| A Twins Effect story |
[Jul. 8th, 2006|11:27 am] |
"I would like," I said thoughtfully to my student, "to visit Korea one more time and try dog meat."
Her face took on an expression of horror.
"You can't eat dogs! They're pets!"
"Babe was a pet. We still eat pigs."
"Dogs are cute!"
"So are sheep."
"I can't believe you want to eat dog meat!" she said, traumatised. "You can't eat it! you can't! Dogs are so intelligent and cute! you can't eat dogs..." she paused for a moment, then added thoughtfully, "unless they're shitzus. But you can't eat other dogs!" |
|
|
| A Muttonhead Story |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|11:03 am] |
It's strange, but Mrs. Muttonhead reminds me of a fascist version of my mother. I'm not sure why. It could be the security camera in her living room designed to monitor her kids' computer usage. Whatever it is, the parallels are especially strong in my mind at 6.30 in the morning when I'm standing by the road, giving the Nazi salute, and mumbling "heil taxi" under my breath.
Taxi drivers plying the streets at 6.30 in the morning have obviously had too little sleep and company. They just love to talk. I have noticed that early morning taxi rides are more likely to involve attempted conversation than afternoon ones. I don't mind talking to taxi drivers. I simply find it difficult to nap and speak at the same time. And it's not like the conversation is intellectually stimulating. It's always the same.
"Wah, so early ah?"
Ah, the "wah, so early ah?" opening. No problem. Years of teaching reticent kids has honed my conversation killing skills to perfection. I mimic their drooped shouldered stance, and half close my eyes. I look at the back of the seat and not at the rear view mirror. Then I emit a grunt which says, none too subtly, "shut the fuck up and drive."
"Going to work?"
Grunt.
"What work?"
"Tuition."
"Oh! So early got people want tuition ah?"
You tell 'em uncle, you tell 'em.
Grunt.
"Travel all the way for tuition ah?"
Grunt.
"My daughter also used to give tuition..."
He rambles on about his daughter. I gently begin to snore. He wakes me up.
"So, working?"
Grunt.
"So tuition part time."
Grunt.
What are you working as, is it tough, tuition brings in a pretty good income, blah blah blah, blah blah blah. They used to chatter for half an hour. Now, I usually manage to shut them up in 15 minutes, which at least gives me some time to snooze.
On this particular day, I arrive at Muttonhead's block of flats in reasonably good shape, which means I actually have the energy to curse fate and wonder why the fuck I'm here. The old proverb is certainly not true. Waking up this early, in this state of mind, thinking vicious and cruel thoughts, cannot be any good for my health. At 90 bucks for three hours, it's hardly making me wealthy, and if I were wise, I certainly wouldn't be here right now.
I enter the door and gag. I'm used to it. Mrs. Muttonhead is afraid of dengue (perhaps with good reason, as one of her sons recently caught it), and so keeps all her windows closed. Consequently, the family is safely trapped inside, surrounded by the chemical fumes emitted by the newly waxed floor, the newly painted walls, and goodness knows what else. It smells like stale vomit. Mosquito netting for the windows will eventually be installed, but until then, I can only tip toe in and hold my breath.
After the lesson, Mrs. Muttonhead speaks to me. She's sent Muttonhead for some psycho tests and it's been determined that he's Attention Deficit and something else and god knows what else besides. In a word, messed up. I concur. Have I noticed the symptoms? Sure. How could I miss them? Yes, she says, because of these slight disorders he has trouble focusing and has difficulty remembering things (like homework, I suppose). It's hard on him because nobody really understands.
I beg to differ.
"Mrs. Muttonhead, if I were tested for Attention Deficit I would certainly score very highly. I have a very short attention span, I have a very poor memory and I have enormous difficulty concentrating on anything for long periods of time. But I did not get tested, I went through school doing reasonably well, and now I have a job. I just had to learn to live with it and overcome it."
"Right... maybe you can talk to him and offer him some tips on dealing with these problems. I mean, like typing his name at the end of every composition, so when he prints it out, he only has to look for his name to register whether the whole thing has been printed."
