The Man Who Wore His Wife's Sarong

by Suchen Christine Lim

  ‘When did you start this stupid business?’ she turns on the boy.

  ‘Three weeks ago,’ he growls.

  ‘Haven’t you anything better to do?’ she screams at him.

  ‘School’s boring.’

  ‘School’s boring! So you fight and vandalise the school’s notice board?’

  ‘I didn’t fight, Mom! That boy didn’t turn up. I didn’t vandalise the notice board! I pinned up The Towgay News.’

  ‘What?’ The surprise in her voice makes him smile.

  ‘Rajiv said our Big Wall Newspaper should report bits of news about school. I said, ya, bits of news like bean sprouts. So we called it Towgay News.’

  She wants to hug and slap him. The audacity of this boy. The pride in his voice is unmistakeable. He brings out the offending newspaper—an A3-sized broadsheet with a green and yellow computer-printed masthead of bean sprouts, and the date, July 1989. Below the masthead are the names of the two reporters, and their editor, John Wong Wai Mun. She was the one who named him, ‘Wai Mun’. A Cantonese name meaning ‘For the People’. She was young and idealistic then. She thought love could change the world.

  Can it? Let’s find out, Richard had whispered in her ear, his finger tracing the slight depression beneath her collarbone, sliding down the space between her breasts. She wants to scream at him now.

  ‘Honestly, Mun! I don’t know what to do with you. So tomorrow I’ve got to go and see the Principal about your vandalism.’

  ‘I told you! It’s not vandalism.’

  ‘Don’t you talk back to me like this! You’re in deep shit already!’

  ‘We only pinned up our newspaper on the board for everyone to read. We didn’t want to print many copies. So we did one big wall newspaper. Like … like the Chinese students in Tiananmen Square.’

  ‘But you’re not in China, Mun! You’re in Singapore! In St Paul’s! What’s the matter with you?’

  It’s the top elite boys’ school after Raffles’ Institution (RI). ‘We don’t accept the rejects of RI. Is St Paul’s your first choice?’ That’s how the Principal interrogates each poor sod who begs for a place for his son. Those whose sons are accepted will hear Harry Koh’s sonorous voice booming through the loudspeakers. ‘Parents! Give us your boys! We will return them to you as men! St Paul’s results are exemplary. There are no failures in my school.’

  ‘I’ll have to take you out of that school.’

  ‘No, Mom.’

  ‘It’s a public caning for God’s sake! In the school hall! It’s draconian and barbaric! You’re only in Sec Two. You can start all over again in a new school.’

  ‘No.’

  She can’t believe her ears, can’t recognise this stubborn, mulish face in front of her. He looks just like Richard now. Just as stupid. Just as blind. The boy can’t see that this is censorship of the worst kind. Not even the government would cane people for reporting a fact however unpalatable that fact. So. A young female teacher cried. So what? She’s an adult and a professional who should be able to hold her own against a bunch of boys. Why should the school protect the adult against the child?

  Her brain is ticking. She’s marshalling all her arguments, lining them up against the school. Her boy and his friends had started a newspaper by themselves. A bunch of fourteen-year-olds. They should be applauded for their initiative. Not caned! Forty pairs of male eyes stared in shock and wonder as tears rolled down Miss Tan’s … Agreed! The report is a little sensational. The boys should apologise to the teacher, make amends, wash the school toilets, or pick up litter, or whatever! But not caned! Sensational reporting is not a crime punishable by caning. Starting a school newspaper without the Principal’s permission is not a crime punishable by caning. What’s the matter with this Principal? His school is not the state of Singapore. Does he think he’s the Prime Minister?

  She’s raving and she knows it.

  ‘I’ll put you in a private school for now. Next year, I’ll send you overseas.’

  Her boy shakes his head.

  ‘Why? Are you scared of leaving school?’

  The boy stares resolutely at his feet, and refuses to answer her. His sulky silence infuriates her. She resists the temptation to shake him … and hug him. She wants so much to protect him. But she knows he wants to be treated as a grown-up. Especially now that it’s just the two of them in the family. But he’s only fourteen. Oh, God! How can she let this stupid school destroy him?

