Part 1: On Choices
A few nights ago I attended a farewell party of a mate’s girl leaving for Syria for a commissioned photography work. So there I was, sipping, more aptly said downing my Carlton Draught. You see, I was a little out of place due to the fact I was the only bloody Asian that made it, the rest there were a bloody bunch of literature geeks enjoying alcohol over endless games of backgammon. So there I was planted on the couch, finishing my beer conversing with this lady (girl’s mom) who is also a little out of water in the so-called party scene. Our conversation was naturally steered to the topic of immigrants (should have seen that coming now yea?) and one very particular point that was raised by her was how people resist change because they are afraid of it. Change, now that ring a bell.
(Note the paragraph; someone commented that I should introduce paragraphs to facilitate easy reading. Easy on the eyes she says.)
I am more or less familiar with change, you may say who isn’t? Let’s explore change a little further. Change itself is unavoidable (anyone who has worn the same underpants since you’re a kid, you need help.). Some changes affect us more significant than others; it is the changes which is the result of our very own decisions that carry the heaviest impact in our life. They no doubt affect us the most. They are the one which can boost our ego, fill our wallets, dry our bank accounts or even force us to change the way we live, our outlook on life (on other people’s life) and these are the bits that tend to haunt us and linger around a bit more, least that’s for me.
Looking back, there are two major decisions which I’ve made so far in life which ultimately lead to very significant changes, which make them very significant decisions. Funny thing is these decisions aren’t often made out of the blue but yet they still zip pass our mind when we made them, often going unnoticed for years unlike say the decision made to drink a mixture beer and whisky with a sprinkle of cigarette ash; that’s regret and a night by toilet bowl.
Going back to the point or rather back about eight years ago, I was in Form Two (secondary two) when I was fourteen. I could still remember clearly, that was the time where the class is still trying to settle down; trying to strike equilibrium, who and who’s not in the food chain (yea, kind of like those teen flicks). So, where did I stand back then? I probably was grouped in along the masses, although I often drifted along. Somehow, the oh-so-cliché conversations and ad nauseam politics of the majority did not quite appeal to me. As a result, I ended up doing the ping-pong thing between the normal freaks and the freaks that ensured sufficient chalk was wasted by being used as projectiles from the very back of the class. Yes, those annoying, ever-laughing ones and the funny thing is that they aren’t borderline grade pupils. They leave the rest in chalk dust with almost excellent grades (“ape ni? Kerja tak siap tapi markah bukan main tinggi” remarked the science teacher; in English it says “work not done, yet bloody high marks”). I found that interesting.
Not surprisingly, over the next twelve months or so I grew closer to the chalk-throwing group. The reason being the majority didn’t make me laugh enough, being a tad dry on humour whiles the other; they were wasted long before alcohol became regular consumption. Jokes were good. Poking fun at the fat bastard (no offences, just being true to the event) was even better. Setting fire to the waste paper bin that was to my credit. Hours seemed to tick like minutes while homework tend to pile and exercise books shredded pages for projectiles when chalk ran ridiculously low. Yea that wickedly evil sense of humour so obnoxious the teachers can’t choose to ignore drew me closer to them. They were in no doubt offensive; trouble to the rest they may be but hey, the jokes were good, they still are!
The line came close at the end of the year after the final exams when I discovered a little something as I was drifting around. The chalk throwers were absent, the rest weren’t. A little conversation they had with the English teacher was overheard by me. They were bustling with joy. They should, they were busy electing themselves to participate in an English Quintet held out of state. So you ask, what’s wrong with the picture? The bloody painting was! People who were barely scoring a meagre B for the language doing representing the school for an English Quintet? Why aren’t chalk-throwing first-class students being selected? They may have thrown chalks but they are the best when it comes to the language English. They weren’t even made notice of the event. Get the picture now? I questioned the action of the majority It sure had me questioning their integrity. To me that’s blatantly ungraceful; there you are, students whom others look upon, whom teachers pet, stabbing the rest in the back. A quick buzz to the chalk people after school and unrest were ensured.
The chalk-throwing people are a closed bunch. They moved as a pack, they stayed as a pack. Those of you who have been to school, hopefully, would know better how a pack is. You don’t join them, you can’t. You can talk to them, you can hang around them, laugh with them but you will never be one of them and hear about things they say about you behind your back. Instead, you had to be invited into the pack. The phone call I made was the invitation. I chose to make that call.
Silly-school-kiddie shits you say yea? Not actually, looking back now after almost a decade of silly shits, the group did eventually stayed on, evolved and became the table talk of the staffroom by the time we hit From 4. Unfortunately we were not talked about in a delightful manner. The teachers felt threatened, they always do when one exhibits a little too much independence compared to the rest. Soon, we were branded as rebels, worse still, they called us the black sheep of the class and things started to wane and wither.
Still, today, out of the five, three of us still remained as we did back then; laughing as we did eight years ago on recycled jokes and events untold, and yes we still refer to ourselves as the group like we did back then. Funny how things change and how some stays the same yea? The rest of them, truth and honour proved too much for them to sallow as they went their separate ways and bit the hand that fed them.
