by You Jin
Trying to hold in my misgivings, I handed in my exercise book the next day. At that moment, what I was thinking was, The teacher just wants to see that we did our calligraphy. He won’t look so carefully at the content. It’ll be my secret. He won’t even notice. Thinking this, my heart stopped racing and I calmed down. And if the worst happened and he did notice, I would just bow my head and acknowledge what I had done wrong.
Several days later, when the teacher was handing out our exercise books, his face showed no sign of noticing anything amiss. When I took back my exercise book, I was congratulating myself for my good fortune.
I gradually flipped through the exercise book and saw that my teacher had written a “B” on the page. (I usually got a “C” on my writing work.) I was very happy. Ha! I had not only escaped the tedium of writing, but had improved my score in the process. I flipped through my exercise book casually and, when I came to the back, my eye was struck by the comment there. Reading it, my face reddened. The teacher had written, Did Xiao Ming really steal the pen? Remember to tell me next time.
Huh? Mr Xu had such sharp eyes? Not only had he inspected and found I had not written the assigned characters, but he even read the little story I made up. And, what was even more significant—he had given me a “pass” to continue writing my story.
That night, I gladly took out my pen and exercise book and continued the story:
Xiao Ming held the pen that had been haunting his dreams, then ran home as quickly as he could. He ran so fast he figured even a champion sprinter could not have caught him. When he got home, breathing heavily, he went into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. He took the pen out and turned it this way and that, looking it over. The silver body was shiny, and the gold nib practically glowed. He held this thing he had dreamed of in his hands but, oddly, even with it clasped so firmly, he felt no joy inside him. He inked the pen, then sat down to write, considering the story he wanted to tell. But, even though words usually flowed quite freely from him, on this day as he grasped the beautiful fountain pen in hand, Xiao Ming could not write a single stroke. He flexed his fingers and tapped his head with the pen. He paced about the room. Feeling listless, he lay on the bed and fell asleep. As he slept, he dreamt of a white-haired old man. The old man, his face filled with rage, said, “Xiao Ming, I gave you a pretty, colourful pen, and you’ve written countless, moving stories with it. But now you’ve gone and stolen something you had no right to, so I’ve come to take back the pen I gave you.” Saying this, he reached into Xiao Ming’s pocket. The colourful pen turned into a bright, shining bird and flew out the window.
Xiao Ming cried out, waking himself from his dream. His whole body was covered in sweat. The room was quiet, and the moon shone in through the window. Its rays fell onto the table where the pen sat, reflecting the cold light. Xiao Ming turned and sat up. Raising his hands to the sky, he said, “Forgive me!” The next morning he went back to the bookstore as quickly as he could, intending to meet the manager and own up to what he had done.
When I got my exercise book back this time, my teacher’s comments were, Xiao Ming did the right thing. So, how will the bookstore’s manager handle this matter?
Throughout Primary 6, under Mr Xu’s silent consent and encouragement, I continued to create story after story as I practiced writing in my exercise book. The homework I had hated became an activity that captured my interest, making me very grateful for my teacher’s guidance.
A Big Decision
The year I was promoted to Primary 6, my parents made a big decision. One night after dinner, while my mother was at the table, they announced, “We have already made all the arrangements. From tomorrow on, Kok Peng will go to the English-language school.”
My brother, Kok Peng, was a year younger than me. To an 11-year-old child, his parents’ decisions were like divine will. There was no opposing them. And for Kok Peng, who had won the Chinese-English Translation Award at school, to go to a school using a different language as the medium of instruction was really just about a change of environment. He had no objection at all.
But I was different. I loved the Chinese language and was very passionate about it. To force me to change to a different language would have been like throwing me to the wolves.
I stared in astonishment, gazing at my father, then my mother, then looking back at my father again. I was terrified that they would turn to me next and say, “You too. Tomorrow you’ll start at the English school.”
I felt that my racing heart was about to fly out of my chest. I waited, almost in horror, expecting the “death sentence” to be announced. But my parents had no surprise announcement. I relaxed and thought, Ah! I’m safe! My sense of relief was so great I felt like shouting for joy.
After four more years, my parents arranged for my older sister, Yee Ven, to transfer from a traditional Chinese school (River Valley Secondary School) to an English school (Raffles Girls’ Secondary School). I was the only one in the family who remained in the Chinese language school, all through primary and secondary school, as well as university.
After I was an adult, out of curiosity, I asked my father why they had given me “special treatment” all those years, never sending me along with the rest of the pack to English language school.
He pondered, then replied, “Ever since you were small, I saw that you had an extraordinary love for the Chinese language. You started submitting work to the Chinese newspaper when you were in Primary 5, and it was published. This proved that you had potential when it came to writing in Chinese. I knew that, if I could keep from it, I did not want to kill your interest.” With my parents’ insight, they knew that if they took good care of me, I would find my own happiness and satisfaction in life.