Bah. Tips. I didn't give the taxi driver any, so why should I give Muttonhead any? In any case, there are no bloody tips. People who come up with ideas like "type your name at the bottom of the composition" assume that the writer is organised enough to remember to do so, not to mention to remember to even look for his name. But there is one technique that, in my experience, will work well enough if applied correctly. Death threats and torture! But, of course, I could never say such a thing. Instead, I tell her frankly that her son just has to get over it using whatever techniques he finds work best.
"I've taught him to overcome his poor memory," she says, proudly, "I make him carry a notebook and write whatever he has to do in it. So he can refer to it every day to remind himself of what he needs to do."
"Oh, how lovely!" I say, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. "I do that too!"
"Yes, you see, this is what I mean. If you could share these tips with him..."
"Only problem is," I say, rubbing my chin thoughtfully, "is that when I come across things I need to remember, I forget to write them down."
"Well, maybe you could just show this book to Muttonhead? Just to show him that he's not the only one with this problem?"
"Well, I'd love to! Unfortunately, I've forgotten where I put it. I used to have a second notebook to record where I put the first notebook, but I've forgotten where I put that as well." |
|
|
| A Muttonhead story |
[Apr. 17th, 2006|07:37 pm] |
The alarm clock went off, dragging me from my dreams of nubile young schoolgirls and molten chocolate. Fondle and fondue disappeared in a storm of incessant beeping at 5 o'clock in the morning.
I dragged myself out of bed, walked the dog, washed up, and hailed a taxi to my first student of the day.
Muttonhead lived in a semi-detached house as far from civilisation as it was possible to be in Singapore. A few years ago the entire area was jungle. The centre of civilisation was a crumbling, though still functional, army camp built by the British, with roads still bearing names like "Picadilly Circus".
Now, jungle had made way for flats that nobody wanted to stay in. Half empty blocks rose from barren land like enormous tombstones as the taxi navigated the empty streets. Muttonhead stayed in this godforsaken land because his mother, Mrs. Muttonhead, was a paranoid, highly strung, over-reacting woman.
They had once stayed in the heart of town, just behind the Marriott hotel Singapore. Then the Marriot hotel in Indonesia had got bombed, and the Muttonhead family, convinced that they were next, had immediately fled to this mosquito infested area right next to a military camp, figuring that it would be safer. To make matters worse, the only time they could possibly have English tuition was 7 in the morning, because all the kids slept at 8 in the evening.
"They must get enough sleep!" intoned Mrs. Muttonhead, "Some of their friends sleep at 10! It's scandalous!"
But of course, I was only a tuition teacher, and if she wanted her kids to make good contacts in the working world by inviting associates out for a pint of milk at 7, who was I to say otherwise?
I was not especially fond of Mrs. Muttonhead, especially after she asked me one day, "Why don't you take public transport here instead of a taxi?"
I almost murdered her on the spot.
On this particular day, before I left the Muttonhead household, Mrs. Muttonhead came downstairs. "Oh, I have some great news for you! You know the LRT? The Light Rail Transit? They just opened a new station, and it's right round the corner!"
"Oh," I said, without much enthusiasm. I knew all about it. Getting there involved a five minute hike through the jungle before the station loomed out of the undergrowth like a lost pyramid of the Incas.
"So now you can take the train here instead of a taxi! It will be so convenient!"
I drew a deep breath. The problem with Mrs. Muttonhead was that she NEVER took public transport.
"Look," I said, "To get to the train station near my house, I have to wait ten minutes for the bus and take a five minute ride. But the bus service doesn't run at 5 in the morning, so I have to take a 20 minute walk to the train station. Then I have to take the train SIX stops West to City Hall, change trains, take the train ONE stop North to Dhoby Ghaut, change trains, take the train Northwest TEN stops to Sengkang, change trains, take the LRT FIVE stops to Thanggam, then walk for five minutes through jungle to get to your house. Does that sound like convenience to you?"
