A Case of Too Many Lilians

 

 

Warning: This entry will seem extremely narcissistic (not that it is any different from other entries) but then again, how many Lilians do you actually have in your contact? Go on, scroll down the name list in your phone, email, or Facebook account, and I am pretty sure that I am NOT the only Lilian that you know.

As I was growing up, I always thought that my parents and paternal grandfather had given me a rather unique name. Apart from a Chinese name (瑞 玉) that many tend to mispronounce and misinterpret as Roast Pork (it actually means Beautiful Jade, mind you), my parents had fortunately enough foresight to include my English name, Lilian, in my birth certificate, thus saving me from a lifetime of being known as Lil' Ms Roast Pork.

 

Disclaimer: This picture is for decoration purposes only. You will find nothing offensive here. Please move on.

 



LILIAN does sound quite unusual, or so I thought. I have come across many variations of Annie, Jenny, Jessica, Melissa, Michelle, and Mary. In fact, they are almost as many as the Jonathans, Joshuas, Daniels, Kelvins, and Michaels out there. The only other time I used to see my name in print (besides my school name tag) was at the lingerie section in departmental stores ...

 

In the early years of my school life, I never had to share my name with anyone else in any of the classes or even throughout the entire school. In fact, it was only through the duty roster pinned on the notice board that my classmates and I eventually discovered that there was another Lilian who occupied the same classroom in the first session. (We had two sessions in primary school back then: morning and afternoon.) Although we eventually went to the same secondary school, it never really proved to be a problem because both of us were neither in the same class nor were we ever one of the popular students. I can only recall one minor instance of confusion when the other Lilian was supposed to have her name (and not mine) announced via the school PA system because she had been late to school and had to see the principal or the disciplinary teacher. As they had mentioned the wrong class (she was in 4K5 and I was in 4K4), I had to convince the person-in-charge that I was not the 'perpetrator' they were looking for.  

 

Throughout Form 6 and university, I was back to being the exclusive Lilian once again. Nonetheless, things changed tremendously the moment I chose to work in educational institutions. Apparently, there are too many Lilians in the academic world, both in the administrative as well as academic positions.

 

There were at least 3 Lilians roaming the halls of the first educational institution that I worked at: one was in the Department of Student Affairs, and the other was a coordinator in the Faculty of Medicine. To make things worse, the second Lilian even shared my surname i.e. Leong. It was still difficult to guess which Lilian they meant when our surnames were included. They had to be more specific i.e. Lilian Leong the Coordinator, or Lilian Leong the Lecturer! That unofficial title sometimes put me at par with the likes of Conan the Barbarian.

 

It was, therefore, not unusual to have e-mails directed to the wrong Lilian. On a positive note, though, because of our different positions, it was never too challenging to review the contents of the mails and redirect them to the right person:

a) minutes of meetings and admin stuff  => Lilian the Coordinator

b) forms, orders of T-shirts, trips etc  => Lilian from Student Affairs

c) students' apology for not submitting assignments on time etc. => me.

 

There were times when we would let the emails bounce around before we finally figured out whom the actual recipient was. I had even received a Christmas gift which I think was not meant for me in the first place, considering that I was not very close to the sender. Since none of the other Lilians claimed it, I decided to give it to someone else. Why did I do that, uh? Well, it was a bar of chocolate and I was afraid that it may have been poisoned ...

 

This confusion escalated at my current workplace. Here, instead of 3, there were 4 Lilians at one point. When I first joined, there was already a Dr. Lilian Chan who was the head of another department. The first question we had for each other was, "Does your name have one "L" or double "L"s in the middle?" You see, we were hoping that the other party has double L, which would mean that person is known as Lillian instead of Lilian. Sure, it does not make a lot of difference, but we were desperate to find a way to distinguish between the both of us. When that failed, I resorted to, "Oh, she's the one with the Dr. in front of her name. I am just an ordinary nurse!"

