I'll make a comment on the Comments

A response to the truly "Anonymous":

I think it's quite a keen observation, about students feeding on ignorance -- like vultures you say -- an image that does imply that their quarry (would you even call it that since vultures don't hunt) is already dead and, well, rotting. The image is "productive" (a word I'll come back to later) in that it proposes that ignorance alone is not that which students will pounce upon and have for lunch ... It's ignorance that possesses stale, rotting air about it. It is an ignorance that refuses to budge from its position of not knowing, that refuses to move from the assumption of its "rightness", in spite of its incomplete knowledge, that students sense in teachers and love to tear apart. Then again, like vultures, I don't think many students actively engage most teachers about their own ignorance. Instead, they take a nibble here and a bite there whenever they can, rather opportunistically. In fact, an out and out showdown in the open, that would actually be healthy, I think for classrooms where the students are less than satisfied with the quality of the teaching / teacher.

Second, "hunk!?!?!" As Harris would point out, "hunk" is significant, not because of what it means denotatively but because of its contextual significance. Here, one finds the opposition between a "paragidmatic" versus a "syntagmatic" view of language. After more than one year of playing out the "hunk" ritual while morning announcements take place ... hey "hunk" comes to represent a lot more.

Third, "ewww how proletarian." "Proletarian" followed by "ewww", what does one make of that? A certain disgust? A mocking, screwed up face? The danger of the following comments is that they may romanticise poverty and the working class but I firmly believe that to use the "proletariat" as a marker of derogation, designating the working class as a demonised and impoverished "Other", is an indication of the commodity culture that has infected our societies. To think of the "proletariat" as the lower classes, is indicative of a class consciousness that is a product of affluence. Not a revolutionary class consciousness as Marx would have, but a lackadaisical assumption that the working class and their concerns can be readily dismissed. "Ewww how bourgeois" would be my response. Now if the comment had said "Ewww how 'village people' " ...

Last - to tie it all up (through an amazing stretching of ideas / boundaries). The students where I'm teaching at, BMCC, ARE the proletariat. They don't have nice cushy backgrounds. They come to school for an hour in the morning, work a normal work day, then come back for another lesson at night. I don't know how much "passion" one can have for ideas / abstractions given that kind of challenge. It's a real challenge for me, coming from a background of immense academic privilege, to locate myself in that kind of classroom, not in a condescending manner, but in a manner where I can help these students achieve their goals (which is a college degree so that they can get a better job ...) To push the argument further, the question of whether Lit is at all relevant to the concerns of the "proletariat", is fundemental, in helping these students see that the knowledge they acquire in the classroom is worth their commute, is worth the baby-sitter that they had to employ, is worth the overtime pay they they're missing out on. Lit Crit has, for too long (in the Singapore school system at least), been confined to the narrow formalist modes of the New Critics who believed in texts as "Artistic works, complete, whole objects" to be appreciated, mixed in a little with some reader response theory -- "what does this wonderful work of art say to your emotions". But very little has focussed on an ideological- productive view of the literary ie, how literary works, in their production, consumption and intepretation, demonstrate the class biases of a society or indicate ways that might abolish inequalities. Does thinking about "Hamlet" force one to think about the patriarchial systems that dominate modern society are a product of inbreeding and incest (culturally speaking)? A critical reading framework that takes into account Marxist theory and cultural materialism is needed to unmask some of the hegemonic ideological illusions that bourgeois readings have promulgated.

Is it all worth it, these intellectual acrobatics? Or as the pencilled margin notes in this book that I just borrowed "The Body In Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World" put it, is it all "meaningless mumbo jumbo" ...?

To Harris and Andrew (who also posted comments) -- don't feel left out ok?

Being Observed

Finally, I started on "the new life" today. I taught my first lesson today ... actually I don't think I taught anything ... just went through some of the class policies and some of the things that the class should expect. As always, I did not get much sleep the night before. It's the day before classes dread that I get in Singapore as well ... Ms Tan gets it ... and we'll like stare and the ceiling the day before a new term and ask each other, intermittently, "you still awake?"