"Well... how long do you think it would take?"
"At least two hours. The trains don't run that early."
"What time do they start?"
"I don't know. But certainly not at 5."
Thus, it was a happy day when mrs. Muttonhead announced that they would be moving house, so that the kids wouldn't have to travel so far to school.
"Wonderful!" I said, "What school are they going to?"
"Garden Secondary," she replied. I froze. Garden Secondary was in the far West of SIngapore, and it too was surrounded by jungle, occassionally broken by an industrial park or two.
"Yees..." I said, doubtfully, "So you will be moving to?"
She announced the name of road I knew well. It, too, was on the outskirts of civilisation.
"The best part is," she said happily, "is that it's right next to a train station!"
I groaned.
"I hate to break your heart, but..."
"You can take the train from your place every morning..."
"That's twenty minutes by foot!"
"... and take it to the train station near ours..."
"That's FOURTEEN stops away!"
"... and we're right next door!"
"No, you're twenty minutes away!"
"The Chinese tuition teacher says it's never been more convenient."
"Are you sure?" I said sarcastically, "Maybe you just misunderstood her Mandarin." |
|
|
| The World's Worst Compositions #2 |
[Feb. 22nd, 2006|08:15 am] |
You were in a shopping centre one day when you saw a crowd gathering... (draft 2)
1. Boy sees crowd.
2. Boy goes to investigate.
3. Shopping centre has glass barriers to prevent people from falling off high floors into the atrium. Two glass cleaners have fallen off their platform. The glass cleaners are now dangling precariously, clutching the barriers.
4. Boy immediately dashes up to the fifth floor, runs into an extreme sports and adventure store, grabs two parachutes, runs to the corridor and pushes the parachutes at the glass cleaners!
5. The dangling guys somehow manage to take the parachutes while still holding on to the barriers.
6. The dangling guys somehow manage to put on the parachutes while still holding on to the barriers.
7. For some strange reason, it does not occur to anyone that one solution might just be to pull the dangling guys up.
8. The dangling guys let go, open the parachutes and float down safely.
9. The tuition teacher says, "What the fuck?" |
|
|
| The World's Worst Compositions #1 |
[Feb. 17th, 2006|01:14 pm] |
You were in a shopping centre one day when you saw a crowd gathering...
1. Boy sees crowd.
2. Boy goes to investigate.
3. Shopping centre has glass barriers to prevent people from falling off high floors into the atrium. Two glass cleaners have fallen off their platform, and one of the cables holding the platform close to the barriers has snapped. The glass cleaners are now dangling precariously in the middle of the atrium, holding on to their platform.
4. Boy immediately dashes up to the fifth floor, runs into an extreme sports and adventure store, grabs two parachutes, runs to the corridor and flings the parachutes at the glass cleaners!
5. The dangling guys somehow manage to catch the parachutes while still holding on to the platform.
6. The dangling guys somehow manage to put on the parachutes while still holding on to the platform.
7. The dangling guys let go, open the parachutes and float down safely.
8. The tuition teacher says, "What the fuck?" |
|
|
| A Cabbage nostalgia story |
[Jan. 31st, 2006|10:44 am] |
|
"Ready for your vocabulary test?"
"Urhrrh."
"Good. What is the meaning of 'pining'?"
"Hrrh?"
"Pining. What is the meaning of pining?"
There is a minute of silence.
"All right, how about I give you a sentence? That might help. 'The widow sat by the window, pining for her dead husband.' Now what's the meaning of 'pining'?"
"Urr... waiting!"
"What? No!"
"Urr... looking!"
"Oh for God's sake! I don't know what you believe, but let me tell you now: the dead do not walk!" |
|
|
| A dumpling story |
[Jan. 31st, 2006|10:11 am] |
|
More definitions:
I say: Calamity
He writes: Chamity
Definition: A dreadful Hokkien disaster
I say: Demonstrate
He writes: Demostriaght
Definition: A political group advocating democracy for people who are not quite hetrosexual
I say: Demolish
He writes: Demenlish
Definition: Castration while drunk
I say: Disaster
He writes: Desiaster
Definition: Foreigner trying to talk about an afternoon nap. "Ah would lark to 'ave de siaster after mah lunch."