 



Dr. Lilian

 

Nurse Lilian

 



 

Not long after, another staff, Lee Lian joined the Bursary department, followed by Li Lian who (horror of all horrors) also teaches English. Even though their names are spelt differently from ours, they still sound pretty much the same when escaped from anyone's lips. At the beginning of each semester, I will always introduce myself as the Ms. Lilian who sits in the 4th floor staff room, and not Ms Li Lian who sits in the 5th floor staff room. The fact that both of us teach English makes it even more challenging to our students.

 

The plot thickened when both Li Lian and I were transferred from our respective departments to a new department. To make matters worse, we now sit next to each other on the 5th floor. I have since stopped trying to explain to students. I will just threaten them, "Please make sure you get the right Lilian. If you submit your assignments to the wrong Lilian, it's not my fault." When anyone enters the staff room to look for Lilian, we will just ask, "Which one?" Even then, it is not an easy task. One former colleague labeled Li Lian as, "Oh, the small size one?" which then makes me "the XL version."

By now, we have become immune to phrases like the two Lilians, the other Lilian, your namesake etc. Once, the both of us sent an email to each other and right next to the names, we included an arrow and the words "this is me" and "this is you". This is one Li Lian that I am glad to share my name with.

I had suspected that perhaps there was something special with the name Lilian back in the 70s and 80s. Why else would so many parents name their daughter thus? Perhaps there was a really cool celebrity named Lilian during that period. Or perhaps there is a wonderful meaning attached to that name. I decided to consult my parents. To my disappointment, my dad replied with a deadpan face, "We just wanted a name that rhymed with your brother's name." (My brother's name is Gideon, and true enough, Lilian does rhyme with Gideon.)

I suppose none of these is as amusing as what I am about to tell you.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

A student from my previous workplace added me on Facebook sometime this year. I could not recall her looks or any outstanding traits (which I usually try to attach to each student in my class) but I was sure of the name, even right down to her surname. She said she had been searching for ways to contact me and was glad that I was on Facebook. She also added that it was such a loss for the current students because they could not be under my tutelage. At that point, my ego was about to burst. This sweet girl then proceeded to send me an invitation to her wedding and was really looking forward to meet up with me and her classmates.

I thought that perhaps my memory had started to fail me, for I could remember very little about the things she had said. One day, she sent me a photograph of her and her classmates. She asked if I could remember any of the others in the photo. It was then that everything fell into place. In the group picture she had posted, there was the other Ms. Lilian --- a part-timer who had also taught the Mass Communication students.

I burst out laughing because I had no clue she had been referring to the wrong Ms. Lilian all these while. You mean, all the compliments she had showered wasn't for me? It looked like there were, after all, 4 and not 3 Lilians at the first educational institution I worked with! It was not surprising for this former student to mistaken me as the other Ms Lilian because I did not have any of my personal photos as my profile picture on Facebook. The reason I remembered her name was because it had appeared in the attendance list. She could have deferred, dropped that subject, or might even have been designated to the other lecturer that particular semester. We laughed long and hard over it. She said this story is certainly worth blogging.

So here's wishing Lai Fu Wei who is tying the knot today, "Congratulations on your wedding! May you find your other Ms. Lilian soon!"

Congratulations, Fu Wei!

 

A Night at the Hospital

A Night at the Hospital

 

To date, I have spent two nights at the hospital: first was when my mom fell and had to undergo surgery on her left wrist back in 2006, and another exactly three weeks ago when my dad fell and had to undergo surgery on his left thigh. As a patient, one eventually gets used to the night routine at the hospital but as a caregiver, it can be a rather foreign and disorienting experience. And if you happen to stay the night as a caregiver in the open wards of a typical government hospital, you will more often than not feel like a complete nuisance throughout your stay.
 

My dad encountered some breathing difficulties after his surgery, thus requiring him to be on the oxygen mask. I was tasked to stay the night to accompany him in case he needed any assistance. Packed with a sleeping bag, my laptop and some students’ essays to mark, I tried to get into the ward about an hour and a half past the visiting hours but I was not prepared for the scene that welcomed me the moment I burst into the room. Hospital staff were busy changing the linens and picking up after dirty laundry. With piles of dirty bed sheets and hospital uniforms in the trolleys, the entire room looked more like a heavy-duty washing machine or a launderette. Well, at least I can vouch that they do change the sheets.

