Teaching Cats to Jump Hoops

by You Jin

  Fell off the back seat of his motorcycle? An accident? For some reason I felt apprehensive. I wondered if she had fallen intentionally in order to avoid the exam. Or could she have given up on living? The thought sent a chill up my spine like a slimy, slithering snake. I snatched my car keys and raced to the hospital.

  I was shocked. The sight of Shan Shan in a hospital bed made me suck in cold air. As her father had said, her situation wasn’t serious, but what shook me was the look of hopelessness on her face.

  Her father was sitting beside her bed with a tormented look. When he saw me, he rubbed his hands together and said, “It was my fault. I should have been more careful. Eh, Madam Tham, eh, have you made arrangements for the make-up exam?”

  I signalled to him to step outside so we could talk.

  I went straight to the point. “Can’t you see that Shan Shan was trying to kill herself?”

  “Kill herself?” He was so shocked he was speechless for a while. “How could that be possible?”

  “Well, maybe you should get a psychiatrist to see her,” I said. “If she doesn’t commit suicide, she’ll go crazy due to the unbearable pressure of studying for the exams.” I hardened my voice. “You must do something now. I assume you don’t want to see this sort of thing happen again.”

  4

  The psychiatrist’s diagnosis was that Shan Shan had been suffering from severe depression over the built-up pressure, and had become suicidal. The evidence was hard to refute, so her father made arrangements for her to withdraw from school. But he refused to give up, even as he signed the paperwork for her withdrawal.

  “If she wants to come back, can she enrol again?” he asked.

  Looking at his anxiety-ridden face, I couldn’t help heaving a silent sigh.

  I went to see Shan Shan a few times after she was discharged from the hospital. She was recovering nicely due to the anti-depressants and the relief of not having to study for the exams. Now I could finally feel relieved of my heavy burden.

  Nearly six months went by after Shan Shan had withdrawn from school. One day, I was buried in exam papers in the staff room when a dark shadow fell on my desk. I looked up.

  “Ah—Shan Shan!” I could not suppress the pleasant surprise in my voice.

  Her hair was now cut short with thinly layered ends, which gave her a spirited look. She held the hint of a smile in her jet black eyes.

  “Madam Tham, I came back to tell you that I’ve enrolled in the culinary training programme.” Then she put another one of those rustic-looking paper bags on my desk.

  “What, eggs again?” I asked with a smile.

  “No. It’s a byproduct of eggs—a cake. Don’t get drunk eating it though, Madam Tham.”

  “How can you get drunk from eating a cake?”

  “I forgot to tell you, I added raisins that have been soaked in strong liquor.”

  “So this really isn’t suitable for children,” I said. We both laughed.

  “My dad said once I finish the training programme, we’ll open a father-and-daughter pastry shop, selling snacks made of eggs.”

  “Then you can call your shop ‘Drunken Eggs’.”

  “Perfect!” She laughed. “And you’ll have to come and host the opening ceremony.”

  “I’ll need a pair of gold scissors.”

  The brilliant smile on her face made the gentle morning sunlight dance. In her confident smile, I could almost see the bustling future prospects for her Drunken Eggs store.

  Ah, the sun had finally come out to replace the rain, and eggs would smile if they had feelings.

  Pets

  1

  A WEEK HAD passed since school started, but Chua Wen Li remained aloof and indifferent in class. One day, I created an entertaining slide show by matching an interesting and lively news item with colourful pictures. It captured the attention of every student. This was the news item: Late one night, an unemployed young man sneaked into a Chinese herbal shop near his home and stole thousands of dollars worth of birds’ nests and ginseng to make tonics for his ailing mother. After his arrest, he was tried in court and sentenced to six months in prison. I asked the students to consider the matter from the perspectives of the law, humanity and ethics. Everyone was engaged in an animated discussion and shared their views while Wen Li turned and looked out the window, absent-mindedly playing with the pen in her hand as if she were invisible.