  ‘Mun, please,’ she pleads.

  He looks up, his eyes dark and accusing.

  ‘You’re the one who said we must accept the consequences of our action.’

  * * *

  My mom says school gives you an education. My mom is biased. She’s a teacher. School is where you learn your life is over unless you mug and pass exams. School is where you learn to stand up and sing like a bloody idiot, ‘Gooooood morrrrr-ning, teeeee-chur!’ You find out at great cost to your dignity that you’ve got to take all the crap that grown-ups vomit out in front of your desk or else you fail. You learn not to challenge, not to argue with grown-ups. Unless. Unless you’ve a fatal attraction for insults or humiliation, or detention class, or standing outside the classroom until the grown-up is satisfied with your guard duty. School is where you learn power is in the hands of one man—the P. The P’s office is a great place to feel small. You can’t enter it unless his female dragons say ‘Mr Koh will see you now.’

  We’re here in the P’s office, my mom and I, and Seng and Rajiv’s parents. Six chairs are arranged in a semi-circle in front of the P’s table. The parents sit down. Five parents and a vacant chair. That must be for Dad. They don’t know that my parents have split. We boys are told to stand behind our parents. I want to take away the empty chair next to Mom. It’s making her uncomfortable. Rajiv and Seng Huat’s parents have come together. My mom is alone. I step forward. I stand between her and the vacant chair. This way, she can’t see the chair. This way, she can see me standing beside her. She’s not alone.

  ‘Please wait.’ The school clerk closes the door.

  No one says a word. The parents sit like they’re waiting for the funeral service to start. Mom is wearing her dark blue dress. Rajiv’s mom is in a grey sari. Seng’s mom wears a black pantsuit; and the two fathers are in dark trousers, long-sleeved white shirt and tie. This is how it is when the principal of your son’s elite school tells you to come to his office. Rajiv, poor sod, looks like he’s been bonked on his head. His father’s face is grim. His back is ramrod straight, and his arms are folded in front of his chest. Not a good sign. Poor Rajiv’s mom is staring at the floor. Seng Huat’s fat face is the only one with a smile. But I know he’s scared shit, like Raj and me.

  I watch the hands of the clock above Mr Koh’s black leather armchair. Its tick, tick, tick is the only sound in the room. Then the door opens. Mr Koh enters. The parents stand up. They introduce themselves.

  ‘Sit down. Please. Sit down. Sorry to keep you waiting. I had some urgent matters to attend to. Thank you for coming. Boys!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘You know why your parents are here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Vandalism is a serious offence …’

  ‘Mr Koh, sorry, may I interrupt?’

  That’s my mom. She’s not like other parents. She can’t keep her gap shut.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Wong.’

  ‘Exactly what constitutes vandalism in St Paul’s?’

  ‘We have very strict rules governing the use of the school’s notice boards in St Paul’s. No teacher or student is allowed to put up anything without the Principal’s prior permission. These boys broke that rule. They pinned up all sorts of papers without my knowledge and my permission. That constitutes vandalism. It’s a serious violation. The school rules have been made known to all our boys from the day they joined this school. But these boys have flouted the rules.’

  ‘Mr Koh, I agree that these boys have broken the school’s rule regarding the use of th
e notice boards. But does this merit a public caning?’

  ‘Mrs Wong, I cannot allow any Tom, Dick and Harry to pin up anything they wish without the Principal’s expressed knowledge and permission. Such flagrant disregard of rules and regulations undermines the authority of the school and the principal. And I cannot allow it. This is a serious offence. And we cane boys for serious offences. Like smoking. They do harm to their own health. We cane them. These three boys have done harm not to themselves. Worse. They’ve done harm to a teacher’s reputation and authority. They’ve destroyed my teacher’s confidence. She’s a young woman. New in the service. A scholar sent by the Ministry of Education. Now she wants to resign. Do you know how hard it is for me to retain teachers nowadays? A good teacher is hard to come by. Now if these boys had followed the rules, had come to me first, I wouldn’t have let them publish this story. They should have gone to their teachers. Their teachers would’ve advised them. They would’ve vetted the boys’ writing, corrected their mistakes, and sent them to see me in the office. But these boys went over their teachers’ heads! Went over the principal’s head! I’m the Principal of this school. I cannot let them go unpunished!’