 

This is, no doubt, an exaggeration of what I had seen but you get the idea, uh?

 

My dad was admitted to a ward known as Wad Trauma. Yes, the label itself was traumatizing enough but I soon learned that the ward houses patients who had suffered bone injuries due to accidents. Most if not all patients were immobile and had to depend either on nurses or caregivers in order to move around or to grab things that were not within their reach. The TV room serves as an indicator to the condition of the patients in the ward: it was an empty and hardly ever utilized space with a single plastic chair (not even a sofa) and a TV that is perpetually switched off. After all, hardly any patient could actually make their way there. I suspect that the few Indiana Jones who successfully complete the obstacle course and reach the coveted area would most likely be on a wheelchair, hence the need for lots of space and less furniture.

An Image of Wad Trauma (stolen from the Internet)

 

It takes an Indian Jones to get to the TV room in Wad Trauma

 

 

Lest you think Wad Trauma is a forlorn place, spare me a few moments to describe the community in the ward. After spending 24/7 with each other, one has little choice but to regard everyone within the ward as part of a big family. Being cocooned in the ward cut both patients and their caregivers off from the world out there and sheltered us from negative influences such as racism, sexism, and all other -isms. Everyone in the ward received equal treatment and all were dependent on each other. Visitors should feel honoured, and not be surprised, if they received random requests from other patients for assistance to draw the curtains, to pass them some water etc. When help is needed, one does not stop to contemplate if the person is of the same gender, age group, or race. Any stranger who is willing to extend a helping hand is a friend, indeed. As a result, the community in the ward became very close-knitted.
 

There were at least three other female caregivers who had been staying overnight in the ward before I joined them. One was an elderly woman most likely in her 60s or even 70s who braved the cold hard floors of the hospital night after night, all for the love of her elderly husband. The other two were a mother and a wife/partner of the patients. When they first learned I was putting up a night in the ward, they were very concerned because they thought I did not have a mat or a sleeping bag with me. They had warned it would be very difficult to pass time if I were to sit on the chair the whole night through. Their warmth and genuine concern truly moved me, for I had hardly spent time with them before this.
 

By 10 PM, the ward went on a partial blackout mode and like obedient little children, everyone in the ward (both patients and caregivers) took it as a cue to go to bed. (Even some staff took the opportunity to catch a few moments of shut-eye.) Everyone that is, except yours truly. For me, sleeping at 10 PM is a sin, even if I am at the hospital. There was silence all over the ward with the exception of the beeping of machines that were hooked onto my dad and the patient sleeping right opposite us. Marking essays would have been very challenging under such dim lighting, so I switched on my laptop and started typing softly instead.

 

 

At slightly past midnight, there was some commotion as a new patient was pushed into the ward. I had just gone out for a while and when I entered, the pathway was blocked by a young man with very bad bruises on his face and his body. He was conscious but I suspect he had been involved in a car accident earlier. I listened surreptitiously as the nurses asked him to repeat his IC number and his sister’s contact number. The poor young man must have still been in a confused state because he was unable to provide the accurate details.

 

 

After the patient was pushed to one of the cubicles, Wad Trauma resumed its silence. As I lay there in the dark, I began to understand why some elderly patients feel thoroughly insecure the moment night arrives. I recalled the night years ago in the same hospital when I accompanied my mom after her operation: there was an old Chinese woman who kept calling “Ah Hoong, Ah Hoong!” the whole night through. At first, the nurses tried to attend to her and explained that her son (Ah Hoong) was at home, but after a few hours they began to lose their patience. The old man sleeping right opposite my dad was also making a fuss, albeit with a much weaker voice. He insisted that the nurses contact his son so that the latter can accompany him at night. Again, I listened as the nurses tried to tell him that his son might only be able to come later but the old man was not willing to accept the explanation. I suppose he must have felt both uncomfortable and lonely.

