Form Four, 1978 - Part One

FORM FOUR, 1978 – PART ONE

In the first week of January 1978, I went back to school to check the results of my Lower Cambridge Examinations. To my surprise and joy, I had passed!

Immediately, I went to Pertama Shopping Complex, the place where real guys shop, and looked for a new pair of olive-green pants, the color of my new long school pants representing the raw jungle spirit in us. Never did I realize (which I later found out) that it actually symbolized the disoriented feel of being lost in the jungle. I guess the government, with its vast experience of jungle drifting, knew what it was like to be in Form Four and chose this color for us.

While most rich people bought the regular issues made of soft cotton, I had to buy the type made of tough cotton, like those used by poor, pioneer miners in the Wild West. And so, mine was a pair of Lee® jeans, in government sanctioned olive-green color that came with a matching thick leather belt tied by an oversized gun-metal buckle. When I stick in a pack of Marlboro into the back pocket, I was transformed. If I was a white man, I’ll call myself Eastwood or sometimes Clint. All that was missing was a gun sling, a whip, a hat, and maybe, a Jessica Simpson. I learned that, in life, it all boils down to your choice, and I’ve made the sharp one, knowing I’ll be the only one wearing so ruggedly. I was ready for the ride. And for the first time, I’m beginning to like school.

When I walked up to school on that first day, the expected awe happened. I became a legend (as written in my diary) when the headmaster pulled me up to showcase me as an example to all the students standing in attention: “This is not a place for cowboys!”

Then he kicked me out of school after a whip, all because I wore something of a different material, one regularly used by the Marlboro man. He must have hated cowboys very much; maybe as a kid his cowboy sisters dressed him up as a female Red Indian. Man, I hate people with psychotic childhoods, especially those who grow up with it and became the headmaster. As I went out the iron gates, like Clint riding into the sunset, I sang his song, “Rawhide…Rawhide…when the going gets tough, the tough gets going (to the coffee shop).” Finally, I just love school!!!

But, what about my promising job at the petrol station, the one that taught me so much about management, and, over last December, gave me so much? I think, in a few more months, I will lift myself off the foundation grade and into the air-conditioned office where a cashier’s job has my name on it. And, it won’t be more than a few more years away before I hit the eminent rank of a manager, with a Renault company car and the keys to the private toilet. I have this thought running through my intern mind as I headed to the coffee shop while holding the scroll of LCE certificate in my hands. Sometimes, I felt like tearing it into pieces because this issue of whether to continue with my studies or continue with work is really tearing me apart.

A few non-alcoholic drinks later, and after the exhilaration of the Red Indian psycho had worn off me, I came to my senses. I decided to work three days a week and attend two days of classes. In this way, I’ll make myself happy and make my parents’ too.  To manage this delicate task of balancing my need for a career and a need for an education, I didn’t use a clone or put up a mannequin in class. Instead, I used my Huey helicopter-view technique and took advantage of the chaotic situation on the ground. Now, you know why they call me Sergeant. The ones running the school, middle-aged people who had never wore jeans before, were still sorting out the type of classes to put us into, as some who almost failed their LCE were accommodated back. It was an interim period where we were just randomly placed in classes and allowed to just chill. Naturally, everyone took advantage of this liberty and rampaged like soldiers on R&R – smokes were coming out of the most unexpected nooks. This tested those soft people’s soft management skills, but to my pleasure, when the going gets tough, the soft gets going around in circles. I took this window of opportunity to run two parallel lines simultaneously (Look at all the powerfool management words I have mastered at that age). And I was glad that I had many friends who didn’t rat on me.

However, by February, it was getting tricky. The softies had figured out a prototype and students were soon put into the right classes which began to, surprisingly, run smoothly and punctually. My excuses of sickness, dead relatives, and the weather were becoming suspicious. It was very soon when I had to make a decision at the crossroads, just like my mentor, Mr. Shakespeare: To be, or not to be? I meant: to be in class or to be in a petrol station. I was so confused. I was so stressed. Until, I heard it from a girl one day.

This well-manicured girl, with the latest uneedsex hairstyle, pouted her lips and heaved her chest in one deep breath as she sat next to me. After a long inhale of my space, she exhaled and smiled, “Saunders, you smelled so nice today.” I was stunned, not so much by her chest’s movements, but by the irreconcilability of her statement – I was stunk of petrol from my day job and she said I smelled nice. So, I had to ask for her deep explanation. She mentioned something about Ferrari and sex before the teacher cut into our conversation, “You zit face, clean up that nose bleed!” 

That night, I was wide awake, thinking about her breathing and the Ferrari she mentioned.

The next morning, I had a defining dream just as I was about to wake up. It wasn’t a wet dream. It was something meaningful and symbolic. I was walking out of a red Ferrari, and a sexy lady, strangely looking like the uneedsex girl from school came up to me all breathing and whispered into my ear, “I love the smell of your exhaust fumes. It makes you so powerful…I want it now!”