Anyway, last night there were like people in the street outside our window talking really loudly. They just parked their car in the middle of the street and started to have a conversation at the top of their voices. So at least there was a reason for NOT getting enough sleep. An excuse, more like -- I doubt I would have slept very well anyway.

So being typically anxious, I got out of the apartment really early -- which actually turned out to be quite fortunate as there was a train delay later. I got to the college, "the Borough of Manhattan Community College", about 1/2 an hour before ... which was just nice ... got waved through the NYPD officers on security duty -- yup all CUNY campuses have NYPD security officers ... I think because we're a university that is run by the city ... columbia for eg, employs their own security people ... -- and found my room.

Of course my paranoia materialised in the fact that there was a blackboard (which I have not used since ... lower sec ...) and no chalk on the board. Of course being paranoid (and slightly obsessive) also means that I had made a mental note of where to get fresh supplies of chalk from (the Dept Office photocopy room...) when I visited the college two days ago. Come to think of it, it's these tiny things that make me most anxious. It's not the content of the lesson ... it's like where to photocopy (nowhere for now as I don't have authorisation), where to get the name list (nowhere for now cause the Dept hasn't made up one) and where the rooms are located. Actually, I ended up directing new students to their rooms cause they kept coming into mine even though the number of their schedules said something different -- I guess people are attracting to a classroom with lights on, nevermind the room number says "N 736" and not "S 722".

Anyway, the students in my class -- students, not pupils, according to the MOE powers that be because they're all over what age is it, 14? -- drifted in throughout the hour long lesson. They couldn't find the room, went to the wrong room, etc. They're an immensely mixed bunch -- I got them to write their names and we have (a sampling) ... "Kimberly Ramos", "Shi Jie Tan", "Peteulah Charles" ," David F. Narvaez", "Vllanda Barnett", "Alan Aramburu"... so - a real hodge podge of ethnicities. Assuming that position on the teachers' desk does wonders for your credibility and authority. I just sat there and they came in very respectfully and sat very quietly in their seats. I could have been just another student faking it ...

The nice thing about the class was that they were quite spontaneous. When I asked for the different kinds of writing that they knew, hands went up all over the class. They were pretty eager to show what they knew. I was actually rather relieved about that. Nothing like being in a totally alien environment and having a totally silent class. Anyway I amazed myself at how anal I was about going through the class guidelines ... I normally don't but teaching cross-culturally, I decided it was proabably appropriate to do so.

So after going through all the required stuff, I introduced myself and asked them where they thought Singapore was. One girl said "Next to Malaysia!" Someone said, "In Thailand" Most said, "In Asia! Near China!" I needed to explain South East Asia -- which they immediately understood because of Vietnam. To establish more credibility, I explained that I'd taught at several places (which is true) and in High School (which is true) and that I was a PhD student (which is also true). THEN ...

Me: "Any questions? Nothing too personal now ..."
Girl: "How long you've been here, in NY?"

Me : "Long enough to know what TriBeCa* stands for ... Now for your homework assignment ..."
Me : "How long have I been here? What is Time but a shred of that complex fabric called Existence? To account for the Time that I've been here would reduce my existence to random threads that precariously stitch together the patchwork of my life ... Now for your homework assignment ..."
Me: Errrm ... Two weeks...

At which point the class breaks up in what seems to me to be an enthusiastic uproar -- but I'm autistic so they might actually have been protesting ... : "Woah that's crazy man!", "You gotta be kidding me!" "Two WEEKS? Man!"

Ok. So I'm slightly worried now that I've blown my cover. But actually, why should it worry me? Ah well, we'll see how the next lesson goes. Hopefully they'll turn up.