 

My heart reached out to the old man but I had to take care of my old man, too. Just when I was about to doze off, the machine started to beep, indicating that my dad’s oxygen level had dropped once more. Every time that happened, I would panic and say a silent prayer as I fixed my eyes on the numbers and mentally pumped up the figure. Sometimes, I would just wake my dad up from his snoring and say, “Bah, please breathe properly.” There were times when the beeping was from the old man opposite us, and I had thought it was from my dad. The beepings went on the whole night through. I could hardly sleep under such circumstances.

 

 

One of the most memorable moments was when I had to use the washroom. The toilet in the ward was only for males, and there were no female washrooms nearby. It did not help that I am an extremely fussy pot when it comes to toilets. I could have easily used the males’ toilet but by nighttime, it usually stinks to the max. I decided to walk to the visitors’ toilet at the very end of the building ...

 

 

Have you ever walked all by yourself, way past midnight, in a brightly lit corridor that stretches for almost a mile? To be fair, it was not a mile (perhaps only 200 meters), but it was dead quiet. Not a single soul stirred. The doors to all the other wards were shut. I had expected to see some doctors or nurses moving about on night shift but none of them was in sight and the entire corridor was absolutely still. All I could hear was my own footsteps and the sound of my heavy breathing. Sometimes I could smell cigarettes from the stairwell, but there was never anyone lurking around.

 

 

I thanked the Lord that I never had any fascination for horror movies or even thrillers, else my imagination would have driven me nuts that night. I deliberately left my spectacles behind so that I would not be able to see too clearly. At least I could always blame my poor eyesight should I see something that I was not supposed to see. I dare not look at the giant sized mirrors along the way just in case I see an additional reflection. I kept singing hymns and talking to myself as I walked towards the toilet. As if this wasn’t bad enough, I had to walk the same path back to the ward. Although I usually do not need to use the washroom at night (I once held my pee for 11 hours on a flight from New Zealand to Malaysia), I had to answer "the gentle call of nature" at least three times in the middle of that particular night! The more trips I made, the more confident I gradually became. Days of staying back late in the dark and empty office had finally paid off.
 

Looking back, I can now laugh at myself. You see, far from being frightened by others (be it human or supernatural), it was actually my appearance which would have scared the daylight and moonlight out of anyone who happened to walk along the corridor during one of my washroom trips. I was clothed in a black T-shirt and black pair of jeans. My hair was disheveled and my face was as greasy as can be. I wondered if any of the staff reported that they had seen a fat female silhouette all in black who kept singing and talking to herself as she shuffled along the hospital corridor in the middle of the night.

 

 

 

By 7:00 AM, there was a sudden burst of energy across the ward. The lights were switched on and voila, there was a replay of the scene from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast when Belle goes to town in the morning. The first rays of the morning sun had touched the ward, bringing it to life. Nurses, doctors, and groups of medical students were all milling about on their rounds. Patients were not only awake, but very chirpy and talkative. Even the old man opposite us was much happier. It was a stark contrast to the still small miserable night, as if the fluorescent lights had successfully eliminated all traces of misery which were present few hours before. I wished I was a poet so that I could compose an aubade to fully illustrate the scene.
 

 

 

 

 

A brand new day had begun and everyone was just happy to see another day. I stayed on till after lunch but by then, I was totally drained. Dad’s condition had improved and the mask was finally removed. He was very conscious and was even able to entertain visitors who dropped by. I, on the other hand, could literally feel the earth revolving on its axis due to lack of sleep.

 

Putting up a night at the hospital as a patient may not be easy. Playing the role of a caregiver is not any easier ...

 

Looking Brighter but not Lighter

Ever since I could remember, I have always been a plus-sized CHILD. Case in point: I was prematurely forced to don adult shoes and clothes from the time I was only eleven years old. The sweet and petite Mary Jane shoes on display in the children's department never failed to make me feel like one of Cinderella's wicked step-sisters. The fact that I also could not fit into any of the cute, little party dresses made it much easier for me to identify with the Incredible Hulk than with any of the Disney princesses. Needless to say, those growing years were rough on my body and my self-esteem.




The Incredible Hulk VS The Typical Disney Princesses

Little has changed since then: I am now a plus-sized ADULT. As I was queuing for public transport the other day, though, I started chuckling to myself. 