Okay, so I lied! I did have the best wet dream.

My neurons fired up as I made an intense discovery. It was a light bulb moment! When the uneedsex girl in my class told me that I smelled nice, she had smelled the petrol on me and related it to the similar, empowering smell of a Ferrari’s exhaust fumes. It’s just like when we used to chase after the postman and tried to smell his two-stroke bike’s polluting fumes – it was arousing and addictive. In other words, the petrol on me aroused her senses, which in turn, benefited my dreams.

Immediately after I got dressed, I headed to the petrol station and quit my job without even waiting for the paycheck. Then, I splashed on some aphrodisiac petrol before rushing back to school, and sat next to her, who gave me the sexiest smile all day long while breathing my space. Wow! I can always earn my money later, but now, I’m going to savor my moments with my well-manicured, breathing girl. I felt so powerful and stiffed.

So, because of a girl, I continued my studies.

The teachers said Form Four is going to be a bit different. It’s more like a welcoming back year after the hectic Form Three of last year. It’s a honeymoon year. Love is in the air. Birds are singing. Bees are doing.  So, come back and study. But, I think it’s a story created by the teachers to get us back into school so that they get paid.

I had a choice to change to a Vocational school. I liked it, not only because it rhymes with vacational, but to learn hands-on about mechanical and engineering stuffs. I get excited when I come near power saws, power routers, power drills, power screwdrivers, and power sanders – just holding them turns me on like petrol to her. Regrettably, I didn’t opt for it, again, all because of her. At our school, we had industrial class, a kindergarten version of Vocational, without any power equipment but a few manual screwdrivers and spanners for us to play with. I don’t even get to chisel anything. Still, I paid attention, unlike some of my buddies who went around the corner to smoke up their lungs. But, to compensate, there were plenty of boring lectures on DIY. It’s not do-it-yourself back then, it was more like do-it-yawning.

That’s the problem with school – they always do things half-heartedly – never full steam ahead, unlike us boys every morning. Come on, 99% of school headmasters are guys; so, they should know what I’m talking about or what’s it like in the morning. Why did they let those highly-valued courses be like a half-raised flag – somebody died? Maybe, it’s the Education Dept. I don’t know if it was run by a man or not because we were never allowed near that barb-wired place up in Federal Hill.

So, to compensate, we were left to do our full-steam stuffs elsewhere; like in the cinemas, yeah, watched till our eyes popped out; at the coffee shops where we talked all night (ever wonder why mamak stalls are so full of students?); at the Marlboro and Camel deserts, and even the Dunhill stores, or how about the Winston skies with the gliding eagles? And, please don’t accuse us of not giving 99% full-steam during class. We did put in the 99% sitting quietly in class staring at the walls, just like what all those Members of Parliament, who gave full-steam 99% (or took), do in the august house every session.

Although I didn’t always give 99% like I always did for her, I was not too bad at school, just moderate. I am of the opinion that it’s better to moderate my life with tinges of vices here and there, now and then, to balance off the life-long strict reminders of ‘You’d better be obedient’. But as usual, when I took up a philosophy, those who didn’t want to be moderate labeled me mediocre and said I lacked ambition. Unlike me, they aim high to be the top student. But, I realized there’s no hype being a top student – they burn out too early. And, most bum out in their later years. You don’t believe me? Just look at your boss and his secretary late in the office? Or, look at some top students who became powerfool in their later years, men like Bill Clinton and that IMF guy?

In their school days, guys like them looked down on moderates like me and my friends. I discovered that they, the A1 boys (we call them ass–one boys), disguised in ass-smooching prefect clothes and hiding under positions in debate societies, are actually nerds that studied a lot. But, in their later years, they had burned all their energy and had enough of hiding daily under their Armani, conservative shells.  So, they ditched their costumes, and in search of new energy, they came out roaring like wild, free madmen!  On the contrary, just like my buddies, I was already a wild, free madman in my school days, but in my later years, I got burned out and turned to writing novels.

The moral of this story, if you believe in one, is, please, don’t fret if your kids comes home every day with a new moderate behavior. All you need to do is just moderate his moderate behavior. Let him be, and let him ride through his learning process, but preferably not the Marlboro rides, as I discovered recently, they cause collateral damages like those pictured all around the box. Most importantly, you must be there as his buddy to sensitively guide him while you ride with him.

Need a dummy’s guide on how to do this? If your once-upon-a-time-cute son brings out a cigarette to smoke, light one with him. Don’t try to tell him about the cancer stuffs or ballast about the collateral damages; they’ll only turn him on.  Use go-astern or 'gostan' psychology.

“Hey dude, wassup…wanna bum me a stick?” this is how you buddy up to him. And then you suckered up with, “You should get a tattoo like 50 cents … but … maybe wait until Justin Bieber got one.”