*TriBeCa actually stands for "the Triangle Below Canal (Street)" so that wouldn't have been a lie either. Somewhat like SoHo, which is often mixed up the London's once seedly now uppity Soho, which stands for "South of Houston (Street)".

Some observations -

There a tensions in this city that rest just beneath its surface, errupting occassionally but in a somewhat frightening manner.

Two days ago -- as part of the administrative pilgrimage that I've been hopelessly sent on while I've been here -- I went to get a social security number, after finally having the right documents (several letters from my school) to make an application. I need the social security number to work here -- at least to work here legally and to get paid. Anyway, we were waiting in this lift lobby -- a small crowd of us, about 15, waiting to get into the lift that would bring us up to the offices. The security guard on duty (black) limits the number of people that get into the lift -- to six I think -- of course he does this in a rather callous manner, rather brusquely issuing instructions about how to queue up and stopping people from getting in the lift. Anway, this white guy just in front of me, tries to RUSH the lift. He actually propels his (rather rotund -- I feel miniscule here) body into the lift and tries to get it going. The security guard (equally large) WRESTLES him out of the lift, much to the horror of the people in the lift and much to my consternation (I'm next in line, remember ?) Then the insults begin:

White guy: "YOU FIT in the lift, you fatso. Why can't I get in? You're fatter than me."
Guard: "You fat asshole. There's a limit."
WG: "Yeah? What's the limit? You don't know do ya?"
Guard: "You fatasshole."
WG: "What is it you said? Could you repeat that?"
Guard: "You heard what I said ..."
WG: "No I didn't, cause I WASN'T paying attention to you, you fatso."
Guard: " You're an asshole"
WG: "You can't count can you? You can't count how many ..."
Guard: "You're on medication aren't you? I can tell ... you're on medication ..."


Then in the lift, this white guy picks on ANOTHER black guy. And they have a staring match right over my head. In the meanwhile, I'm desperately trying to avoid all eye contact.

Then again. Yesterday, at an outdoor concert, there was a Black Dance group whose dance incorporated some poetry. The poetry was very nice. Full of images of richness and opulence that harkened to an imagined Africa (eg "paths, made of mother of pearl" ). Anyway, some white guy (again) stood up and starting cursing the whole performance. Condemning it as black nationalism. The security people had to come in to diffuse the situation.

So far -- it's the white people who aren't behaving themselves.

My only encounter about MY ethnicity so far:

At the registrar's office ... a clerk (who isn't really helpful -- with an italian accent ...)
C: So waddaya STARdying?
Me: English.
C: ENGlish? That's reFRESHing you know, that's a nice change. I LIKE that. Cause you guys NORMally do the Phee-sics, the MatheMAaaatics, you know. ENGlish... that's gooooood.

Leaving on a Jet Plance

Is a song that I've always thought was very cheesy. Not least because John Denver sang it. But if songs provide the unobstrusive haunting background music of our lives and we look to them to provide some form of release from the otherwise mechanical process of checking-in, queuing up, sitting down and flying off, here's a song for the moment. Of course the specifics are all inappropriate -- but that line -- "All my bags are packed and I'm ready to go ..." it gets me.

I'm glad about the chance to go. to do something different for a while -- not that different considering that it's all Lit and teaching still. There is a stubborn romantic belief that I need to know about what living "over there" is like -- if only for a short while. I have no grand ambitions about moving away "for good" or "making it" elsewhere. I remain firmly believing that it doesn't really matter where you are as long as your read the right books, think about things, keep the music always playing in the background of your mind. But when the opportunity presents itself -- or rather -- when I've worked so hard to make this "leaving" happen, I can't help but invest a certain amount of desire and anticipation in the event.