I say: Shortage
He writes: Stortage
Definition: The age of a child, counting from the time the stork delivered it.
I say: Pining
He writes: Pinning
Definition: Well, some people find knitting therapeutic...
I say: Lurked
He writes: Luked
Definition: To be savagely attacked by the hero of Star Wars. "The Death Star! It's been luked!"
I say: Enraptured
He writes: Enratured
Definition: Serious rodent problem
I say: Grimaced
He writes: Grinmaced
Definition: To bash someone's brains out with a heavy metal club, smiling all the while.
I say: Embarrass
He writes: Embarass
Definition: An orange coloured donkey.
I say: Government
He writes: Gourvament
Definition: Jacques Chirac and the French parliament
I say: Maintain
He writes: Mountain
Definition: Nevermind... just... nevermind...
I say: Several
He writes: Severe
Definition: A very serious problem...
|
|
|
| A Dumpling Story |
[Jan. 19th, 2006|09:10 pm] |
|
Dumpling's atrocious spelling never fails to amuse me. Like a game out of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue, the words he comes up with are just so... strange.
I say: Alleged
He writes: Allerged
Definition: What pollen does to one's nose.
I say: Taumatic
He writes: Tramatic
Definition: The horrible sensation of being run over by an electric train... in the spare room on the third floor.
I say: Grope
He writes: Grop
Definition: Orc foreplay.
I say: Animosity
He writes: Anemosity
Definition: Evil thoughts by tentacled sea creatures.
I say: Hinder
He writes: Hidder
Definition: What the kidnapper did to the little girl. "What did you do with the little girl?" "I hidd'er."
I say: Intoxicated
He writes: Intoxicatle
Definition: Drunken cows
I say: Infuriated
He writes: Infuritaed
Definition: Energy giving drink!
I say: Assist
He writes: Asist
Definition: One S short of an ass...
I say: Hatred
He writes: Hatet
Definition: Ancient Egyptian god?
I say: Frank
He writes: Freak
Definition: Frighteningly accurate description of the writer!
I say: Fatigue
He writes: Fetin
Definition: A fucking cretin.
I say: Eminent
He writes: Aminate
Definition: To make something move backwards.
I say: Despise
He writes: Desspy
Definition: To get rid of spies in a country.
I say: Chivalrous
He writes: Chevaras
Definition: Spanish dish?
I say: Hysterical
He writes: Histairica
Definition: Spanish town that serves above mentioned Spanish dish? "Hey Hombre, let's go to Histairica to eat some Chevaras! Ariba!"
I say: Avaricious
He writes: Evericient
Definition: Always just happened
I say: Beautify
He writes: Beatify
Definition: All right, I know this word actually exists, but given the context, my first reaction was, "Marth Stewart, a saint?" |
|
|
| Cabbage nostalgia |
[Jan. 19th, 2006|08:52 pm] |
|
"For homework, I want you to do this past year paper."
"Eee."
"Eee what?"
"Eee, RGS."
"And what is wrong with RGS?"
"Eee, girl's school. Perverted one."
"Perverted? More like pathetic. Do you know why I'm asking you to do this? Eh? Because RGS girls are SMART. You don't have to worry about being contaminated by them. If the world had been bombed into oblivion and you were the last man alive and an RGS girl was the last woman alive, she'd rather shag a coconut tree than come into contact with you." |
|
|
| A Cabbage Story |
[Jan. 19th, 2006|08:50 pm] |
|
Well, it finally happened. I have rid myself of two horrendously irritating students - Cabbage and his brother.
The first thing I heard from Cabbage's mum after the PSLE was "Oh, I think they should definitely continue with tuition after the PSLE." Cabbage's dad came home early to request that I teach his sons. I was fed homemade prawn noodles.
Now, it's not that I'm ungrateful, but can you blame me for feeling just a tad relcutant to continue?