Get the hang of it? When you see him smile and he opened up his brains to let you in, whether because of your dumb acting or your pathetic stammer, you go for the sublime hit, the way we ex-olive-pants guys do after with our mistresses, “Do you know that each time we sucked on this, how much money is sucked by the government?”

Right! You are nailing him about how much taxes he’s paying on that roll of tobacco and how 100% of that will silently go to those guys who sits in Parliament – those turncoats who have businesses run under their mother-in-laws’ name. Get it? Basically, every kid has a rebellious streak in them. Extrude this mean streak and relate to it by telling him: decent citizens like you and he, from now onwards, should stop being suckers – don’t pay any more taxes. Try this, and if he’s the stubborn type, he’ll stop smoking. That’s how I stopped. Ironic, isn’t it?

I don’t know how to advise you if your kid is more than moderate, like extremist because I wasn’t extreme in my behaviors. Maybe, you could consult Osama, Rev. Jones, or Al Capone, but you have to wait till you meet them later in another life. So, maybe, smoking helps you get there faster.

. . . to be continued.

FORM THREE, 1977 – PART TWO

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Sea park Secondary School – Form Three – Part One

FORM THREE, 1977 – PART ONE

This was the year of boom or bust, study or get lucky, do or die – it’s the year of the LCE government exams. Many people cried.

By the end of the year, the exams weeded out the future achievers from the future dreamers, those who studied from those who didn’t. I didn’t want to be bad, I didn’t want to fail, I didn’t want to study, I just want to continue with my friends to Form Four.  So, I increased my efforts to listen and pray, while some friends learned to throw the dice.

School began one fine day on 3^rd January 1977, and I remembered it clearly. As I walked into class, I received the most pleasant surprise as my passionate wish from last year was granted – boys and girls were placed together in the same class! We were unisex, just like the sign at the hairdressing saloon. Finally, no longer like lambs and puppies separated by cages, we coexist in humane conditions with the freedom to rub shoulders and uniforms too. They call this co-ed but some desperado referred to it as unisex because they really needed it. I think this was a good gesture from the authorities – it recognized our ‘coming’ of age and maturity. 

Still, we suspected something sinister behind it; they couldn’t have had such good intentions. Rumors were whispered that it was actually a ploy to tempt us into sin and then split us apart in agony. Initially, I was confused but soon I cleared up my mind. I have been in a co-ed during my primary school and was used to sitting close to the opposing sex. No big deal. I think it’s those who came from all-boys’ school that were intimidated and started the rumors.

Then, on 7^th January, it got even better – the sexes became extra unified. Our class teacher, actually a nice lady with noble intentions, rearranged the seating set-up. For the first time, I supported a teacher’s intention. She decided to place boys in a row and alternate it with girls in another row, making sure that a boy will have a girl flanking both sides, and ditto for the girls. This was too hard to believe but it actually happened. All I needed to do was stretch out my arms and female space I enter. The funny thing was this space, just like outer space, behaved like echo bouncing off a cliff – each time I stretched out an arm, two arms came back to echoed my cheeks. Just like they stopped the Apollo missions, I soon stopped stretching my arms.

Inside me, I trembled and whispered to my buddy, “Please let that Brooke Shields sit next to me”. And, I saw her grimaced to her friend, “Look at that skinny boy, his saliva is dripping and nose is bleeding”. Nobody admitted it but this was how every male felt and reacted – suddenly, there was an outbreak of nose bleeds.  I knew of one guy who borrowed a used, thick, rectangular handkerchief from a girl and it effectively soaked up all the red blood. He was so happy that he asked for another and was given a new one wrapped hygienically in plastic with these words, “Do not dispose this down the toilet”. Lucky him but after that day, I don't know why he stopped smiling. 

Finally, when the dust settled, those who scored with angelic girls as neighbors were envied a lot, and later at night, their dreams were dripping wet. I don’t remember who I sat with or what type of dreams I had, but it must have been exciting.  Ahh… finally.

Those of us who didn’t get our dream girls or soggy nights went out to console ourselves with the latest newspaper-magazine, New Thrill. It’s actually in the format of a newspaper but is published weekly with articles on thrilling subjects that were non-mainstream and sometimes taboo – like on extra-terrestrial and terrestrial beings, weird believe it or not happenings, and the main attraction – whatever type of sex capers that was imaginable and publishable. 

When it came out, it was an instant hit. Every hormone-charged boy would snapped it up (I don’t know about the girls though) and quietly read it inside their room, especially the short stories on life in Sweden and her bulging (yes, slowly but bulging) film industry. Most of the articles touched on things we knew a little bit but also didn’t knew much, and what little we knew were mainly passed around as legendary stories. So, when we finally saw them on print, they became our new source of reliable information. And, frankly, since it’s on paper licensed by the government, every printed word must be the truth. We believed them, even until today.