Of course leaving isn't going to be easy. It's probably easier for me than Ms Tan, who has such strong ties with family and friends here. I know I will try very hard to keep in touch -- with people who want to know about what's going on, with people who have shared special moments with me -- but I also know that we're creatures of presence (believing or caught, intensely entangled in the metaphysics of presence, exposed, if not denied, by Derrida but affirmed in the redeeming illusions of touch, whispers, sighs, smells) and that being so far away will make casual coffee breaks, long lunches, and the occassional dinner meeting onyl cherished memories. I'm bringing as much of my life as I can, the books (26 in all -- an assortment of sizes ...) and my CD collection, diligently translated into 10 gigs on my imac) and I suppose that'll help. But the quotidian will be missed. Mush missed, I suppose, only when I'm there and face a new set of mundane challenges without the friends and acquaintences that make life just that little bit more interesting.

So -- a silent good bye.

Big Hairy Deal

Ok so my fashion ambition in life is to have long wavy hair and to look good with it. Of course, I've been disuaded constantly by just about every family member, the people I work with (in varying intensities) and just about everyone else who has an opinion on the matter. The nicest thing anyone has said about my attempts to keep my hair long: "Just do what you want ... as long as you're happy ... " Hey! It's not about being happy -- it's about looking nice. Then again, many hold the opinion that with the face that I've got, there isn't much that can be done to improve the dire situation.

Anyway the long hair look isn't supposed to end me up looking like one of those Taiwan Boy Band boys ... it's supposed to be "Eric Clapton in the early 90s" -- or "Nick Drake before he comitted suicide" ... pictured here:


So I asked Ms Tan -- late last night -- ok honestly -- do you ever think I'll look like that. She kinda laughed and said something about my face not having the bone structure -- ok so it's all in the face. To sort of verify this, I decided to have a look myself:



(shoot -- there's that double chin flopping around as well ...)

Well -- I suppose most people are right about that. Instead of the high cheekbones and cleft chin, I've got a somewhat mooney face. Add my normal stuporic look -- I guess the long hair just says, "drug addict", "unkempt" or "potential terrorist".

So I decided to give in -- against my better instincts -- and get a hair cut. This I did after collecting my new IC. Yes turning 30 in Singapore means you get thmub-printed 3 times -- twice on a cool scanner thing and once in ink -- oh, make that four -- you have to do one yourself when you mail in your new ic application ...

Anyway -- at least my IC has me with the long hair. I don't think there's much difference in the way I look between the various ICs that I have ...

This is the one I made in 1991 -- when I was 17. Note the damn retro specs and ever futile attempt at a smile.


This was when I re-enlisted for NS in 1998

And the latest installment -- I look like some pasty buddha in this one -- check out the fat cheeks man and trademark greasy hair...


Ok so I've got my hair cut and collected a new pair of specs. Here's the new look:

Face like that -- not much can be done, I suppose. As long as they don't stop me at immigration and say that I'm holding on to a fake passport ...

Weekends

This must be the greatest National Day weekend of them all. A FRIDAY of celebrations in school (which I conveniently skipped) then the actual thing only happening on MONDAY which means we get TUES off as well. Which is just as well as I've got too much to do in too little time. Besides the immense amount of marking that I've got lined up, I'm also supposed to finish writing those all important documents called testimonials and look at Project Work reports. Too much too much too much to do.

Anyway -- on this great weekend -- I've realised that I have nothing significant left to say about anything because I'm too damn busy with the trivialities of life. sigh.

OK -- I think this has become the story of my life -- I'm great at making everything the NON EVENT. I was just thinking -- actually I've been in the last few days talking consistently with Ms Tan and thinking about the ways we're saying GOODBYE. Given that we're both going away for a couple of years (hopefully -- if I don't screw up and end up failing) I'd say that it's a valid kind of experiment. An uneasy pattern has been developing. For example:

Scenario One
ET: You know what happened in school today?
Me: What?
ET: Some of my colleagues came up to me and said goodbye, then started crying ...
Me: Really. Wow. They really love you huh ...
ET: I don't know -- I don't even know them that well.
Me: You know what happened to me?
ET: What?
ET: My HOD came up to me and said, "giggle giggle, looks like we have to work you to the bone until your last day ..."