Still, I figured that if I didn't take them on, nobody would, so I relcutantly agreed.
This must have been a test of the goodness of my heart or something, because "Oh, I think they should definitely continue with tuition after the PSLE." very quickly became "Oh, I think they should definitely continue with tuition after the PSLE but give them a couple of weeks to rest." which then became "I think they should start now but they don't want to so give them a couple more weeks, okay?"
"All right, we'll do it this way," I said, taking charge of the situation, "you want the tuition, you call me."
The moment I hung up, I gave the slot away to a new student and swore I would never touch that miserable boy again.
It's been about 10 weeks since I last saw him, and he still hasn't called. But when he does, I bet the conversation will go something like this:
Cabbage: Hello? Mr Goh ah?
Me: I'm sorry Cabbage, but I think you've got the wrong number.
Cabbage: Sorry Mr. Goh, bye bye.
He hangs up. His idiot brother starts to question him.
Cabbage's brother: Eh, what Mr. Goh say?
Cabbage: Mr. Goh say I call the wrong number.
Cabbage's brother: Wah lau, you stupid or what? If Mr. Goh say you call wrong number, that means you should ask Dumpling for the right number lah! |
|
|
| Dumpling and Cabbage get their examination results |
[Dec. 1st, 2005|10:56 pm] |
|
For those of you who are interested, Dumpling got a B for English for PSLE.
What can I say? I thought he was hopeless, but perhaps there was a marking error.
Cabbage, who usually gets double Dumpling's score in tests, also got a B. Oh well, you can't win them all.
I'm very happy with Dumpling's score, but I think Cabbage did about average... and yes, I'm continuing to teach both of them so... stay tuned to this page to find out what happens. I'm very busy just now, but will continue updating as soon as is humanly possible.
|
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Sep. 17th, 2005|06:21 pm] |
|
"Teacher, these two words... I dunno."
"You don't know the meanings of these two words?"
"Yah."
"Whom and... whose... You're kidding me, right? You're in primary 6, the PSLE is 3 weeks away and you haven't learnt the meaning of the word 'whose'?"
"Teacher haven't teach yet."
"Bullshit. I bet she taught it. You just haven't learnt it, which is another matter entirely. All right, let's look at the word 'whose'. If I say
'The girl has a red dress'
and
'I saw that girl',
I can combine the sentences by saying
'I saw the girl whose dress is red.'
because she owns the dress. Understand?"
"Oh! Yah! So 'whose' is only used for red dresses!" |
|
|
| A Cabbage story |
[Sep. 17th, 2005|05:49 pm] |
|
"Now write this down," I said patiently, "An aviary is where birds are kept."
"Hur hur hur hur hur!" went Cabbage, merrily. "A place where BIRDS are kept. BIRDS. Hur hur hur hur hur!"
Cabbage has the most pathetic sense of humour I have ever seen. I mean, he's so dumb he can't understand ANY jokes whatsoever. You can tell him about the suspicious-looking man who was taking bales of hay on donkeys into a city, and the guard who pulled the bales of hay apart, looking for contraband but never finding anything. You can then go on to explain that the suspicious-looking man was smuggling donkeys and it will go so far over his head that I hesitate to tell him jokes for fear of causing an air disaster.
But mention anything vaguely to do with females (FEMALES, NOT their genitalia, even!) and he goes into paroxysms of laughter. Pathetic!
There are days when I just want to poke at his pathetic sense of humour and watch with grotesque fascination as he roars with laughter over the most lowbrow... well, I hesitate to call them jokes.
"Cabbage, I have to say something."
"Hrrh?"
"Buttocks."
"Hur hur hur hur hur!"
"Oh, and there's something else."
"Hrrh?"
"Armpits."
"Hur hur hur hur hur!"
"Oh, if you think that's funny, wait till you hear this one."
"Hrrh?"
"Girlfriend!"
"Hur hur hur hur hur!"
"All I can say is that God must have really cocked up when he made you."