Then, there were the Liverpool Library Press books imported from England, another source of well-written reference books that touched on everybody’s deepest, inner most and bottom most interests. But, the English they used were a bit unfamiliar with too much dialogue and expressed in an exotic, passionate way - the writer must have been a hardened person. And, the subjects covered were varied, interesting but at times unbelievable, ranging from neighbors, air stewardess, college students, cats and dogs, to even a donkey. I didn't like the last one, but the guy who borrowed the handkerchief did.

But, this book was hard to get hold of, and once you got hold of it, your hard character came forth – because you refused to lend it to your best friends. And these hard persons were the lucky ones who had cousins from overseas or good connections with the local bookshop owner.  But, according to the Law of Nature, every hardened person must eventually turn soft again. Then, softened, they reluctantly shared the book with their friends. This taught me a lesson – if you want to borrow something from your buddy, for example his girlfriend, wait until his nature is softened; then, he will be more agreeable to lend you.

We always wondered why it had the word Library in its title. Legend has it that since it was loaned among friends so often, it resembled a book that you would get from the library – torn at its edges, glued at some pages, stained all over, and some even smelled funny and stale. Please bear in mind that these books are, actually, not available at the library; so, be forewarned – don’t go and ask your kid to borrow it the next time he goes to his school library.

The other day, I googled Liverpool Library Press and was taken to a website where they auction them. Some of the prices were so unbelievably expensive. And, they appeared to be collectibles like those expensive Pokémon cards our kids invested in. I wonder if any of us still have an old copy lying around somewhere. If we could unglue the pages, maybe we could go down memory lane again: Aaahhhhh……oooohhh…..those good young days when all of us could do it daily (reading) . . . without using Uncle Ali’s cane for support. 

Maybe, they should have titled our school textbooks New Thrill Science, New Thrill Geography, etc to grab our interest. Just like nowadays, when the Dummy’s Guide books became so popular, every subject had to be titled Dummy’s Guide to Something in order to sell.  I am sure every boy, and even girl, will pay more attention to it. And, it would be triple effective if they added the word Liverpool Library to it, like Liverpool Library Biology or Liverpool Library Mathematics, but, please no Liverpool Library Donkeys. Then, I bet you, it would be snapped up like hot buns and in no time the books will be torn at its edges, glued at some pages, stained all over, and smelled funny too.  Ah… the power of knowledge, and books. 

Of course, we had many other given books that we studied – like, for example, history, accounting, science, and so on. But, I don’t remember much about them, except they still looked very new, even by the end of the year. They must have been printed on durable paper culled from Sarawak’s forest. And, when I tried to google them the other day, I just couldn’t find any. I wanted to go down memory lane again – to know what we actually studied in school. Like someone used to say, “Better late than never”.  I know I never, but is it too late? Well, whatever. I think I’ll start with my new Liverpool book first and work my way down.  I mean up. Or is it both ways? Books – they always confuse me.

…to be continued.

Sea Park secondary School, Form Two - Part Two

FORM TWO, 1976 – PART TWO

When they dressed us up like lambs, we naturally behaved like one.

Minus productive term holidays, refreshingly snooze time, non-stop babbling time, grazingly canteen time, and wow-wee puppies gawking time; we spent the remaining times of 1976 blankly staring at the teachers, who seemed to blend with the walls. After a while, we couldn’t tell which is which. We were like on pause mode or energy saving mode; in a way, we reduced our carbon footprints. 

With such systematic and non-violent behaviors, I feel this nation of ours has a great future to look forward to. None of us have the disposition to demonstrate or join any opposition political agenda; as proven in our formative years, we were just content with our happy-dopey, dilly-dally, shilly-shally lives. So, peace will rein – this country needs more citizens like the lambs of 1976.

However, there was one event which was supposed to be a culmination of a reunited and sexy year, but sadly, became the finale of a penned and pent up year. It happened on the last day of school, the 11^th of November. 

We went on a field trip, our first, to places that the teachers said would be fun. Everyone showed up, no one P'd. Some of us were dressed in our best – males in long bell-bottoms pants and unbuttoned silk shirts, while females shined in their bare backs and maxi skirts. Of course, some were unable to smuggle out their preferred clothes and had to wear what their mothers selected. And, they declined to have their photos taken. This was so historic, let me repeat once more – lambs and puppies sat together, rolled in the same direction as the bus turned, and later ran through the fields, hand-in-hand, limb-in-limb, and fleece-in-fur. Ah, finally, all of us mingled and mangled in three buses.

But before the buses could roll off, all hell broke loose! 

Freddy went up to each bus and pulled out a bunch of lambs whose blacked fleece on their head was overgrown. He mercilessly used something that buzzed like a chainsaw and sheared a deep patch of two inches by two inches on one side of their heads before parading his artwork among the puppies. On a day when they were dressed in their best clothes, how could he use his powers to destroy their image! He shamed them for not following his hair style . . . why? Everyone was so damned hurt by this bullying. Bang balls man. There’s no more laughter. I clearly remembered his scheming face as he proudly put his parting words “Have a nice hair day”. 