Scenario Two
ET: My sec one girls are MAD!
Me: What did they do?
ET: They said they wanted to take photos of me and chased me snapping pictures of my back.
Me: Wow -- they really love you.
ET: They're mad.
Me: I've got a photo story too ... I was made to sit in the front row of the dept photo -- I almost got away with standing behind until the stupid photography teacher in charge noticed I was the only male in the back ...
ET: How is this relevant ?
Me: You tell me ...

Scenario 3
ET: How, I feel so bad -- my friends got me so much stuff (ie shoes, trip to Bintan, Creature II Speaker System -- which guess who has to lug to bloody NY)
Me: Wow -- your friends love you ...
ET: How, I feel so bad ...
Me: I also got a lot of stuff -- got marking, got June marking, Testimonials, US Applications, plato to read ...
ET: *Killer Stare*
Me: oooops ...

Scenario Four
ET: I've got so many notes to write to my class, I can't finish. I need to make all these cards, how? Then tonight I'm going out to watch dim-sum dollies with the RGS pple, how?
Me: Why do you even bother?
ET: Because I've got things to tell them. It's closure. If I don't tell the girls these things, their blood is on my head ...
Me: Eh - you very intense ... you're like a teacher that slams them, whacks them, scolds them then when you leave you must leave with a parting shot ... and they love you ... I'm in awe ...
ET: How how to finish?
Me: I also got a lot of stuff -- got marking, got June marking, Testimonials, US Applications, plato to read ...
ET: *Killer Stare*
Me: oooops ...
(yes when conversations with your wifey start to end the same way ... better stop talking and go listen to Billie Holiday and watch NDP Parade so that you can Kao Pei one last year ... Fine and Mellow man)

On "Home"

They appear like apparitions, dark silhouettes waiting to take shape by the "river that gives us life". The light shimmers but we cannot quite make out gender, race or individual identity. But some things are clear – they are children, young and energetic, and they are Singaporean. Welcome to the latest installment in the Great Singaporean Music Video.

When Dick Lee's homage to being Singaporean, Home, made its debut as a National Day song in 1998, people noted its honesty. It wasn't filled with the jingoistic injunctions ("Stand up, stand up for Singapore!), insecure declarations ("We're going to show the world what Singapore can be"), repetitive and flawed logic ("This is my family, these are my friends/ We are Singapore, Singaporeans") or the bare-faced lies ("Every creed and every race, has its role and has its place/ One people, one nation, one Singapore!") that had characterised previous attempts at the Singapore Song. In fact, it seemed to blend the intensely personal experience of finding one's place in Singapore and being rooted to the Singaporean landscape in a sincere and unobstrusive manner. No one was telling you that you were Singaporean or what you had to do to be one. Instead, there was a recognition that each individual's everyday experiences – knowing every "street and shore" and "winding through my Singapore" – were enough to authenticate one's sense of belonging to the country. This was certainly a Singapore Song with a difference. The fact that Kit Chan – a recording artiste that had made good internationally – sang it, seemed to underscore the fact that at last, here was a Singapore Song that was more than a mere collation of slogans. Finally, Singaporeans thought they had a Song that didn't need to be coerced from the vocal chords of thousands of school children, but one that could be enjoyed and taken seriously, precisely because it didn't take the task of Nation Building too seriously.

So what happens when there hasn't been a memorable Singapore Song in several years? The National Day theme songs in 2002 (We will get there) and 2003 (A place in my heart), were frankly, forgettable. The last decent attempt was Tanya Chua's 2001 composition, Where I Belong. In 2004, the Ministry of Propaganda (also known as the Ministry for Information and the Arts) has decided to take a hint from these dismal failures and forgo commissioning a song this year. But every true-blue Singaporean needs his daily shot of patriotic feeling, especially right around the end of July. The solution? Re-package the most popular Singapore Song in recent history as a feel-good music video. But as with every re-fashioning of art, and especially when the goals are explicitly ideological, much is sacrificed.

