the scorching sun flipping every nook and cranny for a sin while we watched from the outside with batted breaths and hammering heartbeats.

They recruit fresh meat from the first year to join their cult. I was one of them fresh meat they hunted for. My interview for a position in the prefect’s room was an awkwardly funny one. Back then I still had a problem finding my tongue when talking to strangers so imagine how uneasy and freaked out I was in an interview with two seniors staring me down, waiting for me to trip over my words. Only the problem was, I was so speechless I had no words to trip over. Suffice to say I was not recruited for bird zone, but it was for the best. Some of my friends who became prefects had a hard time dealing with the majority while on duty. Even off. The prefects were just people we loved to hate and brought new meanings to our lives every day in school.

Form 2: Family matters
Suddenly, we just decided we were one big happy dysfunctional family.

I was a nutcase. I actually squeed at the thought of being a sophomore in high school. I remember Grace giving me the awkward eye when I told her that. Clearly high school was still the best thing that had ever happened to me then. Obviously I had been reading too many Sweet Valley High books. There was even this under the radar reading competition, which I think only me, Ames and Grace participated. Because all three of us snagged the top three spots available. There was not a breath of readership from other classes. There was also this writing competition I saw in the newspaper. I remember skipping classes legally with Ames while hogging the only computer in the Principal’s office amending our individual stories. I wrote something along the line of rebellious teenagers breaking curfew and stealing the parent’s car and getting into an accident. We submitted our stories. We never heard from the competition ever again. I doubt they even announced the winners. So somewhere out there, someone has my crappy manuscript. If I am lucky, I might see it turned into an episode of the OC. At least I know my muse finally made it to the shores of California.

Grace, Ames and I. We were the perfect threesome. We spoke perfect English and I am sure there were people in class who hated us because we did. I sat in front of Grace and Ames sat next to me. We would chatter away in class and get on the teachers’ nerves. We would always have something to talk about. The celebrity world outside. The rumourmonger inside. Anything. Because of the complaints from other teachers, our form teacher decided to split us up, keeping us a row away from one another. Alas. I have two healthy feet. I would move around the class to have short chitchats in between period exchanges.

Our form-cum-English teacher was barely in class because she was the teacher advisor for the school band. Conveniently, the worn down band room was just next to my classroom. On specific Tuesdays, we would have band members huddling nearby minding their own business. I was appointed to be the welfare warden for the class. It was not a heavy task. My job consisted of tending to classmates with severe stomach cramps, overdosing them with pink Panadols and making them hot Milo to tame the pain. There was a welfare room next to the prefect’s room, where the heavily laboured were laid for temporary rest. Half of them faked their cramps just so they get to nap in their during classes they hated.

Who could forget the History teacher? She was nicknamed Buffalo. Probably because of her physique. She was quite a plump person yet she dressed like she did not care. Everyone hated the very core of her. And she hated us just as much. She was very plastic and put on makeup two inches thick and talked like a bitch. Rumour had it that she was a second wife for some rich bastard. I never paid attention in her class. I would hide a Sweet Valley High or an R.L Stine in between my History textbook or in my drawer while pretending I was paying attention. Other times when I so unfortunately had see through drawers for my desk, I would just find my happy place. I never listened to any of her class because I thought she was a bunch of crap. She made us put together some sort of a scrapbook but I never got to doing that. She did not notice anyway. She would reward good students with Hello Kitty stamps on their exercise books. Of course I was not one of those with such privilege. I never did well for her class. I never did well for classes with teachers I loathed. All grades for History that year were marked with a red pen, indicating failure. I never liked History to begin with anyway.

Form 2 was a year of bitches for teachers, really. The Living Skills teacher was just as bad. We were all a bunch of idiots to her just because we could not answer her questions. “Bodoh! Bodoh!” (“Stupid! Stupid!”) She would berate us. Maybe I dread her class. Because she would point and pick randomly for someone to answer her questions and would punish you by standing for the rest of the period if you failed to answer correctly. Most – if not all – of her classes were two periods long. We would spend the period before hers browsing through our textbooks in the quickest way. We might have picked up speed-reading there. We would cram in as many information as possible before she steps through the door. However, such task grew weary on us and we found ourselves hiding the textbook in our drawers and peeking for answers while she preyed on other students. I found myself avoiding eye contact with her just to tone down my chances of being picked. I did not think that worked. And I came to realise standing during her classes as punishment was not really a severe one anyway. I have stood longer during my band practices. What was hers but a warm up?

There were fresh graduates hired to become temporary teachers during this year. One of them came and taught us Science. His name would go down in history. So would his thick caterpillar-like eyebrows. Half of the population in high school fawned over him. Some of them jealous of us having him as our Science teacher. Truth be told, he was not really a good teacher. I could barely remember the things he taught. He knew he was good looking to the pubescent girls and it was all that matter. He was to leave when half of the year finishes. The groupies from my class got together and bought him an Adidas football.

Pre-prefects were promoted in this year. See, there were like levels in becoming a full fledge gagak – inside joke. In the earlier days, there were only two levels. First was once you have passed the interview I so shamefully flopped, you would be awarded a dark blue tie to state your trial period. Probably one year to let you come to your senses whether or not this is the life you want for the next four years of your life. Some caved from the peer pressure. Others grew up to be beautiful prefects of maroon ties and black skirts. Because of their black skirts they would forever be nicknamed gagak in Malay, aw-ah in Hokkien and wu ya in Mandarin. Which is crow in English.

I remember their promotion day. It was during one of our assembly and they were dressed up in their brand spanking new uniforms. Shu Wen was one of them. We were snickering on the floor at their rigidness on stage and their infamous oath. “Tali leher melambangkan…” before the principal handed them their maroon ties, their high school responsibility, their lifelong humiliation. Oh it was a happy day.

* I shall disclose the school name for I know what wrath the school may be capable of after being there for five years. However, all will get the picture as I progress with the entry.