Perhaps it is true that 'bigger' people are compensated with a 'bigger' sense of humour. To be fair, we tend to come up with 'bigger' excuses for not shedding the pounds, too. Articles on the benefits of losing weight, going to the gym regularly, going on a diet, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle are a dime a dozen, especially on the Internet. Yes, losing excess weight and conforming to the conventional idea of beauty does increase one's self-esteem, self-worth, self-confidence etc. (you get the picture). 

Nonetheless, if you know me well enough, you should know that such topics are far out of my jurisdiction. I am not advocating obesity; instead, I am just trying to look on the bright side of whatever life dishes out for calorie-challenged individuals like myself. Before you recruit me as your new BFF (Bitter Fat Friend), or  kill me with your skinny stares, read on to see if there is any truth to the points I am about to mention below. Here are some perks that overweight people tend to carry with them:


#5 Stability in the Storm

It goes without saying that weight is a crucial factor in maintaining one's stability. Weightier people have less fear of storms and windy weather simply because we are confident that our feet will not be so easily peeled off the ground. In fact, sometimes our feet refuse to budge and leave the ground even when we want them to. I was out for lunch with a colleague the other day when there was a sudden strong breeze. While I danced in the wind and fantasized myself in a shampoo advertisement, my feather-weight friend was struggling not to be blown away.

One of the most thrilling places I have ever been to is the suspension bridge in Langkawi. I remember walking all the way to the end of the bridge and enjoying the strong winds blowing in my face. The scenery was fantastic and I felt that I could stay on the bridge for hours. Whenever I share this experience with my friends, their question would always be the same, "Weren't you afraid that you would be blown off the bridge?" My reply? "Nah, I may jump off or the bridge may collapse under my weight, but there is no way the winds can carry me anywhere I don't want to be. I am too heavy for that."



The Scenic Suspension Bridge in Langkawi

#4 Sense of Security

Calorie-challenged individuals like myself also find a false sense of security in our additional inches and kilogrammes. I used to have a literature tuition teacher who was rather horizontally-challenged. She was so huge that she would convert a flip chair into a no-longer-flipping chair. Because of her size, it was uncomfortable for her to utilize the table that was conveniently attached to the side of the chair. She preferred to leave the table hanging in the air. This woman had a reputation for being notorious in school. Even the toughest boy would tremble and crumble under her stare. She used to threaten us by saying, "I'll sit on you." That line alone was enough to keep us well-behaved throughout the class.

I have since learned to plagiarize her line although I cannot visualize myself sitting on any of my college students. Nonetheless, I have to admit that there were times when students were about to get into a fight with each other or try to challenge my authority in class, and I do thank God that I am huge enough to "sit on them" if I must.


#3 Justice at the Public Transport

This entry was partly inspired while I was queuing for the monorail and LRT one day. Let's face it; taking public transport during peak hours is hazardous to one's wellbeing. Even when the queue is visible, there is nothing stopping illiterate, uncultured, and uncivilized users from jumping queue and making a nuisance of themselves.

I have the least patience for people who try to force their way into the train even before the passengers can get out of it. Yes, it will be highly inconvenient if you are not able to catch the train before it leaves the station, but can you imagine the trauma suffered by the passengers in the train who couldn't get out at the right station? It is usually in times like these that I throw my excess weight around and not only decide to stay put in front of the train to let the passengers out but also to prevent these queue jumpers from getting on the train before I do. Unless you are handicapped, I don't see why you can't queue like everyone else.


#2 Reserved VIP Car Seat

Being heavy not only helps us when we are taking public transport, we are also almost always assured the VIP seat when riding in private cars. Why would I say that? Logically speaking, if there were 5 of us and I was not the driver, the front passenger seat will be reserved for the heaviest person. It does not make sense to waste the entire seat for an underweight individual while the heavier individual occupies more than half of the backseat. That is, after all, not a very clever method of utilizing limited space. It is more logical for the 3 lighter individuals to battle it out in the back seat.

I recall my piano teacher making her rounds in her car to pick all her students up for her annual concert. Be it in her Daihatsu Charade or her new Honda, the front passenger seat was always reserved for me while she packed the other tiny rascals at the back. That was what I would call "birthright". I was born big, so I have earned every right to use that seat.


