Seven-Hour Itch (to go home, dammit)

After a good seven hours at the mechanic’s, it is hard to believe that you are anything else other than an adult – and a rather unfortunate one, at that.

For it was something so dull that only someone who had no other choice would do so. And adults can tell you all about “having no other choices”.

But of course, I had it easier. I had Pratchett, and for a good five hours I was having too much fun throwing chocolate eggs at grey-shaped figures with Death’s granddaughter Susan Sto Helit and confusing watchmen to open the doors to the crime scene with journalist William de Worde. I only return momentarily to the physical world of bolts and nuts and the faint smell of gasoline when my mechanic barge in to grab auto-ish stuff, and when my bladder threatened to pull an embarrassing episode.

But as adult as going to the mechanic’s on your own can be, it is also highly infantile – in a big, bad, baffling world of cars, you just wish there is someone you absolutely trust.

Uncle Fatt is that person for my family. He and my dad go way back, when my dad put his first air-conditioned car, a Proton Wira, into the hands of this jovial, pink-faced foreman more than 10 years ago. My dad is highly paranoid and impossibly fussy, but with Uncle Fatt he never looked back. Since then, every car in the family would have to be looked over by this man who has watched me and my sister grow up.

It was a Relationship, honoured by both Time and Men, and maintained by my dad’s insistence that this and that should be done, and Uncle Fatt’s firmness that this and that should not.

As ass-flattening as the seven-hour wait at Uncle Fatt’s workshop can be, I did enjoy watching the foremen bustled back and forth. There was something in the way they tug and fiddle at the mechanics, wearing their hearts on their sleeves and cussing without a care. There was something… comforting about the grime under their fingernails and soot on their tattered jeans.

These are the men earning an honest day’s pay with sweat and strength and a whole lot of skill. These are the men who may not be at home with the snazziest in-car entertainment or performance parts, but throw them a beat-up piece of junk and they can whip up a roaring machine again.

These guys are sawbones, not cosmetic surgeons.

They get the job done, which is more than what can be said for jobs these days.

Cos' I wanna beat Twilight to a Trilogy

I thought that having spent six months as a teacher, I have seen everything.

This is not an easy conclusion to make – I had to tread the treacherous waters of entertaining 30 plus restless kids kept in a room, watching them gingerly jab spatulas into the wok during cooking class, frantically stopping them as they confused death-defying stunts with “fun”, gaped at fathers trying to teach their sons a lesson with their fists, laughing at the anguished groans of twelve-year-olds when a six-year-old beat them in a PS2 racing game twice, and trying not to laugh as one kid described to me in detail how her dad runs from cockroaches.

However, it appears that even on my last week of work, there are still refreshing sights. For example, one should try watching horror movies with a dozen of kids.

I, for one, do not fancy scaring myself (hence I am especially grouchy after looking into the mirror every morning). I never saw the appeal of horror movies since the ill-fated day that I sat innocently (yes, I was once capable of that) beside my sister to watch “a show about a clown”.

The movie It scared the daylight out of me. I was so freaked out that my sister even got a scolding from my mum for watching horror movies. And since then, I swore off things that crawl out of televisions and make sure I only explore mysterious creaky noises with the lights on.

Of course, I had watched The Exorcist and some low-budget Hong Kong horror movie some years after It. The experience was eye-opening – in the sense that my sister and I could not sleep the whole night, not because it was so scary, but because we may be the only two people on earth who would drink a whole pot of coffee right before watching a devil child spins her head 360 degrees. So, there we were, laying in the dark, all hyperactive and imaginative – a torturing concoction if you had just witnessed some skin-crawling scenes.

So yeah, I do not have good experiences with horror flicks. If I want to watch disfigured corpses floating around, I’ve got … wait, why the hell would I wanna watch disfigured corpses floating around?

This afternoon, however, the kids decided that they do fancy watching such a thing.

I checked with them, “Really? Not scared? Really really?”

They replied, “Really wan. Not scared! Really really.”

So I off the light and got a Japanese horror film (their choice) running. Unsurprisingly, as one coward, the class inched towards the corner and huddled together, peeping at the screen warily through their fingers, even when the screen was just showing a green background with a warning message that illegally copying the movie is a crime.