  Wen Li had already caught my attention on the second day of the new semester. I had noticed her, not just because she wasn’t paying attention in class, but more importantly, because of the mix of expressions on her face: disgust, rebellion and contempt. Obviously she had strong feelings against studying Chinese. I checked her Chinese language exam results in secondary one and two and saw that she had failed the subject in both years. When her name came up, other teachers who had taught her were somewhat hostile. “Wen Li is utterly worthless. She doesn’t pay attention in class and her homework is a total mess. When I spoke to her, her attitude couldn’t have been worse. She’s hopeless, a hard nut to crack,” one of the teachers commented.

  There is an unknown story inside every tightly shut book, however, and under every glum, dour face is a hidden pain that no one knows about. I decided to have a private chat with her.

  She sat before me with a wooden face, emitting a frightening chill, like a block of ice that has remained frozen for thousands of years. Straining to be patient, I asked her in the gentlest voice I could manage, “Wen Li, can you tell me why you dislike studying Chinese?”

  She rolled her eyes, revealing nothing but disdain. Anyone else might have been infuriated by such a loathsome expression and insolent reaction, but I had come prepared with steadfast determination to face anything she might say or do. I continued in a gentle voice, “As your form teacher this year, I’d like to get to know you better.”

  She cast a surprised glance at me, obviously because she had wanted to provoke me but failed to produce the desired result. Nevertheless, she still refused to say a word.

  “There are two reasons why someone’s Chinese isn’t good. One is a weak foundation. The texts are hard to understand and the person falls behind. It becomes a vicious cycle, with the sight of a Chinese text causing an immediate headache,” I explained patiently. “The other reason is a lack of interest. When a student treats it only as a subject to be tested on, rote and forced memorisation become the only way to study, which can make the subject even less likeable.”

  She listened quietly with the same apathetic expression. I paused and threw her a curve ball. “Have you ever had a pet, Wen Li?”

  She looked up and despite herself, a hint of gentleness flitted across her face. It took her a while to respond. “Yes,” she said.

  “What kind?”

  “A turtle.”

  “How old is it?”

  “It died.” She shrugged.

  “From old age?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did it die?”

  “I went to visit my grandma in Malaysia over the holidays,” she said, crinkling her nose. “My mum forgot to feed it and it starved to death.”

  “What a shame!”

  “It was a shame,” she said. “It was such a lovely turtle.”

  “Have you gotten another one?”

  “No.”

  The stubborn and stiff fifteen-year-old suddenly revealed a rare, tender side when the subject of pets came up. I considered it an extraordinary accomplishment that I’d managed to glimpse a hidden corner of her inner world during our first conversation. In fact, I had my own reason for bringing up the topic of pets with her.

  My husband was away in Shanghai for business at the time. Now that I knew the girl liked turtles, I called and asked him to go to the nearby city of Wuxi and bring back one of its unique green-haired turtles, no matter what.

  2

  Green-haired turtles are one of China’s treasures, which, along with white-jade turtles, two-headed turtles and snake-necked turtles, are k
nown as China’s four wondrous turtles. During the Han and Tang Dynasties, raising turtles was popular, and detailed descriptions of green-haired turtles can be found in numerous documents, with references such as “The magnificent turtle grew hair during the Zhou reign” or “A thousand-year-old turtle with hair was a priceless object”. During the Tang Dynasty, green-haired turtles were included in the palace’s five major treasures. In a nutshell, they were considered precious and rare creatures.

  Green-haired turtles, which have a thick layer of hair on their shells, are completely different from common turtles. Their hair is bright green, the colour of emeralds, and soft as velvet. When a green-haired turtle frolics in the water, it looks like a nymph clad in green. A year ago a friend from Wuxi brought me one. A relative’s eight-year-old only son fell in love with the turtle and came to see it just about every day. So eventually I reluctantly gave it to him. The relative thanked me profusely, joking that it was all because of that bewitching turtle that her son came home immediately after school every day.