So much for the group, as for me, what did I get out of all this mumbo-jumbo? It was that phone call which made me part of the group and it was through the group that my principles were formed. Those principles were to eventually lead to me making that second significant decision; her. What about her you ask? Well, I choose to leave that for another post, another day.
Ps: Yes, this post appears to be as dry as gin and not as tasteful as tonic. I wrote this dead sober.
(Note the paragraph; someone commented that I should introduce paragraphs to facilitate easy reading. Easy on the eyes she says.)
I am more or less familiar with change, you may say who isn’t? Let’s explore change a little further. Change itself is unavoidable (anyone who has worn the same underpants since you’re a kid, you need help.). Some changes affect us more significant than others; it is the changes which is the result of our very own decisions that carry the heaviest impact in our life. They no doubt affect us the most. They are the one which can boost our ego, fill our wallets, dry our bank accounts or even force us to change the way we live, our outlook on life (on other people’s life) and these are the bits that tend to haunt us and linger around a bit more, least that’s for me.
Looking back, there are two major decisions which I’ve made so far in life which ultimately lead to very significant changes, which make them very significant decisions. Funny thing is these decisions aren’t often made out of the blue but yet they still zip pass our mind when we made them, often going unnoticed for years unlike say the decision made to drink a mixture beer and whisky with a sprinkle of cigarette ash; that’s regret and a night by toilet bowl.
Going back to the point or rather back about eight years ago, I was in Form Two (secondary two) when I was fourteen. I could still remember clearly, that was the time where the class is still trying to settle down; trying to strike equilibrium, who and who’s not in the food chain (yea, kind of like those teen flicks). So, where did I stand back then? I probably was grouped in along the masses, although I often drifted along. Somehow, the oh-so-cliché conversations and ad nauseam politics of the majority did not quite appeal to me. As a result, I ended up doing the ping-pong thing between the normal freaks and the freaks that ensured sufficient chalk was wasted by being used as projectiles from the very back of the class. Yes, those annoying, ever-laughing ones and the funny thing is that they aren’t borderline grade pupils. They leave the rest in chalk dust with almost excellent grades (“ape ni? Kerja tak siap tapi markah bukan main tinggi” remarked the science teacher; in English it says “work not done, yet bloody high marks”). I found that interesting.
Not surprisingly, over the next twelve months or so I grew closer to the chalk-throwing group. The reason being the majority didn’t make me laugh enough, being a tad dry on humour whiles the other; they were wasted long before alcohol became regular consumption. Jokes were good. Poking fun at the fat bastard (no offences, just being true to the event) was even better. Setting fire to the waste paper bin that was to my credit. Hours seemed to tick like minutes while homework tend to pile and exercise books shredded pages for projectiles when chalk ran ridiculously low. Yea that wickedly evil sense of humour so obnoxious the teachers can’t choose to ignore drew me closer to them. They were in no doubt offensive; trouble to the rest they may be but hey, the jokes were good, they still are!
The line came close at the end of the year after the final exams when I discovered a little something as I was drifting around. The chalk throwers were absent, the rest weren’t. A little conversation they had with the English teacher was overheard by me. They were bustling with joy. They should, they were busy electing themselves to participate in an English Quintet held out of state. So you ask, what’s wrong with the picture? The bloody painting was! People who were barely scoring a meagre B for the language doing representing the school for an English Quintet? Why aren’t chalk-throwing first-class students being selected? They may have thrown chalks but they are the best when it comes to the language English. They weren’t even made notice of the event. Get the picture now? I questioned the action of the majority It sure had me questioning their integrity. To me that’s blatantly ungraceful; there you are, students whom others look upon, whom teachers pet, stabbing the rest in the back. A quick buzz to the chalk people after school and unrest were ensured.
The chalk-throwing people are a closed bunch. They moved as a pack, they stayed as a pack. Those of you who have been to school, hopefully, would know better how a pack is. You don’t join them, you can’t. You can talk to them, you can hang around them, laugh with them but you will never be one of them and hear about things they say about you behind your back. Instead, you had to be invited into the pack. The phone call I made was the invitation. I chose to make that call.
Silly-school-kiddie shits you say yea? Not actually, looking back now after almost a decade of silly shits, the group did eventually stayed on, evolved and became the table talk of the staffroom by the time we hit From 4. Unfortunately we were not talked about in a delightful manner. The teachers felt threatened, they always do when one exhibits a little too much independence compared to the rest. Soon, we were branded as rebels, worse still, they called us the black sheep of the class and things started to wane and wither.
Still, today, out of the five, three of us still remained as we did back then; laughing as we did eight years ago on recycled jokes and events untold, and yes we still refer to ourselves as the group like we did back then. Funny how things change and how some stays the same yea? The rest of them, truth and honour proved too much for them to sallow as they went their separate ways and bit the hand that fed them.
So much for the group, as for me, what did I get out of all this mumbo-jumbo? It was that phone call which made me part of the group and it was through the group that my principles were formed. Those principles were to eventually lead to me making that second significant decision; her. What about her you ask? Well, I choose to leave that for another post, another day.
Ps: Yes, this post appears to be as dry as gin and not as tasteful as tonic. I wrote this dead sober.
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