Looking back on those early years, I can see that if my parents had not nurtured my interests and given me room to explore, if they had forced me to fit into a mould and go to English-language school, perhaps I would still have been a success in the eyes of others after graduation, but I know that this life is the one that truly brings me joy.
Each of my siblings has pursued her or his own interests in life and built a successful career. My older sister, Yee Ven, who always had an interest in design, is an architect, and has drawn the blueprints for many beautiful buildings. My brother, Kok Peng, who always loved electronic gadgets, is an electrical engineer. My youngest brother, Kok Fun, who always loved to use his toys to pretend to listen to people’s hearts, has put his gifts to work in becoming a doctor.
The four of us have very different interests, and we’ve all gone into four very different professions. The one thing we all have in common, though, is that we are very happy.
Part Two
CHAPTER 5
A Turning Point
A Marvel
ON THE DAY I got my PSLE results, I was engulfed in trepidation. My stomach was in knots, sweat poured off me and my heart was turning flips.
My father took me to school, and from his serious expression, I knew he was concerned. The school was very crowded, and noisy voices filled the air. We went to the assigned classroom and found the teacher in charge handing out results. A single piece of paper would determine one’s fate.
My father and I looked together, both sets of eyes scanning what was written there. After a few seconds, I heard my father release a huge sigh. Then, laughter crept into his eyes.
I was too surprised to believe it. I had passed. Passed!
And not only had I passed. I had actually done rather well. I had gotten into my first choice of secondary school.
I had listed River Valley Secondary School as my first choice because I was attracted by the original design of its uniforms—all white, with a belt around the waist. The red and blue “R” and “V” on the shirt pocket, for “River Valley” was so elegant and “Western”. What was most attractive was the line of silver buttons on the blouse, which were so shiny they could not be missed, day or night.
Every time I saw students in those uniform
s, I felt an inexpressible envy. To put it bluntly, for someone like me who had seen so many red marks on my exams throughout primary school, to have the chance to enter such an excellent school was like “a flower in the mirror or the moon in a pool”, completely impossible to grasp. Now I had become “somebody” in people’s eyes. What was really a wonder was that I had finished primary school with such outstanding results, and had propelled my way into a school like this. So the uniform with which I had been obsessed was becoming a reality!
In addition, the secondary school was attached to a junior college. So when I finished my four years of secondary education, I could go on directly to do two years of JC.
I went through Secondary 1 and 2 basically half-asleep. My extra-curricular reading was still the staple of my diet, while my schoolbooks were just side-dishes. But because my teachers kept a close watch, I did not dare do as I had in primary school, trying to get one over on them by putting a novel inside my school book. Instead, I pretended to be attentive in the classroom, even though my mind was far away; I disappeared like the wind the moment the bell rang, burying myself in my own reading material. I was not a problem student in my teacher’s eyes, but nobody would have called me a good student either. I was still living in my own world.
My unceasing reading had had a profound effect on my mind. The millions—or even billions—of words I had read by this time had slowly made their way into my bloodstream. Once there, those words began to take on a life of their own, always vying for my attention until, finally, they found a way out.
That’s when I would pick up my pen to write. And write, and write.
I wrote a novella.
Every day after class, my classmates would file into the canteen. But I would stay in the classroom, take out a slim pen, and set it scratching its way across the page, writing furiously. I would write and write, filling page after page. I wrote until I was dizzy, totally losing myself in the process.
One day, as I was writing, I heard a lovely voice beside me, asking, “Hey, what are you writing?”
It was Tan Siu Bee. I looked up at her, noticing a friendly smile floating across her pretty, pale face. Seeing I made no response, she repeated her question. “What are you writing? You seem so serious about it.”
My face turned red. I stammered, “I’m writing a story.”
“A story!” She exclaimed, “Can I read it?”
“No! No way,” I said, clasping my exercise book tightly, afraid she would reach out and snatch it. “I haven’t finished it yet.”
“Let me see, can’t you?” she said gently. Her bright expression was a soundless plea. “When I’ve read it, I’ll give it right back to you.”
For me, what I practised writing in my exercise book was my own private world, and I didn’t want to let anyone else in. But this girl of my own age standing in front of me, her eyes large and round, glittered with a sort of gentle light. Without quite knowing what happened, as if I were suddenly under a spell, I handed her the exercise book.
I lacked real life experience, and this first story that I attempted revolved around a topic with which I was totally unfamiliar. I had written about a fisherman and his family. The gist was that the fisherman had been caught in a storm when he went out to sea to fish. At home, the children and adults alike missed him, especially as they grew hungrier, without anyone to provide for them. They anxiously hoped for his return.
I had written in the style of classical Chinese novels, with a couplet at the beginning of each chapter to hint at what was coming. The first chapter told the background of the fisherman’s family and how they had fallen on hard times. The fisherman had two sons, ages five and two. His wife was a kind, virtuous woman who managed the household well. They lived in a cottage not far from the sea. Every time it rained, they would get floodwaters in the house. The two boys, having no notion of danger, were thrilled every time it rained because it meant the two of them could crawl onto the bed and play with buckets of water they had filled up. As they laughed and frolicked, their poor mother bustled around the house, desperately trying to keep the water out. But her efforts were fruitless: as soon as she wiped dry one section of the house, water gathered in another part.