  Now the turtle my husband had brought back from Wuxi was swimming leisurely in its tank, its soft hair tinting the clear water a pleasing green. I put it in a small plastic pail with some fresh water and took it to school, where I asked the gardener to keep it for a while.

  In our Chinese language class, Wen Li continued to wear her contemptuous look, but I decided not to bother her and just let her be. After class I walked up to her and said softly, “Come with me, Wen Li.”

  “For what?” she asked, intending to provoke.

  She was being unimaginably rude, but I simply replied, “You’ll see.”

  Shoving her chair backwards, Wen Li stood up unhappily and followed me out of the classroom. She dragged her feet and each step was a resounding complaint of anger and annoyance, as she believed some sort of punishment or reprimand awaited her.

  I took the pail from the gardener and set it on a stone table in a corner of the school grounds. “Take a look,” I said. With suspicion written all over her face, she leaned over and froze after one look.

  The green-haired turtle was swimming freely in the pail, displaying its allure and uncommon flair. Morning sunshine streamed through the leaves, dotting the surface of the water with emerald green and silvery lights, while the turtle happily enjoyed the bright morning sun.

  The bright lights that shone in Wen Li’s eyes were like priceless diamonds. A surprised yet happy smile appeared at the corners of her thin, curved lips. But it could come crashing down at any moment.

  “What—what’s this?” she asked, finally looking up.

  “A turtle,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a rare species called a green-haired turtle. Isn’t it pretty?” She nodded vigorously. “This turtle is for you, Wen Li.”

  She fixed her gaze on me, eyes filled with disbelief, questioning and irrepressible excitement.

  “Be careful though. Green-hair turtles aren’t vegetarians, so you have to feed it small fish or shrimps every day. It’s a very clever animal and it will recognise you after a while. It’ll even respond when you call its name.”

  “Really?” Now she was smiling not just from her mouth, but from her eyes as well.

  “Come, I’ll drive you home.” I picked up the pail.

  She lived in an HDB estate not far from school. When she got out of the car, she walked towards her flat, holding the pail with such care that she might have been carrying the rarest treasure in the world. After a few steps she turned and looked at me. In a nearly inaudible voice, she said, “Thank you.”

  3

  Over the next two weeks, the green-haired turtle became a bridge of communication between us—a shared, intimate topic of conversation.

  “Does it eat a lot?” I asked.

  “Not too much, but it looks so cute when it eats.” She giggled. “I feed it shrimp and it holds them in its hands like a little kid.”

  “Does it recognise you?”

  “I think so, I think it does. It never responds when my mum calls it, but it quickly swims to the surface if I call its name.”

  “What’s its name?”

  “Ah—” She smiled, as a glow began to spread across her face. “I’ll tell you some other day, all right?”

  It was apparent that after we had established this “extracurricular connection”, the rebellion and contempt in her eyes was no longer present in class. When I explained the texts, she turned to look out the window less frequently.

  One day, I saw her as I was driving through the school gate on my way home after class. I stopped, opened the door, and called out to her, “Jump in, Wen Li. I’ll give you a lift.”

  Naturally, we talked about the turtle.

  “Have you found a name for it?” I asked.

  She nodded, glanced at me and hesitated before replying, “Smartie.”

  “Smartie?” I laughed. “Do you want it to take exams some day?”

  The smile quickly disappeared from her face.

  “I wish it could take my place at the exams.”

  “Have confidence in yourself, Wen Li.”

  “But I don’t.” She lowered her head and her voice grew weaker. “The teachers often call me stupid.” Then she looked up and cast a quick glance at me. “I hate my Chinese language teachers most.”

  I sat there impassively and let her unburden herself.