"Hur hur hur! You say cock! Hur hur hur!" |
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Sep. 17th, 2005|05:47 pm] |
|
Things you wish you could say to your students but can't #2
"Teacher, if we say 'pass with flying colours' that means pass very well, then can say 'fail with flying colours' that means fail... like... very low marks?"
"No, you say 'pass with flying colours' and 'fail like a dumpling'." |
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Sep. 9th, 2005|08:28 pm] |
|
Dumpling has a problem with spelling.
"What word is this supposed to be?" I asked curiously. I had just given him spelling, and some of the words that had emerged from the tip of his pen looked nothing like English.
"Um, sling."
"What? Sling? You're telling me that this word, right here, is sling?"
"Uh... yah."
"Dumpling, you moron! Sling only has one syllable! How the hell could you spell it wrongly? And look at this! Look at what you've written. S-L-I-N-C-H. Slinch? What the hell is a slinch? Some kind of lizardman out of Warhammer? It doesn't even sound anything like sling!"
He looked blank. Absolutely, totally blank.
"And what... what the hell is this? Stinch? What's a stinch? Something Harry Potter's dyslexic friends try to get hold of during a game of Quidditch?"
"Um, stitch."
"Stitch? Stitch? You think that's the way to spell stitch? It doesn't even sound right! How can you spell sling as slinch and stitch as stinch?"
Resisting the urge to lyng the son of a binch, I did what I never thought I would do. I taught a student who was going to sit for his PSLE that very year the sounds that individual letters make.
"What the hell have you been doing these six years, eh? This is bloody kindergarden stuff."
This boy is so horrible he could star in his very own horror show:
THE RINCH: YOU WILL CRY FOR SEVEN DAYS. |
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Sep. 9th, 2005|08:10 pm] |
|
"Teacher," said Dumpling one day, as he scratched his head vigorously, "dunno why my head ah, very itchy leh."
"Oh?" I said, somewhat dispassionately.
"Yah. I dunno why."
"Maybe you should wash your hair."
"Wash already! With soap and water! Wash three times already, still itchy!"
I took a deep breath and licked my lips slightly.
"Dumpling," I said, doing my best impression of the softly menacing, vaguely paedophilic voiced Horatio Kane from CSI Miami, "I think you have lice."
"Lice? What are lice?"
"Lice," I said, wrinkling my brow just a little, "are disgusting, vicious little creatures. They live in human hair and are a form of parasite."
"Mi... micro... micro organism is it? Cannot be seen one ah?"
"Oh no, Dumpling, they can be seen. In fact, I think I see some now. Small, white creatures, vile and disgusting. They bite, you know. They bite and drink your blood."
"Oh, but I got wash!" he said frantically.
"Oh, but that's the best part," I leaned closer, "They crawl on your scalp. They drink your blood. They poison you bit by bit. And believe me, washing... doesn't affect them one bit. They'll stay there and you'll get more and more itchy. They'll eat you alive."
He turned pale.
"How ah, teacher?"
"I dunno," I shrugged. "Maybe you should have your head examined." |
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Sep. 7th, 2005|12:32 pm] |
|
"You didn't do this yourself, did you?" I asked Dumpling, as I was marking his cloze passage.
"Ah, my father help me."
"Oho! He did, did he? So how did he help you?"
"Ah, first I read the psaage, then he explain to me, then he read it, then I ask him like the this one is what, then he say to do it, then I write down then ask him is it this one or not? Then he say no, then I change, then I do then I ask him is it this one? Then he say can try."
"What the hell are you talking about? Okay, nevermind, you tell me, without your father's help, which one's would you have got right?"
"This one... this one... this one..."
He quickly picked out ten answers.
"Oh come on, don't kid me. Ten? You would have got ten upon twnety by yourself?"
"Yes!"
"Fine. Here, take this other cloze passage and do it as homework without asking anyone for help."
The next week, we both sat, staring at his latest piece of work. He had got two out of twenty.