  ‘Mr Koh …’

  ‘Mrs Wong, I’m the Principal of this school. I set the rules. I’m in charge. When things go wrong, I’m responsible.’

  He stares at Mom. I’m praying. I pray that Mom will keep her word. I place my hand on her shoulders to remind her of her promise. None of the other parents dare to say anything. Rajiv’s father has unfolded his arms. His back is no longer ramrod straight. We watch in silence as Mr Koh opens the brown folder on his desk.

  ‘If any of you wish to take your son out of my school, I will not stop you.’

  Silence.

  ‘Well then,’ Mr Koh looks at us. ‘If there’s no objection to corporal punishment, please sign this document to give the school permission to cane your son. Rest assured. I will do the caning myself. Not the discipline master.’

  * * *

  That night, she can’t sleep. She has failed her son. Where is her lively seven-year-old? Where’s the little boy who had so bravely stood up for his friend in Primary Two? As an eight-year-old, her boy had refused to go for a class outing. Because Miss Tan was unfair to Aziz, Mommy. She was proud that he had insisted on staying back in school with his friend. At ten, he had written a note (with her help) to tell his class teacher why he and his friends hated Chinese. Zhen Lao-shi brings a cane to class. When did her boy change? How did the courageous little fellow turn into this compliant silent teenager who accepts a public caning? Has she been so absorbed in her own despair that she has failed to notice his change? Has he become like his father?

  Last night, she looked through the three issues of his Big Wall Newspaper again. Full of typical schoolboy humour, but the reports were well written. There were no grammatical errors. The boy had edited the three issues himself. He’s meticulous like his father. And like his father, he’s gotten into trouble because of what he wrote. She frets about the caning. How will it affect him? Richard never recovered from that fiasco with the now defunct Singapore Morning Herald. His report had caught her attention. In clear, crisp English, he had written about a university students’ group, critical of the Prime Minister and his cabinet. And he’d quoted her, and, based on something she had told him in confidence, he’d described her as one of the group’s leaders. She stared at the report. There it was, her confidence purveyed and packed into a two-inch column of black print with a half-inch high headline. Below that was his byline: I’m very sorry. Very very sorry. I had to break the news before The Straits Times does it.

  A single yellow rose and a box of Scottish nougat were proffered. She should have known better then. To think that her heart and forgiveness were so cheaply bought.

  When the Herald was abruptly closed down by the government, he’d run like the rest of them to Malaysia, and then to Hong Kong before making his way back a year later after the fallout and debris had cleared, and he knew he wouldn’t be detained again. Like a blind fool, she thought he had courage, and married him.

  For god’s sake! You’re my wife! You can act for me. You’re a teacher. You work only half a day. I don’t have the time to meet these people.

  You don’t have the time or you don’t have the guts?

  He’d stormed out of their bedroom. He would rather pay fines, sometimes, heavy fines that they could barely afford, rather than deal with government authorities. She was the one who blundered through, argued, and fought with the Inland Revenue Authority, the Public Utilities Authority, the Housing Board Authority, the Property Tax Authority, the school authorities, the bank authorities, the hospital authorities—anyone and everyone in a position of authority. For years, she had refused to see it. Refused to see that he was cowering behind her. Perhaps cowering was too strong a word. But what else could she call it? Government officials unnerved him. But he wouldn’t admit it. At home, he raved against the powers that be, the fools and tyrants who run this country. But put him in front of a government official, and he scraped and bowed.

  Yes, yes, yes, I understand, sir. No problem, sir. Er… er … I’ll … I’ll wait. So sorry. So sorry to bother you, mister, er, mister. Sir.

  She suspected that it was his brush with Internal Security that had so unnerved him. But he refused to talk about it.