#1 ATM Shield

Have you ever felt insecure while withdrawing money in full view of people who are traveling up/down the escalators? What about the times when you suspect that everyone standing behind you could see your pin number and your account balance? Didn't you wish you could just open an umbrella and block everyone's view?

Vulnerability @ the ATM

Well, you can say goodbye to the umbrella if you are fleshy enough. Chubby people tend to block three-quarters of the ATM screen with their body. With the same body, we can also block the keypad as we punch in the numbers. This, I think, would be the greatest advantage.


There you go ... five obvious perks for the calorie-challenged. Please don't be so harsh on us. We know we are overweight but please allow us to keep the fat and cut us some slack, will ya?

Giraffes Can't Talk

Here's an old story based on one of my first interviews for a teaching position which took place not too long after I graduated from university. Those of you who were already on my mailing list would have read this before:

I was supposed to attend an interview from 4.00 p.m. to 6.00 p.m. today. Because I wanted to make a good impression, I arrived almost half an hour early. No one was there to attend to me, so I stood like a 'dungu' at the reception counter for a few minutes. After convincing myself that I should only return at 4.00 p.m., someone finally led me to a room (it was actually a classroom). He sounded very apologetic and told me to wait.

Mistake no. 1; always carry something to read with you so that you don't appear to be too idle. I wished I had my Bible with me. Well, actually, any of my literature texts would do. Since there was nothing else to read, I started going through my certificates (There weren't that many to begin with). Within a few minutes, I was very bored again. I proceeded to walk around the classroom but it was a really small room and the only thing I saw was a notice: "SWITCH OFF HANDY PHONES" (I think they actually meant handphones).

I was very happy when someone finally came into the room. I thought that she was going to interview me. It turned out that she was yet another applicant. Just to kill some time, I thought of striking a conversation with her. I casually asked if she had come by LRT. She stared as if I had asked her to marry me or something of that sort. With her clipped accent and a quick look of disgust, she replied that she had driven there. She then took out a 3 inch book and started reading.

Mental note: the next time you meet another applicant, a smile alone would suffice. She looked so mature and was all dressed up. On the other hand, I was in my old 'auntie' blouse and a pair of sloppy slacks. Furthermore, my English was no where close to hers. Have you ever noticed any similarities between Phua Chu Kang and Tony Blair? (get the hint?) I admit that I felt so intimidated by then.

Finding nothing else to do, I exercised all my powers of imagination on my pen. I tried to picture it as an aeroplane. However, this plane of mine never took off from its airport i.e. my file because I was afraid if the other applicant should report of my insanity!

By the time the interview actually started, I had become very restless and couldn't care less about the job. They started asking all sorts of questions such as "What made you apply for this job?" I was contemplating if I should tell them the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I didn't think they would appreciate it, though. 

I should say that I was indeed being my true self throughout the interview. For those of you who know me well enough, you can imagine how disastrous it would have been. He saved the best question for last,

"If a student were to come up to you and ask what is simple present tense, how would you explain it to him?"

I took a full minute to figure out what simple present tense was. Try as I could, I just could not really decipher what he meant. I immediately thought of a sentence which I was teaching the kids in the tuition center that same week. Here's what I said:

"For example, the sentence 'Giraffes can't talk' is in the present tense because, giraffes still cannot talk. However, if a giraffe is able to talk now but not previously, we say that, 'Giraffes couldn't talk before this but now they can.' After all, can is the present tense of could."

The man looked confused but the other lady simply nodded her head and smiled. I still couldn't understand what had possessed me to use that sentence. I should've thought of simpler sentences like "I SWIM every day. I SWAM yesterday." That is, after all, what a typical English teacher would have done.

But you see, I was not any typical English teacher. In fact, I have never been and will never be.