"Ah, now this has been done by you! Note the number of crosses, the complete lack of sense in the answers! Oh yes, Dumpling, this is so you." |
|
|
| A Cabbage story |
[Sep. 7th, 2005|11:54 am] |
|
"I just hope he'll be all right in Secondary school," said Cabbage's concerned mother.
"Well," I said cruelly, "in Secondary school, there's no multiple choice, no sythesis and transformation... in short, nothing he can study for at all. There's only comprehension and composition."
Her eyes widened.
"Oh! Nothing else?"
"Um... well, there is, actually. Oral."
"Oh dear," she murmured. I smiled pitilessly.
"Well, I have to be off now! I'll see you..." It was at that moment that God's long hand of retribution grasped me by the collar.
"Ah, wait! Wait! Um... listen, we would really like you to continue teaching Cabbage in Secondary school."
Now my eyes widened as I croaked a "why me?" to God.
"Well, because I don't want to go through the hassle of finding another tuition teacher who can teach him properly," said the most un-Godlike woman standing in front of me.
Now I felt myself truly hampered by my command of languages. How does one say, "I'm sorry, your son is a bloody moron and I want absolutely nothing to do with him, except perhaps be his executioner?" politely, in Mandarin?
"I... uh... I'm not familiar with the syllabus!"
"Oh, but you know what's going to come out! Comprehension, composition..."
"No, but I don't know the details!"
"Oh, just give it a try!"
"I... I'll think about it!"
And with that, I fled. |
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Aug. 11th, 2005|04:18 pm] |
|
Well, I am very pleased with myself and my students. The two dumbest ones got their mini test results back, and what a surprise! Cabbage, who's been getting 50 plus all this while, got 75%. Dumpling, who's been getting 35, got 50%.
Unfortunately, Dumpling, being Dumpling, had to go spoil it all.
"How much did you get for cloze passage?" I aksed. His teacher had collected the papers to check his parent's signature, so I was forced to pick his somewhat defective brain on how he had performed.
"Uh, five."
"Five out of twenty! Lovely! That's infinitely better than you usually do! Literally!" (he usually gets zero. One, if he's lucky)
"Uh huh..."
"How much did you get for grammar?" I asked.
"Uh... five out of seven. I got the 'neither... nor' question wrong."
"But I TAUGHT you that. I've taught you that so many times! Didn't you study?"
"Ah... maths teacher say that PSLE will be easier than prelims."
"Oh sure. It bloody will be. It bloody will be easier than the test papers your school gives you. And you know what you got for the test before this? The test before I drilled you and drilled you and forced you to become half serious about your work?"
"Uh... thirty five ah?"
"Yeah. So if you want to forget about studying and get a thirty SIX for PSLE because it's easier, be my goddamned guest. For God's sake if not your own, STUDY!"
"Okay..."
"How much did you get for the comprehension section?" I asked.
"Uh, fail."
"I know you failed," I said, with just a hint of a sadistic smile, "you always fail. But was it one mark or nine?"
"Uh, five."
"Okay... Five out of twenty. Did you do what I told you and write the main point of each paragraph down?"
"No..."
"Why?"
"Teacher never give blank paper!"
"Well then bloody write it on the bloody test paper itself! Bloody write it on the comprehension passage! If there's a printing error and they don't print the lines for you to write your answer on, do you just not write the answer? Of course not! You bloody write it anyway!"
His face looked as blank as the blank paper the teacher never gave him. What this boy needs is a good dose of fear. Whenever I teach him I feel as if he's a sleepwalker walking the plank, blissfully unaware that he is headed for oblivion.
"And how about vocabulary?" I growled.
"The word I study never come out!"
"I know!" I barked, "but on average, you'll get five out of ten if you learn the word lists I'm making you study. You were just unfortunate this time. But hey, there is one question where I the words I taught you came out, right?"
"Uh..."
"You know, the question that goes 'David __________ confidently across the stage.' And the four options are strode, crept, plodded and staggered, right?"
"Oh yah!"
"Yes indeed! Well, I've taught you plodded and staggered, so that gave you a fifty percent chance of getting that answer right, right?"