  You were in there two weeks. What did they do to you? Please, Richard. You’ve got to talk it out.

  Stop it, Joan.

  He clammed up. She reckoned he was roughed up. She’d heard such stories whispered among friends. Sometimes, alone at night, she thought of him, imagining how they must’ve stripped him naked, made him sit on a block of ice or shone two hundred megawatt spotlights on him. Sleep deprived and stripped, he must have said or done things he was now ashamed of. For years, he’d suffered from insomnia and nightmares.

  On the day of his release, his chief editor had told him to run. And so he ran. The next day, the chief editor himself was detained. The newspaper was closed down. Its publishing permit was withdrawn. Richard’s parents told everyone they didn’t know what their son had done, so they could not vouch for him, they said. His parents’ reaction had shocked her. How could his parents wash their hands off their only son? But that was the madness of the sixties in Singapore when the air was choked with rumours of Black Ops CIA agents, and student activists as pawns of the Communist Front. Many fled the country in fear. Richard’s father denounced them all, including his own son.

  Why run if you’ve done nothing wrong? You say right or not?

  But cowardice is in the Wong genes. It’s in their bloody DNA. She fears her son will turn out to be like his father. Rave and rant in the safety of home. Cringe and shrink outside when authority appears. How could her son stay on in the school? He will not go against the school. He’s refused to leave. Which mother wouldn’t cry? She should stop it. She will call the school. Tell them she has changed her mind. She will rescind her agreement. She will withhold her consent. She will not let him become like his father.

  ‘Mun! Where are you? Mun! Answer me! Open your door! Mun!’

  * * *

  1 October 2007. It’s Mom’s birthday. We’re having dinner in a little shophouse restaurant along Upper Bukit Timah Road. Just the two of us, the way she likes it. All mothers are suckers for this mother and son thing. She’s fifty-five today. So I indulge her. Call her Momsy the way I used to as a kid and make her smile.

  ‘I felt such a failure then.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Mom. You didn’t fail.’

  ‘What do you mean melodramatic? It was traumatic.’

  ‘For you, Mom. You were always so worried about face.’

  ‘Now that’s not a fair statement.’

  ‘But it’s true. You made a big fuss. See, you’re still thinking about it after all these years. It wasn’t such a big deal. I wasn’t the only one caned.’

  ‘It was a big deal for me, son. How could I have known
it wasn’t a big deal for you? We never spoke about it after that. You were so moody and morose as a teenager. Remember? You stopped talking to me after that.’

  The waiter brings us our food. I’ve ordered a white wine for us as well.

  ‘To your health, Mom.’

  A pause. Then she starts again. ‘Can I ask …?’

  ‘Must we do this? Is this your guilt or nostalgia? Oh, okay, okay.’

  I give up. I relent. I haven’t flown all the way back from New York to quarrel with her on her birthday. She lives alone. Poor Mom. She’s bound to think of the past. Old people do. I know her. She will ponder and fret. She will recall my silence and the long hours I spent in my room as a teenager. She will say I didn’t talk to her for days, for weeks, even months. She exaggerates sometimes. She tells me that I’d locked her out of my life; that her divorce took a toll on her poor boy, and many other such things. Mothers love to talk about their children’s childhood. Tonight it’s the caning in school. She never forgot the caning. Still, it’s her birthday today so I will indulge her.

  ‘So what do you want to know, Mom?’

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to me about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It really wasn’t a big deal. Anyway we weren’t caned in the school hall.’

  ‘You mean Harry Koh didn’t carry out his threat?’

  ‘No. I was given two strokes in class. Rajiv and Seng Huat had one stroke each.’

  ‘That’s not fair. How come you had two?’

  ‘I was the editor. I was the one who decided what to publish.’

  ‘So he gave you one more stroke.’

  ‘Something like that,’ I laugh. ‘Mr Koh said he had to show that he supported the teacher. Said he had to protect his staff.’

  ‘What? Protect his staff but not his students?’

  ‘I didn’t need his protection, Mom. I could protect myself. I protected my future, didn’t I? I stayed. I didn’t quit.’