Teaching Cats to Jump Hoops

by You Jin

  Dear Wei Wen, if you feel you are being taken advantage of, it is time to re-examine the relationship.

  Remember, don’t ever be a love fool.

  From Dear Mailbox

  Silence ensued. For four weeks, Wei Wen did not write a single word to the mailbox. I didn’t say anything to him either; I merely watched his every move. He was unusually quiet, as if undergoing the painful process of metamorphosis.

  At long last, there was another letter from him one day.

  Dear Mailbox,

  I experienced the biggest, most severe shock of my life when I read about the love fool.

  Yes, shock.

  After reading your reply, I felt as if someone had slapped me to wake me up. I tried to rationally analyse this relationship that had yet to really begin and surely had no future, and I realised that you were absolutely right. I was not enjoying the sweetness of love. I was merely being a love fool.

  I could put up with her cold shoulder, and didn’t mind if she didn’t answer my letters or pick up my phone calls, but I simply couldn’t accept that she had passed my letters around to her friends, and portrayed me as an unrefined person.

  We are like parallel lines that will never cross to produce sparks. I’ve made up my mind not to be a love fool.

  Thank you, Dear Mailbox.

  Fong Wei Wen

  The Boy with Golden Hair

  1

  IT WAS AROUND nine in the morning. The sky was a familiar and pleasant azure blue. I was in my car heading to an HDB estate in Redhill in search of the address in my record book. It was 8 August, the eve of Singapore’s National Day, and the red and white national flag was proudly displayed in every window. The lively white and bright red colours put the sparkling-diamond sunshine to shame.

  Silent excitement percolated through the housing estate, but excitement was a far cry from what I was feeling because I was on an unpleasant mission. I was coming to see a student.

  While I was reviewing exam papers in the staff room the day before, Mr. Chiong Mao Yan, who taught physics and was known as “The Firecracker”, had stormed in, dragging a tall, skinny boy behind him. Mr. Chiong was barely in the door before he shouted angrily, “Look at this, Madam Tham. Look at this clown from your class.”

  Before me was the ever reticent Song Li Long.

  He was wearing a cap whose elongated bill cast a shadow on his long, narrow face. His glum eyes were trained on his shoes as if they were studded with diamonds.

  “Do you know why he wears a cap to school?” Mr. Chiong asked, still fuming.

  I stood up and cast a fierce look at the young man, who was a head taller than me. “What did you tell me this morning when I asked you about it, Li Long?” I asked deliberately, enunciating each word.

  He refused to answer, so I repeated what he’d told me earlier, word for word. “You said you have head lice, and that the doctor told you to keep your hair clean for a few days. Isn’t that why you’ve been wearing a cap to school?”

  Mr. Chiong sniggered.

  “Well, those must be powerful lice, since they were able to change his hair colour.”

  He snatched the cap off the boy’s head, and instantly one, two, three, countless jarring golden rays of light shone all around. I was stunned. Oh my God, Li Long had dyed his inky black hair a dis agreeable yet eye-catching golden yellow! His gloomy face resembled the sky before a storm, and the yellow hair which now framed it not only clashed but actually looked laughable. Instead of laughing, however, I felt an irrepressible anger rise up inside me.

  I have always detested dishonesty. That was why every year I impressed upon my students that regardless of whatever problems they faced, they had to be honest with me. They should never try to hide something or cover it up, and never ever lie. Paper cannot contain a fire and no secret lasts forever. When one lies, one has to lie again to cover up the first lie. It is exhausting for the liar and difficult for others. A wise person would never try it.

  Having done just that, Li Long was now standing before me, and I looked like a fool for being sympathetic.

  “Why did you lie to me? Explain yourself!” I said in an unusually harsh voice.

  The face framed by golden hair remained stubbornly silent. An angry lion makes for a poor conversation partner.

  I quickly made up my mind. “Go home and dye your hair back to black,” I said. “Come see me tomorrow morning at seven o’clock.”