I can hear you asking, "So, did you finally get the job, or not?" Well, well, well, do we have to state the obvious? =D

The Rare 'F' Word

Superheroes in action

Within the span of less than a week, I have come across many extraordinary heroes on screen. If you think I am referring to superheroes like Superman, Spiderman, Batman, and Cicakman who grace the Hollywood and local movie screens, you could not be more wrong. I am referring to ORDINARY human beings who chose EXTRAORDINARY responses to completely UNFORESEEN circumstances. To borrow Robert Frost's famous line in The Road Not Taken, ... "and THAT has made all the difference".

You must have heard of the saying, "Life is 10 percent of what happens to you, and 90 percent of how you react to it."

 

I agree with this statement 100 percent.

 

By now, most Malaysians have already been acquainted with the infamous (albeit for all the wrong reasons), steering lock wielding woman. Though she may have earned an invitation to the studio of a national radio station, anyone with at least half a brain knows that she is NOT the hero in this case. The true hero, ironically, is the senior citizen who accidentally grazed this woman's car bumper.

 

You may ask, why would the 'perpetrator' be hailed as a hero? After all, he was in the wrong for bumping into the rear of her car. Unlike his counterpart, though, this senior citizen did not think with his rear. Knowing that it was his fault, he was willing to pay for the damages. On the other hand, the steering lock woman went on a rampage and started swinging the lock onto the old man's car. Although it is likely that her response might have been triggered by some personal reasons, her action was highly unjustifiable.

 

I am not too sure how I would have reacted if an uncivilized individual were to bash my car with a steering lock, but one thing is for sure, I would not have been able to remain as calm as the old uncle. He was still reasoning with her in a fatherly tone, despite her seemingly irrational outrage. I am ashamed to say that I would have snapped long time ago!

Nonetheless, something good did come out from the 'apology' aired on the radio station. The old man, who professes to be a Catholic, said that his religion teaches its followers to FORGIVE others and he also wants others to forget about this episode. The plan to sensationalize her on air backfired when the uncle was given a full one or two minutes opportunity to share his testimony to thousands (and maybe millions) of listeners without any restrictions from religious authorities. Not only did he not press charges on her, he even implored the public to cut her some slack. This is a whole new level of forgiveness many of us have yet to learn.

Just two days after this steering lock fiasco and barely 5 months after the loss of MH 370, the entire nation and in fact, the whole world was once again shocked by the news of another MAS plane that had failed to land. The wounds of those who had lost their loved ones in MH 370 have yet to heal, and here we are, faced with yet another catastrophe. It was certainly too much for the nation to bear, let alone individuals with relatives, loved ones, friends, classmates, colleagues, and acquaintances on board MH 17 that fateful day.

When I watched the interviews aired on television, though, I seem to notice a consistency in the response of the family members. While the whole world is busy speculating, protesting, and pointing fingers at various parties, these relatives merely request for the remains and personal effects of their loved ones to be returned to them as soon as possible.

Perhaps the truth has yet to sink in or perhaps they are temporarily void of emotions. But then again, perhaps they have surpassed us, accepted the reality, and made up their minds to move on. Whatever their reasons may be, it was heartrending to see hear them responding, "But what else can I do? What can I do?"

I recall seeing three siblings who had lost their parents onboard. During the interview, the brother, who was the spokesperson for both his sisters, could only wish that the war would end and there would be peace in that area. Could it be true? These three siblings had just been forced to become orphans and yet they can be concerned about the welfare of that state? Most of us would probably choose to be bitter, angry, and even vengeful. How many of us would be able to wish for something good to emerge out of the cold murder of our loved ones?

I guess the scene that moved me most was the reply of a woman whose brother had just texted her saying, "the next time you hear from me, it'll be from Bali". Little did she suspect that it would be the last text she would ever receive from her brother, for he never made it to Bali. He could not even make it to KLIA. Yet, she explains that even if someone were to drag the person responsible for the shooting right in front of her, nothing she does to that person would ever be able to bring her brother back to life.

I have to admit ... that is a valid point.

In a world where the word EQUALITY has gained such prominence, we have become more and more obsessed with the idea of JUSTICE and FAIRNESS. No one likes to be on the losing end. It has been said, 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' These days, it is a case of 'if you hurt my eye, I will  hurt your eye AND your tooth!'