Then, the bus rolled. We sat silently and sadly.

After a long hour journey, our never-die spirits slowly came back. We reached the Rubber Research Institute in Jalan Ampang and were greeted by the strongest of smell which woke us up. Touring the huge place, we saw how rubber is turned into condoms, and they ushered us into a dark room to show us the Swedish movie on how they are used. But, they took a long time to set up the projector with the guy apologizing, “Harap Maaf, Siaran tergendala”*. So we waited with the puppies. Some of the richer lambs with cameras, in excitement, went out to buy some more rolls of film. Soon, our broiling imagination rushed some of us to the toilet. And we waited . . . and . . . waited. But by mid noon, we had to leave emptied as the bus had to roll again. Bang balls man. 

*”Sorry, transmission disrupted”

We took a long journey to Kuala Selangor and Jeram just to burn up the time allocated for this trip. There’s nothing much to see except for some old canons up a hill and an oily beach, with the highlight being a huge two mile-long conveyor belt at Port Klang that transported sand to somewhere. Nothing Swedish about it. Finally at 6:20pm sharp, our buses reached home base and everyone alighted.

Then, all hell broke loose again!

The bunch of lambs, with their long fleece blemished with a sheared patch on their heads, grew horns! Emboldened, they walked into the toilet, and in unison, turned on all the taps before adjourning to the Remove class. What they did next was explosive like the reruns of the TV show Combat. They kicked all the chairs and tables Bang! Kaput! Achtung! Bagialo! #@$%, sprawling them all over @!&# tiuneahsing! Baaa..ah!, and smashed the notice boards and !@#$ blackboards – the symbols of Freddy and his gang. They went looking for Freddy’s Volkswagen Beetle, but it was not there. Imagine what would have happened if the car was there – definitely, no flowery hippie signs will be painted.

When the guards heard the assault and reached the front line, the lambs ran in all directions – jumped over the tall barbed fencing, some losing their testicles, and galloped straight home to their night pen. With blood, torn fleece and mangled balls (the fence was too high, bro), they ran into the comfort of their mamas. 

The puppies cried and howled all night . . . wooooo. . .ooooo . . .

This incident was infamously recalled as the 1111 or ‘one eleven one’ incident as it happened on 11^th November. Some lambs call it eleven eleven; others say it as one one eleven. I’ve even heard a wise guy call it eleven one one. But the best one is one one one one! That one is so confusing. Can you count how many ones there are in this one paragraph? Or eleven paragraphs if you one. 

What caused this shocking, shiocking incident, almost an uprising, a defiant of powers, a settling of scores, or the underground version “What a good one”? Most likely, due to the intense pressure of studies and abuse of power by Freddy, plus the balls breaking year-long ‘see all the puppies you one but no touch’, they just freaked out. Yes, just totally, completely amok. It’s like the silence of the lambs, a time bomb waiting to fly off the handle. So, don’t blame the exploded lambs but, blame it on the powers that be. Or, maybe the Swedish movie they didn’t see?

Over time, the howling stopped. 

When we talked to each other over the holidays, we strongly felt the masters of the school should have treated us with more respect. We came to learn, not to be disciplined and treated like kids; we’ve already got that at home. All our naughty tantrums, lack of concentration, wild ramblings, and rebellious hairstyles were actually just manifestations of our need for individualism, expression, freedom and respect. Didn’t Freddy, with all his experience and training, see that in us? So, if school had been more understanding and conducive to us, we would spend more time in class rather than joining the Shakespearian P programs. We concluded that we needed the right stuffs like more interaction less separation, more games less train, more silence less teaching, more action less talk, and more homework less schoolwork. But, the most needed is to just show the damn Swedish movie.  

During the holidays, we went to the barber shop to restore thick fleecy coats to our heads again. While there, we rummaged through Galaxie, Fanfare, Movie News, and even an old copy of Journal of Rubberlogy, in search of Swedish pen pals. Bang balls man. The richer ones, still with their extra rolls of film, camped outside the Sweden embassy. I was smarter; I went back to the rubber institute. 

… to be continued.

Note: I know you have laughed at my Form One and Two, but will you cry with me when you read my Form Three post? It’s gonna be a sad story . . .

Sea Park secondary School, Form Two - Part One

 

FORM TWO, 1976 – PART ONE

In the year 1976, we proudly began our Form Two enrichment at our spanking new school, built on the slopes of Sea Park hills just like the feng shui of a Chinese cemetery. 

At last, we have left all our old baggage – including skeletons – of last year behind, and gloriously moved on. We have burned all the bridges. Astalavista La Salle.

But, to our horror, someone had secretly slipped through to continue his Gestapo ways. Just like in the never-ending Friday the 13^th, Freddy Krueger was still alive!