  He walked off with a lowered head and hunched shoulders. His disappearing back looked burdened with a thousand pounds of rice, whereas I felt the proverbial bucket with its thousand pounds of rice weighing down on my heart.

  I couldn’t help but feel that trends are sometimes like drugs. They are powerful lures for teenagers. Those who cannot resist the temptation violate school rules and risk angering their teachers as they become willing slaves to trends. Even someone like Li Long, a quiet student who spoke little and seemed more mature than his classmates, had failed the test.

  Obviously unhappy with how I’d dealt with the boy, Mr. Chiong said disapprovingly, “You’re letting him off the hook just like that?”

  “He made a mistake,” I said calmly, “and I think we should work to correct the error before we talk about other matters.”

  With a sardonic snigger, he continued, “You told him to come see you tomorrow morning. Aren’t you being too easy on him?”

  I looked at him with questioning eyes.

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “tomorrow is National Day and there are no classes, just a celebration ceremony. Do you think he’ll dye his hair back as you told him to and obediently come see you?”

  “I’ll punish him if he doesn’t,” I replied evenly. “He’s in my class, so it’s my responsibility.”

  Deep down I was wondering the same thing. Would he keep his promise?

  I was on edge.

  The next day I got up at the crack of dawn and waited for Li Long at school. Due to the National Day celebration, the campus was festive, with laughter all around. But I couldn’t bring myself to be part of the festivities, for I was in the grip of a strong, irrepressible anxiety. Again and again I looked toward the school gate, but again and again I was disappointed—he had not shown up.

  By eight o’clock that morning, I knew that Li Long was not coming.

  I felt like a defeated soldier, and thought I might explode from the anger building up inside me. That he’d lied was bad enough, but I couldn’t forgive him for squandering the chance I’d given him to make amends. I decided I had to do something right away—I would go to his house and personally drag him to the barber, where I could watch his hair return to black with my own eyes.

  2

  Li Long opened the door, still with a head of shiny, golden hair. Incredulous, he stammered, “You—eh, who are you looking for?”

  I fixed my gaze on his shifty eyes. He was apprehensive, obviously knowing he had done something wrong.

  “You, of course,” I said coldly.

  “What for?”

  “To see if you’ve dyed your hair back.”

  A hoarse voice emerged from inside the house.

  “Who’s that, Ah Long?”

  “It’s my teacher.”

  “Your teacher? Hurry up and invite her in.”

  Li Long lived in a one-bedroom flat, which was simply and crudely furnished. A few chairs and a table were the extent of the ensemble in the small, cramped living room. An old woman in her seventies was sitting in a rattan chair, her left foot wrapped tightly in a white cast. Her face, crisscrossed with wrinkles, showed signs of painful struggle as she tried to stand up to greet me but knew she couldn’t make it. A silent plea settled on her upturned face. She was asking for my forgiveness but at the same time was afraid I couldn’t understand her inner turmoil. Hence a myriad of emotions played across her face—a mixture of awkwardness, humility and sadness. She nodded, smiling and gesturing as she repeated, “Please have seat, Madam Tham. Please sit down. Sit. Quick, Ah Long, po
ur some tea for your teacher.”

  The long-limbed teenager stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Growing impatient, the old lady looked as if she might throw off her cast, stand up and pour the tea herself.

  “The tea, Ah Long,” she repeated anxiously.

  As if waking from a dream, Li Long raced into the kitchen, his bobbing head creating golden arcs that flickered in the dimly lit room.

  “How are you and Li Long related, Granny?”

  “Ah, he’s my grandson, my only grandson.” She swallowed and asked in a concerned voice, “Has he done something bad at school?”

  “Li Long is a good student.” I was telling the truth. “But for some reason he decided to dye his hair yellow, which is against school rules. Yesterday, I told him to dye it back and he agreed, but he decided to stay home today.”