"Uh huh..."
"So let's revise! What's the meaning of plodded?"
"Ah... to walk in a tired manner, lifting one's feet."
"Great! What about staggered?"
"How you walk when you're dizzy or injured."
"Wonderful! So what answer did you put for that question?"
"Ah... either plodded or staggered."
I blinked.
"What did you say?" I asked, dropping my voice to a disbelieving whisper.
"Ah... either plodded or staggered."
"But... but... he walked CONFIDENTLY across the stage! You want words that mean walked CONFIDENTLY! And you KNOW neither plodded nor staggered implies that! So why the hell did you write that?"
"Ah... 'cos I only know those two words..."
"Yes but you know those two words are WRONG! Why the hell did you choose from the two words that you abso-bloody-lutely knew were WRONG?!"
"I... I dunno the meaning of the other words!"
"Goddamit!" I roared, losing my already tenuous grasp on my temper. "If there's a question that goes 'He eats __________ for breakfast everyday, and the four options are caviar, window-grille, demolition device and shit, just because shit is the only word you know, DO YOU GO AND WRITE 'HE EATS SHIT FOR BREAKFAST EVERYDAY'????????"
He stared open mouthed at me. That was when i decided to break the golden rule of every manual of child psychology: don't call the child stupid.
"Why are you so stupid? I can't help you if you won't use your brain! You are such a bloody moron. You have notes that can help you get higher marks staring you in your face and you'd rather play computer games and watch television. Does that sound stupid to you? It sure as hell does to me!"
This was when I started to get really suspicious. Every week I tell him to memorise the definitions of about thirty words. Tough, but necessary. I have shown him how much there is to cover for the exams. I have reminded him again and again that he has to do it. And every week he says he's only been able to finish studying half the word list. At first, I put it down to stupidity. Boy can't learn more than two words a day, otherwise his brain will explode. Fair enough. But now I'm getting really pissed off. So about half an hour later I ask him casually, "tell me... how long do you usually take to learn this word list?"
"About... forty five minutes!" He beams proudly.
"Wow! That's really fast! What about the other word list I give you?"
"Oh, about fifteen minutes."
"Great! How about the spelling I set for you?"
"I learn that at the same time as I learn the meaning."
"Wow! So every week you spend one hour on English!"
"Yes!" His smile stretches from ear to ear. Look at me. I am a genius. I'm so fast!
"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" I screamed, "ONE HOUR A WEEK when your PSLE is in EIGHT WEEKS TIME and you are FAILING?!"
His smile froze in place, then slowly vanished.
"I don't believe it! Every week I set you homework anhd you don't finish it! Every week I set you a comprehension passage to do and I tell you to do it if you have time after learning the word lists. And you haven't found time to do it for FIVE WEEKS now!"
I screamed. I roared. I yelled. I banged the table with my fist. I slammed books on the table and threatened to rip his spine out with my bare hands. For months I had coaxed, cajoled, coerced and called to his conscience in vain. I had tried the love of God, I had used up the patience of God. Now the only option left to me was the fear of God. And boy did it feel good!
When it was done he was reduced to a blubbering mess. The worst thing was that I'd done this once before and its effects were short lived. And it looked like the same thing was going to happen this time.
Because as I was leaving, his father asked me whether I thought his son could make it.
"Perhaps," I replied, looking disdainfully at my student. "He can if he studies, but he's not studying. In fact, your son keeps bullshitting me." And I told him how his son only spent one miserable hour a week on English.
And what was his son doing all this time? Leaning unconcernedly on the wall, playing, smiling like an idiot...
"Your son," I said bluntly, "has exhausted my patience. From now on, I'm just not going to care. He can do however much work he likes. It's not my funeral. He can go fail if he bloody well likes."
And with that, I stalked off in disgust. |
|
|
| A Dumpling story |
[Jul. 29th, 2005|08:44 am] |
|
Things you wish you could say to your students but can't.
"cher, what's a veterinarian?"
"An animal doctor, you son of a bitch." |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
stupidstudents's journal