Finally, the movie started – and more kids joined those at the corner, presumably because they are social chickens. About half an hour into the movie, ghosts appeared once or twice, and usually I would have covered my eyes by then. But this time, I was too busy hushing up some kids debating how proper ghosts ought to appear, while trying to convince other shaken children that the blood are just ketchup (“Lipstick also can, teacher!” One boy offered).

Of course, the whole eerie atmosphere is considerably diluted when one boy, who had watched the movie before, kept telling us when the scary parts are happening (“You see ah how she die! You see ah! You see you see!”).

I never thought that I’d say this, but thanks to the kids, I don’t feel so scared about horror movies anymore.

**********************

Slowly, it is sinking in.

I no longer have to deal with childish complaints.

I no longer have to have small human beings fighting for my attention.

I no longer need to endure the traffic jam at 7 p.m. to go home.

The truth is I don’t actually mind all of the above.

The truth is also I am getting a little too attached.

The truth is I feel very protective over them.

The truth is I cannot protect them forever. They do not need me to.

The truth is it makes no difference to a child that a teacher is leaving.

The truth is that I will miss the “Teacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacherteacher”.

I suppose the truth hurts.

*********************

I was cleaning my room the other day while singing a little song.

Then, I realized that I have never heard of the song before.

In fact, I was still making up the lyrics when I came upon that realization.

So, I had to do the right thing. I had to do the writing. *anticipates three lines from readers*

Here is what I managed to catch coming out of my mind when I finally found a pen – I have no recollection about the words before. Do insert your own tune, because it’s fun, and because I damn well can’t remember mine.

It’s not the fire that burn
The brightest
It’s not the heart that beat
The hardest
It’s the love you give
So suddenly
It’s the path you take
Unknowingly
For we are full of wonders
But the wonderful – can never see

We live in a world we can’t
Understand
We seek the distance but
Forget our stance
We love the bravest
But give up – our fighting chance

Because we
Just want to dance
Because we
Just hate the fence
Because we
Do not make sense

The moral of the story is that cleaning rooms instills insanity, and should be avoided at all cost. Now if only I can pitch this theory to my mum.

Dropped

You’d never know how tensed you are until you know how relaxed you can be.

For too many weeks now, I was a string puppet in suspended performance. I hung in mid-air, carrying a smile that wasn’t mine, staring ahead with lifeless eyes, while flailing around in routines that I may or may not recognize. It’s okay, just, haha, hang on – I told myself. I did not object when my puppet masters hoisted me up and made me dance, even when my seams were tearing, and the strings were hurting. After all, my puppet masters treat me well – better than what I could ask for. And they needed me. I think.

But this week, I finally refused to budge. It was that, or risks my threads coming apart and spill yellowing cotton on stage like a low-budget production that could not even afford proper guts. So this weekend, I am finally able to lie in my own corner, lifting my arm for no one, and smiling for no one but myself.

God knows I need this.

I have, save for tendering a formal resignation letter, been relieved of my teaching duties. I don’t feel particularly relieved. I also don’t know what I really feel and think right now, except for “Will they remember me at all?” while watching the kids playing catch. Things have been so hectic this few weeks I really haven’t had time to properly let my leaving sink in yet. But in my heart I know I have to leave, because US is still calling out to me, and I’m not sure if teaching is anymore.

This is not to say that I hate teaching. In fact, refusing to listen to my senses and leaping into a teaching job may be the smartest decision I’ve made. I just don’t know if this is what I want to do, and I think in order to find out, I have to leave the job. I know, this sounds as ludicrous as the notion of having to move to an exotic country in the name of “finding yourself” (I mean, how do you find yourself in a place that previously contained none of said self?). But nevertheless, ludicrous actions are what separates humans from, say, sunflowers.

This teaching experience is… well, I have no words for it. I have learnt infinitely more than I taught, I’m sure. I now believe that you’d never really see something unless you’ve seen it through children’s eyes.

I will miss them. I will miss their chubby cheeks, their laughter, their complaints, their fighting, their smiles, their helplessness, their strength, their honesty, their dishonesty, their individuality. I will miss the darndest things they said. I will definitely miss the darndest things they said about their parents.

Other than an urge to laugh and cry at the same time, I really don’t know what I’m feeling now. I have always referred to them as “my kids”. Perhaps that is my biggest mistake.