  “Dye his hair!” The old woman’s wrinkled face twisted in pain. She looked down and said with some difficulty, “I did it for him, Madam Tham. Please don’t be angry with him.”

  I said nothing. This was another case of a family member blindly spoiling her child. Instead of trying to get to the bottom of the matter, the family member takes the blame since she is out of punishment’s reach, not caring how angry the teachers may be, or how strict the school rules are. Love like that, however, is a weighty burden.

  “Madam Tham—“When she spoke again, her voice broke. “Please believe me, I did it.”

  Li Long came out with a cup of freshly brewed tea, and the old lady clammed up. When he set the tea on the table, I noticed a half-finished bowl of porridge.

  “Finish your porridge, Grandma,” he said softly. “It doesn’t taste good cold.”

  She reached out and patted the back of his hand. “Take it back to the kitchen. I’ll eat it later.” She paused. “Ah Long, go downstairs to buy a bottle of medicated oil, and while you’re at it, deliver the laundered clothes to our three customers.”

  He looked at me and hesitated. Seeing that he was not moving, the old lady said, “Go on. I’ll explain everything to your teacher.”

  He put three piles of neatly ironed clothes into a large bag and nodded at me before walking out the door.

  I turned back to her, but before I could say anything, I was startled to see tears brimming in the old woman’s murky eyes. She didn’t want me to see her tears, but she couldn’t hide them and this made every wrinkle on her face quiver with pain. Although she dried her tears with the back of her hand, they seemed to emerge from her voice instead. “Madam Tham, I’m sure you don’t know Ah Long’s background. He’s a proud child and doesn’t want anyone to know. His father, my only child, is a good-for-nothing man who gambles and visits prostitutes. My daughter-in-law, Ah Long’s mother, walked out when he was only three, and we haven’t heard from her since. That worthless son of mine now lives with another woman and never comes home. I’m raising Ah Long all by myself.”

  As I listened, Li Long’s precocious face kept appearing in my mind’s eye.

  “During the day, I wash and iron for three families. At night I wash dishes for a nearby restaurant. I make enough to support the two of us. Everything is so expensive these days, and it’s tough providing for us and sending him to school. As luck would have it, I fell the other day. Like they say, you’re useless when you grow old. Ah Long has always wanted to find an after-school job, but I wouldn’t let him. Now we need money for my injured leg, for food and for his tuition. I don’t have any savings. Madam Tham, you can imagine how worried I’ve been.” She stopped, put her hand to her chest and coughed a few times before continuing. “A few days ago, some of his friends came to see him. They told him they have a gig at Clarke Quay for the National Day celebration. It will last a month, and they wanted him to join them. The pay is quite good, and the performance is legitimate. Ah Long wanted to do it, so I went along with it. But then they said he had to dye his hair. I thought it would only be for a month, so I bought the dye and did it for him. Madam Tham, please believe me, I didn’t know it was against school rules to dye his hair.”

  I left before Li Long returned. The dancing and singing were still going strong when I got back to school.

  3

  I went to Clarke Quay that night. The area was swarming with tourists whose bobbing heads turned the place into a sea of humanity. The rippling Singapore River was a splendid sight beneath the ever-changing neon lights, with restaurant after restaurant lining the riverbanks. People crowded into each other amid the mouthwatering aromas of food, creating an unlikely harmony. Noise from the spectators and the din of music merged to fill the quay with sound, smell, colour and light.

  In the distance, shafts of light from an elevated stage swept across the area in all directions, resembling bolts of lightning sent down from heaven. Surging crowds turned the stage area into a wall. I struggled, an inch at a time, and exhausted all my strength before finally managing to edge my way to the front.

  Six boys with golden hair, wearing identical clothes, were dancing about on the stage and singing. I looked carefully at each of them, but no Li Long. Puzzled and suspicious, I wondered if the old lady had lied to me. Had she and her grandson colluded to deceive a trusting teacher?