"20 Locations"

This is a music video about space. It seems appropriate, given song lyrics which emphasise the location of memory and the feeling of belonging in the tangible personal experience of specific spaces. But while the lyrics appreciate the particular experience of space, the images in the music video exteriorise space, turning it into a bland background of reductive symbols. Primarily, there are the images of water (the Singapore River, reservoirs, a coastal location), sky (poetically bleached from blue to white) and grass, lots of grass. Buildings when they exist, are either idealised fragments (an early shot of the columns at the Supreme Courts, the skyline of the central business district), empty (an interior of an exhibition hall) or too far in the background to be significant (a very distant long shot of HDB flats). Even as the children who are featured in the video go about experiencing Singapore's sights, they are shuttled through unseen streets and rivers in open air buses and boats, the over-arching sky and buildings devoid of life always streaming by in the background. The experience of Singapore's spaces is detached, touristy.

"63 kids"

The stars of this music video are children, school children from several local school choirs. They wear the same clothes, a white traditional-looking top and black trousers. One cannot make out which ethic tradition this type of dressing derives from, except that is vaguely Asian. The video is thus not one that acknowledges the ethnic diversity that is a fact of life in Singapore but a simplistic attempt to over-ride the complexities of culture via the short-cut of dressing everyone uniformly. While portrayals of equality between the races in Singapore are usually conveyed by casting the requisite number of representatives from each of the major races in a music video, this video goes further in attempting to erase every mark of ethnic identity. In fact, this blurring of ethnic identity is so effective that even gender becomes erased. The formless costume obscures, except in close-ups, the distinction between the masculine and feminine as well. The Singapore identity – shapeless, vague, mere voices in harmony.

Noticeably missing from the video are the vast majority of Singaporeans called "Adults". It seems strange, given the accumulated memories of places, experiences and relationships that form the central thrust of the song, that Adults, who would be prime repositories of these memories, are absent. From every single shot. In fact, there seems to be a predominance of the very young: with only fleeting glimpses of teenage students, the images that pre-dominate are of pre-adolescent children. What would they know of Singapore one asks? But it is not what they know about Singapore that is important. It is the message that Singaporeans can be nostalgic about their memories as long as they retain the energy and vigour of youth, regardless of age, that matters. As long as they do not try to actualise their pining for "that" Singapore. "This" Singapore, is a country for the young. The old (regardless of age) burdened by their memories and lived experience, are irrelevant.

"1 mission"

I could suggest that the impending handing over of the State into the hands of new Prime Minister who wants to be seen as a fresh young successor (he turns fifty-two this year) to the dynasty that is now rightfully his, might motivate the political symbolism of youth. I could suggest that the sanitised images of Singapore merely confirm his reputed aversion for the common man. But no one would believe me. Or I could suggest, that old men wait in the shadows of Cabinet, appearing like apparitions, dark silhouettes waiting to take shape by the river that has brought us life ...

The Video

On This Day

I taught two new classes. J one classes whose teacher has just given birth - standing in teacher. I wonder about the whole thing. It's been several years teaching but I think there is something infinitely testing and challenging about having to do a lesson with a new bunch of faces. Anyway -- did a pretty run-o-the-mill video lesson -- nothing sparkly or flashy.

I really feel like I'm never going to leave cleanly. I've just got too much that isn't moving. I've still got holiday marking to do -- yes -- stuff from JUNE, a J one Comprehension, Testimonial to write (those are moving, thank goodness) and a Compre to set for the Prelims. In my time of dying, I will be found with a Red Pen in hand muttering. "Truth ... truth ..."

Wish I could put away most of this and start concentrating on saying goodbye. I suppose the rush of things that I am doing means that I won't really realise that I'm going to miss faces, places and bodies -- until I'm gone. Which, perhaps, isn't too bad after all.