The portly stone-faced head of Salleans (sounds like Salem) had been transferred to our new school! Unhealed memories of “Thou shall not grab again” haunted us at that morning’s assembly when we saw him marshaled up the pedestal with a slimy grin. They said, “Once bitten, twice shy”. I replied, “Once beaten, sure cry”. They don’t rhyme well enough? Bugger you, who care about rhymes when you get caned a few times, every year. That was how my years and a few brothers’ soon turned out under our Sir Freddy.

To make it worse, Freddy practiced public segregation like once upon a time in America! As anticipated, our new zoo, I mean school, had also taken in our significant other comrade – our female compatriots who actually resembled cute puppies and were looking forward to our healing kindness.  As a thoughtful gesture of our reunion (we thought about the girls’ wounds all December), we looked forward to healing them all day long. But, Freddy locked the raging, hormone-charged lambs into one pen while the female puppies, so prettily dressed in blue and white with pink ribbons on their heads, pawed separately in their own kennels.

When recess time finally came, I and the rest of the lambs rushed forward to ogle, “Ooh, I knew that cute one over there…baaahbaaah…Wow, just like Farrah Fawcett…woofwoof.” With only fifteen minutes each day, alas, no interbreeding could be done between the two domesticated groups. Bang balls, man*. The puppies were like flowers in the fields – you get close to admire and smell, but you can’t pluck them. Strictly, for adult males only, please pronounce pluck with your fingers pulling at each end of your lips, to get hifi stereo sound.

* For ladies who often misunderstood man, this is male’s lingo expressing frustration and nothing to do with sex. If it has to do with sex, they’ll usually say, bang balls woman. If you don’t believe, go bang his balls (I apologize if offending) and watch him yell, fun for you but certainly, not for him. By the way, just use your fists, not a hammer!

So, life in limbo goes on. But at least we were the seniors with no other lambs older than us - we were the masters of our land. This place is huge with a bald field we call Sahara. And, we have some juniors to lord over – a group of Remove and Form One lambs and puppies who have just been roped in. For the first time, there were no one above us – we were the seniors, the pioneers, the Lord of the Lambs, the Tai Kors, the Godfathers. We stared at the juniors like De Niro, “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?”

But . . . it felt eerily like Camp Crystal Lake like in Friday the 13^th. We could feel, behind our backs, someone is constantly watching us. It turned out to be Freddy – still with his bazooka megaphone and whistle for double dosage, and his branding iron hot-readied. This time, he looked like a non-smiling Benny Hill. I heard some people call him Tom Jones because of his singing and sighing over the megaphone. I told them they were wrong; I didn’t see any of our girls throwing panties at him, just only their kotex.

Too many metaphors, puns, and symbolism used in this story? I hope Shakespeare will bear with me. Sorry, Willy, it’s the only way to describe and exonerate my subconscious scars – please let thy burn thy skeletons in the mind. Thy long beard with the funny hat, ok? (My apologies to Shakespearians). William eventually said yes. Freddy came back to tell me so. I think it was in part eight . . . or nine . . .

Moving along, let me tell you how some of us passed our school days. Actually, it’s how we skipped them – the P way. I counted from my diary entries – a total of 10 school days were spent at Zoo Negara, Mimaland amusement park, Ampang Park shopping center, Pertama Complex, Musuem Negara, tin mines of Kelana Jaya, and even Subang Airport where, yes, we saw the stewardess! We were singing Silver Convention’s hit, “Fly robin fly, fly robin fly, up, up to the sky” because we were so free like robins flying where we wanted. A bunch of us whom I’ve been told not to mention were at those places, dressed informally to participate in the Personal and Team building program – that’s what the P stands for. 

Our program entails mastering the art of camouflage – how to secretly blend with society, enemy deception – about evading powers that be, escapism – how to have fun all day long, and most important, the study of illicit human gratification – something like why did Adam ate the apple. Believe me - this program was very tough as it covered so many activities in so many tourist landmarks. We didn’t enjoy it thoroughly because we had to work so hard, and no play will soon make lamb a dull mutton. Only the rewards of comradeship keeps us going as well as our theme song, “Boogie nights, Ain't no doubt we are here to party, Booki nights, Come on now, got to get it started . . . Got to keep on dancing . . . Keep on dancing” 

But, some of us were so good that they became leaders in this field – more like Consultants whom clueless lambs will seek to organize a similar program for them. Mind you, the Consultants won’t just do it for anyone; they must have a wanderlust persona to qualify. And before passing the program, there’s one final hurdle to test their loyalty – they have to master and recite a Shakespearian poem:

For Silence is Golden,

Lest Headmaster be awaken

For Lambs have proven,

Thy ponteng* is heaven.

Wow, so poetic; I just want to cry. Who say we didn’t pay attention in Literature? So, have you P’d?