  I mustered enough patience to watch them sing and dance for twenty minutes, until finally the singers turned hoarse and the dancers were drenched in sweat. They stopped and the MC said, “Now, let’s hear it for a pantomime by Ding Ding and Dang Dang!” The crowd erupted with applause, cheers and whistling as if the area were drenched in a sudden downpour. Everyone roared with laughter when Ding Ding and Dang Dang came onstage.

  Ding Ding was tall; Dang Dang was short. Ding Ding had yellow hair; Dang Dang’s was red. Their faces were colourfully painted, and they were wearing gaudy, loose tops and baggy pants. Unable to suppress their excitement, children cried out, “Clowns! Clowns!”

  Without a word, the two clowns began tumbling. The tall, long-limbed clown was particularly agile as he performed a series of neat somersaults, while the clumsy, short one tried to imitate him, only to fail miserably, falling again and again, which elicited cheap laughs from the audience.

  Then it struck me—the tall one was Li Long.

  Spectators roared with laughter as he performed comical movements. His big mouth, painted blood red, was wide open in an eternal, worry-free smile. I knew, however, that if not for the tough life he lived, this proud young man would never have subjected himself to selling his smile in front of so many people. He pulled out all the stops, but whenever a round of laughter exploded from the crowd, I felt an invisible whip lash me, leaving one burning, painful mark after another on my heart.

  Once the performance by Ding Ding and Dang Dang was over, I elbowed my way out of the crowd and headed backstage, where I told the staff watching the area that I needed to talk to Ding Ding.

  When Li Long emerged, still wearing his makeup, he was so surprised that he simply froze. His blood-red mouth, painted wide in a happy smile, continued to present a joyful, ignorant face. It was terribly disconcerting.

  “Madam Tham,” he murmured.

  “When will you be finished, Li Long?” I asked quietly.

  “I have one more show to go. I’ll be done at nine.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the teh tarik stall by the river after nine o’clock.”

  He showed up at a quarter past nine. He had obviously left in a hurry, for his face hadn’t been washed clean. Patches of paint remained here and there, resembling colourful tears.

  I ordered a teh tarik for him. The Indian stall owner made the tea in the traditional way, which is fast dying out in today’s society. He raised one hand high and held the other low. As the raised hand turned and flipped, freshly steeped, steaming tea fell from a tall decanter and was transformed into a slender cascading waterfall, but before the stream reached the ground, it rushed into a small cup held low to receive the liquid. Not a drop escaped, and the cup was filled. But the owner wasn’t done yet. He repeated the same show, sending the gold
en waterfall rising and falling, soaring and flying. It was a beautiful sight.

  When the teh tarik was served, Li Long looked down, seemingly absorbed in his tea. He was frowning, however, as if he’d spotted a fly in his glass. I didn’t say anything. Some time passed before he said in a low voice, his head still hanging, “I’m sorry, Madam Tham.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Li Long. There’s no need to apologise.”

  He looked up at me, his face overcome with incredulousness.

  “You dyed your hair, you lied about it, and then you skipped school. On the surface, you’re a misbehaving student who broke school rules. But I must judge you from a different angle and see if you had a good reason to do what you did.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed but no sound emerged.

  “Your biggest mistake was not telling me about your difficult situation. But now, listen, I’ve asked the school’s Student Welfare Group to give you a monthly stipend—”

  Before I could finish, he cut in with his usual stubborn look. “Please, Madam Tham, don’t. I don’t want any help from the school.”

  So he would rather be a clown in public than receive aid from the school. He clearly had a serious complex. I wanted to help resolve his issue, but no matter how I probed he refused to give me a straight answer. Instead he kept saying, “I want to be self-reliant.”

  Time ticked away and I was burning with anxiety. That morning, when I had applied for aid with the school’s Student Welfare Group, I had some serious explaining to do. The teacher in charge, Goh Sheng Nan, showed me Li Long’s record, which listed his parents’ occupations.