A Dumpling story

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.