As for their father, he would pace back and forth restlessly in the dripping house, so frustrated that even his hair stood on end. Until the storm receded into the sea, he could not provide for his family. His children were hungry. The older would say he wanted to eat meat pastries, and the younger would fuss asking for milk. Their mother’s face was completely wet—both from the rain and from her tears…
I had written to this point and left it with a cliffhanger: If you want to know what happens next, you’ll have to read the next chapter.
Siu Bee bent her head and started reading. Her long lashes covered her eyes like curtains, keeping her thoughts private. After reading, she looked up at me, an appreciative expression on her face. She handed the exercise book back to me, hesitating to say anything. Finally she burst out, “That’s really good! When you’ve written the second chapter, can I keep reading?”
What had seemed like an attack on my defences had turned into a chance to meet a kindred spirit. Naturally, I was very pleased. Having been a bit of a loner for such a long time and nurtured such a solitary existence, I did not quite know how to express myself. Hearing such praises, I just nodded my head in embarrassment.
Siu Bee had been born into a relatively comfortable financial situation. Every day when she came to school, her uniform was freshly washed and ironed, and smelled pleasantly of soap. Her shoes were polished and clean as unblemished egg whites. Apparently, her unreserved interest in my writing was partly because she had not read many books outside of required reading for school, and partly because it was something different from her own world and her own life. It was foreign to her, so when she read it, it felt fresh and interesting.
Having an actual reader, I wrote all the more avidly. That night at home, burning the midnight oil, I wrote the second chapter.
At school the next day, I found something that was completely unexpected, even shocking. After class, Siu Bee and four other girls surrounded me. Siu Bee opened with, “They all want to read your novel. Will that be okay?”
Without having bothered to ask whether I minded, Siu Bee had told everyone about my novel. I should have been angry, but seeing their eager faces waiting to read my work, my heart softened.
Siu Bee read first, while everyone else sat quietly on one side, patiently waiting her turn. As I watched them, my heart started turning flips, full of mixed emotions. At that age, I took fiction writing as a personal entertainment; I had never even once imagined that it would became public entertainment. As they read, they were clearly absorbed in the story, which was a huge confidence boost for me, and an impetus for me to continue writing.
On the following day, there were even more potential readers; my little exercise book was passed around the class. Occasionally arguments about who should read first even broke out. For me, who had never had a friend before, this was the first time I ever experienced the irresistible power of literary creation.
Many years after this event, thinking back on all that happened then, the feeling that overcomes me is not pride, nor even pleasure, but a profound gratitude. It was their unreserved warm reception that started me on the path to a literary career, instilling a good measure of confidence in me. When a seed falls to the ground, it needs to be exposed to the warmth of the sun. It was just like that for me: the enthusiastic reception from my classmates shining on my little corner of the world served as a nurturing force like the sun.
By the time I had finished writing this story, I had become friends with these girls. I had always lived hidden away in my lonely tower. It was at this point that I finally started to venture out of it.
Before long, I decided to submit it for publication. The problem was that this story was more than 10,000 words, At the time, there were no publications that would take a piece so lon
g. So I decided to shorten it to just three thousand words and send it to Hai Xing Bao.
The story was a seed, and the journal the soil. Like a farmer who had diligently done the work of sowing, at this point, I could only wait patiently for the harvest. A month later, this piece, entitled “The Wailing Wind and Weeping Rain”, blossomed in a section of Hai Xing Bao.
I was wild with joy. Paper in hand, I ran to show my father. Like a child hoping to receive a sweet, I hoped to hear a word of praise from my father.
My father took the paper and started to read. He was very focused, and read very slowly. As he read, the wide smile on his face began to fade. When he finished, the smile had completely disappeared.
He put the paper down. His expression turning serious, he said to me, “This article is a failure.”
Hearing this from my father was like being doused with cold water, I was terribly disappointed. Resentment grew in me and, pouting, I stared at him coldly.
Driving the point home, my father asked, “Look here. How much do you really understand about the hardships a fishing family endured?”
I could not say a word. In fact, I had some inkling of the suffering the fisherman’s family faced, but it all came from television.
“If you write about something you don’t really understand, how can you expect to move your readers? You must always remember, you should write about things familiar to you, the life you know. Only then can your writing have deep roots, and have a real vitality. Otherwise, the emotions you try to pack into it and the world you create will be like oil and water, completely unable to blend.” After a pause, he added, “There’s no way for you to know about a fisherman’s life, so your story is full of holes, And you can see the marks of the writing everywhere, what is real and what is false, and it makes for a cold sort of writing that is very unlikely to really draw the reader in.”