     *ponteng means play truant, a gamely game. 

Well, you have learned from the masters of P. If ever, your kids exhibit such talents as camouflage, escapism, or Adam’s apple, etc, you’ll know what they are up to. One tip: just randomly check their school bags before they leave for school. Not in front of them! But, secretly disguise your intentions as you enter his room, then deceptively open his bag, look inside and quickly escape. What you did was illegal, but you gratified yourself – you ate the apple like Adam, didn’t you? Welcome to the adult P program – the Peep program. Now, all you need is to master and recite our poem:

For Silence is Golden

Lest children be maddened

For parents have chosen

Thy Peep is prudent

Wow, so poetic; don’t you just wanna cry? Go ahead, let’s P.

… to be continued in part two.

Sea Park Secondary School, Form One, 1975

Form One, 1975

I have always enjoyed my school life, whether to study, play, or sleep.

My secondary school years were so full of these three activities, especially the last one, that nothing in my later years could match it. Some people may call me a sentimental fool or even lifeless because the best enjoyments I have are already encapsulated in twilight zone. Call me what you want, but can you in your adult life find a place to enjoy these three activities, simultaneously. “At work, can you study, play, or sleep?” 

So, let me lead you on a time travel into the year 1975, when the best of times began. Hope you’ll enjoy it as much as me.

According to a renowned sociologist, the life of a secondary school student between ages 13 to 17 is at the most vulnerable point of his life. Just like an innocent lamb that had left her herd and began to roam the lush fields ahead, it’s the most critical period of in-betweens. In leaving the comfort zone to explore the wild, either you’ll be mauled or grow up fat.

A bunch of us who lived in the vicinity of Sea Park housing estate had registered at the Sea Park Secondary school, but it was still under construction. As a temporary solution, all of us were diverted to La Salle Secondary school for one year of squatting. Forced upon us, we started our mid school life in the most regimented place.

For me, my secondary school life started one fuzzy day in 1975, when I stepped into La Salle in Petaling Jaya. There, three classes at one end above the smoky canteen were allocated for 120 Sea Park School’s Form One boys, whose voices were on the verge of cracking with stubs of hair peeking out of their chins and below. Dressed in white socks, white shoes, white short pants, white shirts, and who knows maybe even white underwear, they all looked like sacrificial white lambs on parade. Quietly, they managed to blend in with their landlords, almost 3,000 La Salleans all older and bigger. It’s a miracle that none of the 120 lambs (a 4% minority) were slaughtered, here in the land of no man’s land. Baaa…ah.

Life here was very army-like. Every afternoon before class, we assembled in rows and stood in attention, in front of the main block. Then, the head honcho, a short and horn-rimmed man with a very round belly, stepped up to a tall platform in the center. He looked like the Statue of Liberty, but without the crown and fattened by New York’s hot dogs. Carrying a bazooka looking megaphone, he bellowed out his instructions. I never understood what he said, but every time it sounded like this, “You punks! Go ahead…make my day!”.

Have you ever seen a plump Statue of Liberty holding a Magnum .45 like Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry? That would be him. After the melee of the assembly was over, however, he turned soft. Almost like the gracious Lady of Liberty, he’ll wave his hand to the left and gently flick his fingers to direct the bored lambs to move to class, and ditto for his right. And, so begins a day of fenced monotony. Baaa…ah.

Being an all boys’ school, except for some pretty Form Six girls, and with its roots as a missionary school, discipline is the main course here. You do the slightest wrong, and then the rattan cane will definitely meet your hide. No doubt about it. Once, some of us lambs played a game of grabbing the other’s testicles. I don’t know who started this gaily game, but every lamb still with tender testicles, will be walking with both spread palms in front protecting down there. Someone must have injured someone’s manhood, for soon, a complaint was lodged.  Then randomly, a few lambs including myself, were rounded up to the principal’s office. The huge cold room looked exactly like a slaughter house, as we were each lambasted with three whacking strokes that hot-stamped our butts with “Thou shall not grab again”.

With school life being so harsh, escapism was the norm.

One popular activity during recess was to sneak away into an underground drain at the far end of the school field. Then, we crawled for a few meters like Rambo before alighting at the building across the road. The owners welcomed anyone, allowing them to enter and play the ping pong games underneath the main hall. We did nothing but ping ponging with fellow lambs and sometimes shoot some caroms. And, we were in the land of the free. However, sometimes someone gets caught and is hot-stamped.

Then again, some of us found other ways to release our sperm, err, I mean steam. Usually after we got down from our bas sekolah and before classes start, we grouped together and hike up the nearby Gasing hills. There is an old path that follows along a tiny stream for about a quarter of a mile deep into the jungle; passing by an old mini graveyard and ends at the smallest of all waterfalls that I have seen. This was before Hollywood invented Indiana Jones. But, we lambs were already scampering through the jungle, being scared shit by the cemetery (especially if you are the last in line) and jumping over the waterfalls. We screamed all the way and the echoes make it more terrifying.