  “I still remember when I was in primary four, every time I failed dictation, my Chinese language teacher would physically punish me by making me pull my ears, squat on the floor and leap like a frog. Everyone in the class treated me like a clown, and when they laughed, I wished I had a knife. Once in primary five, I lost my workbook and the teacher made me stay behind for days after school to make up the exercises. But when I had finally finished all six and turned them in, she tore my workbook into pieces and threw them in my face in front of the whole class. I vowed at that moment I’d never ever study Chinese. My primary six teacher used me as negative example and found an excuse to scold me every day before admonishing everyone against copying my actions, because that would lead to terrible consequences. Since all the Chinese language teachers thought I was hopeless, why shouldn’t I prove them right? I didn’t listen in class, I didn’t read and I didn’t study. I couldn’t care less if I got a big fat zero on my tests.”

  The more I heard her speak, the more pain I felt. This was a quintessential vicious cycle. The way the teachers had treated her hurt her deeply, so she went on a study strike in revenge. Worse still, she had stereotyped Chinese language teachers. Convinced that they were all terrible people, she adopted an uncooperative attitude with each of them indiscriminately. Her abominable behaviour, in turn, enraged them to the point that, without exception, they treated her as the class tumour. They never had a kind word or gentle look for her. And the situation worsened each year.

  When we reached the car park outside her house, I turned off the engine and said with a smile, “Wen Li, may I go up to visit Smartie?”

  “Absolutely!” She was elated by my request.

  Both her parents were still at work and the flat was quiet. In the silence, I thought I could hear the green-haired turtle playing in the water. Wen Li had put it in a beautiful glass tank. After taking out a small package of shelled shrimp, she stood by the tank and called out in a tender voice, “Smartie, come. Here, Smartie. Lunch is served.” It was a wondrous sight to behold. The smart green-haired turtle quickly floated to the surface when she called out. It looked like a glutton awaiting a gourmet meal. First, the turtle caught the shrimp she had tossed in with its mouth, then it brought its legs together to hold the shrimp so it could take a bite, chew and swallow slowly. It was truly enjoying the meal, as if it was savouring a rare delicacy. Wen Li and I stood on each side of the tank, laughing as we watched the turtle eat. Our laughter seemed to drift into the tank, where it created tiny ripples.

  “Madam Tham, do you have a pet?” she asked, still laughing.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What
kind of pet do you have?”

  “Words.”

  “What? Words?” She looked at me with confusion in her eyes.

  “Yes, words.” I nodded. “Words are my pets. In fact words are like any other pets; they have feelings and emotions. The better you treat them and the closer you get to them, the more ways they find to reward you. When you need vocabulary while speaking or writing, they’ll jump up to help you out.” I continued with my lesson. “Give it a try, Wen Li. Put your preconceptions aside and try to study the Chinese language the same way you would raise a pet. Little by little, you’ll see that words develop feelings for you when you show your concern.”

  I took out a book I had purchased beforehand and gave it to her. It was an illustrated copy of A Hundred Fun Stories with Chinese Idioms.

  “Would you be willing to give this book a chance? There’s a lively, interesting story behind every idiom. You can read one story and memorise one idiom a day. Mark the words you don’t know with a red pen and I’ll help you. Will you do that for me?”

  She took the book and flipped through it as the hint of a sweet smile flitted across her face, like a lithe dragonfly skimming over water.

  A Fire Rages on the Exam Paper

  1

  NOT A SINGLE sound could be heard in the large examination hall. This was a life-and-death battle that would determine which students would move on and which would be held back. So understandably everyone was focused, heads buried in their exam papers, hands writing frantically. It was so quiet that all one heard were the rustling noises made by pens scratching paper. Upon closer examination, the scratching seemed to resemble the sound of clashing weapons, shrouding the room with the serious and solemn air of combat.

  As form teacher of Secondary 1A, I served as one of the exam invigilators. Walking around the room, I was constantly on the move, but I never took my eyes off Kwa Yao Zu. Sitting up straight, he wore a deep frown as his eyes swept anxiously up and down the exam booklet. The room was air-conditioned, but that didn’t stop beads of perspiration from forming on his forehead as a dark, glum patina shrouded his fair, genteel face. I picked a discreet corner to stand in, and watched quietly as he was assailed by anxiety and apprehension. But I was helpless to give him any assistance.