It was at the waterfalls where we had our fun. All lambs discarded their fleece and fur and whatever that covered their bodies, and jumped into the waters in their birthday suit. We imitated the Tarzan scream we saw on TV, “Oorr…eee…oorr…hacks”. They say some guys have all the luck, while some have all the bucks, sparks, and jocks. Deep in the jungle on that day, we saw who had the biggest and we all shouted together, “Oorr…eee…oorr…hacks”.  We grabbed it and swing through the jungle. I meant we grabbed the low lying branches. Another highlight at the waterfall was to compare who has the longest hair; I mean those that sprout down there when you reach a certain age. I remember who won – one burly guy whose length was 0.2 of a centimeter. There were even more Tarzan screams in his honor, especially by those who were hairless.

Academically, I did well – attaining sixth position in the exams grading. In fifth position was a comrade, who went on to pass Form 5 science stream with a big bang and is probably now a professor in gerontology. As for me, I drowned in arts stream. Look at it this way – in Form One, my results were not too bad, on par with a future academician.

Actually, I didn’t put in much effort into my studies. This was because I found out I was supposed to do so. Before I entered Form One, I looked up in Oxford dictionary for the meaning of secondary – the first definition I came across was “secondary is of less importance than primary”. Embracing this new found fact, I reviewed the level of efforts I had expanded in primary school, and benchmarking against it, I made sure I took my foot off the pedal throughout secondary school. My new mantra became ‘Thou shall relax further’, which I followed diligently.

So, if I slowed down my studies, how did I score sixth place? After a few decades of soul-searching, I found the answer – it’s the char kway teow, something similiar to fried noodles. As our class is above the canteen, when Mr. Guyfrompenang did his frying, the aroma drifted up to our class and opened up my senses. Somehow, what the teacher said must have tagged along with the aroma of the char kway teow, and together entered my brain to totally electrifry my neurons. Albert Einstein called this newclear fusion, a very powerful form of clearing your mind to learn new stuffs.  By the way, our class came out tops.

This made me realized that I had, for the past decades, subconsciously been fusing (or maybe confusing) myself. No wonder whenever I did my strategic planning in my office, I would often gobble down a few plates of kway teow. And, no wonder, I just got fatter and fatter when there is more and more work to do. Shit! Too much lard had fused my belly. I think I will suggest to the education ministry to let our students eat char kway teow all day long in class to fuse their minds with studies. I’ll share with you another secret – ever wonder why all public-listed directors have fat bellies like mine? We all practice fusion. “Ah Pek, one more round”.

Do you remember what happened in 1975, which changed the nation, forever? We achieved something so great, that, we have not been able to match it ever since. It had such a profound effect on everyone, including all the lambs in my school. A clue?

Poon Fook Loke & Sri Shan . . . Yes! The 1975 World Hockey Cup! Dated names like Chin Aun and Mokhtar were set aside while we idolized our happening hockey heroes. We caught the fever! So many of us including me, who can’t differentiate hockey from hookey, bought a stick and proudly chased after the solid ball during recess time. We just whacked and whacked, whether hitting the ball, grass, air or the other guy’s shin, it doesn’t matter. And, I was at Merdeka Stadium to cheer live. “Ole! Ole! Malaysia boleh!” we shouted, and drank the free Milo. We scored fourth placing, our highest achievement thus far. Sadly, when the tourney was over, most of the sticks were used to scratch somebody’s back, or better, hammer the teacher’s car. Somehow, if most of us had carried on the game, Malaysia may have produced finer players. It still haunts me; I may have let my country down.

Finally in mid November, when school ended, we were glad to leave with our testicles and stamped butts intact. No love was lost here – it felt like we had been mauled. We jumped the fence and ran for our lives. Baaa…ah.

1975 had been a complicated year – full of uncertainties, disciplines, and challenges but, luckily tempered with lots of discoveries, enjoyments, and friendships. They say the beginnings of adolescent are like that but no teacher in school told us. On hindsight, I knew what compounded our situation – there were no girls around. Raging with new hormones that not only killed our cute voices, it also played havoc on our bodies. It’s like we were given silver-tipped bullets to match our shotguns, but with no live targets to aim for. The more creative ones would shoot at their imagery posters on the wall or aimlessly in the bathroom. I heard of one lamb that accidentally shot himself in the mouth; boy, he said food tasted weird after that.

Looking forward to our new school next year, we heard that some pretty girls would be joining us there. Rumor was they were also squatting somewhere, and like us, were kicked around like puppies. And, the best part we heard was they’re looking forward to heal their psychological and physical wounds with our help next year.

During the holidays, I tried my best to kill my pimples and followed my distant cousin, Swazernager to the gym. “One more…two more…no more.”

. . . to be continued.