FORGIVENESS, therefore, is a rare quality today. There is, however, something we can all learn from these two incidents:

Sometimes, forgiving the person who has wronged us is the ONLY way to really move on in life.

The old man did not plan to hit into the younger woman's rear bumper; neither did family members expect MH 17 not to land as scheduled. Even so, their responses made a tremendous difference. Imagine if the old man had retaliated to the road bully's outrage by hitting back. The repercussions would have been even greater for BOTH parties. Likewise, no amount of hatred, finger-pointing, and compensation can ever bring back those who perished in MH 17.

Don't get me wrong: JUSTICE still has to prevail. No one has the right to take another person's life or to cause harm to that person. When we realize that we are not the rightful judge, we will know that JUSTICE and FORGIVENESS can co-exist in this world.

Personally, I find the act of FORGIVING as one of the toughest lessons in life. The world does not have much respect for the forgiving soul. In fact, the person who forgives is often regarded as a coward or an ignoramus.

I, however, choose to maintain this: we will never know how powerful forgiveness is until one day, we realize that WE have been forgiven.
 

For These, I'd Forfeit

3 years ago, if anyone had asked me to give up 3 months’ of my salary, I would tell that person to have his/her head examined. It was, therefore, very surprising for me to voluntarily request for 3 months’ unpaid leave from January to March early this year.  

I have never had more than a month gap between jobs. Whenever there was any long break back in my schooling and undergraduate days, I would recklessly grab almost any temporary job that was available, ranging from being a salesgirl in a gift shop to being a telemarketer in a hotel suite. I had always thought that I would eventually become bonkers if I were to stay at home for too long a time. Now, a decade later, I beg to differ.

Some time last year, my work life got way out of hand that I felt compelled to tender my resignation letter. My mind had become too muddled and I desperately needed a rest. A few friends and colleagues concluded that I was suffering from a severe burnout. In retrospect, it must have been the works of divine intervention that the Senior Management and I settled for a break instead. I wasn’t totally averse to the idea since it guaranteed me with a job to return to.

If I had given more thought to the idea of forfeiting 3 months’ salary though, I probably would not have had enough guts to do it. Nonetheless, I would definitely say that decision was worthwhile, for not only was I able to maintain my sanity, but I was also able to do these 6 things:

#6 Initiating this blog

As a kid, I had secretly dreamed of being a writer or a columnist. Somewhere along the way, I was told that writers will always be poor and ill-fed. Well, no one told me that being a lecturer would be even more pathetic! Anyhow, it was during the break that I had the opportunity to explore the world of blogging. I was even able to learn how to stitch photos together in a collage. Not bad for a non-tech savvy individual.

If not for the break, I wouldn’t have had time to write. A case in point, there hasn’t been any posts here ever since I returned to work, this being the first after an absence of 1.5 months.

#5 Learning how to cook

One of the things on my bucket list is to learn how to cook like my mom. While my skills are still miles away from my mom’s, I managed to put a few dishes together during the 3 months. Again, not too bad for someone whom my mom would normally kick out of her kitchen.

CNY snacks

 

A few dishes which were edible and caught on camera

#4 Driving for a long distance

Yet another skill that I managed to pick up during the break was long-distance driving. Before this, the furthest I have ever driven to was Port Dickson. I am neither the most skillful nor the most careful driver and driving with a stick is not the easiest thing on earth, too. Yet, within three months, I had driven to Malacca and Penang on two separate trips.

Malacca Trip

Penang Trip

One small step for mankind, one giant leap for Lilian Leong, indeed. One thing’s for sure, Penang is really really really far away if you have to drive all the way there…

#3 Travelling, experiencing a new culture, and learning a new language

At the end of January, my family and I took an eye-opening trip to Japan. It was a whole new culture there altogether. Prior to our trip, I picked up a few Japanese words so as to communicate with the locals when we were there.

I now know how to ask for directions to the toilet and elevators. I also know whether the meat that is served in front of me is chicken, beef, pork, or prawn. Just by listening intently to the announcement on the train, I will know whether the train door will open on the left or the right. And if I were attracted to a guy, I know how to ask if he was gay just to be sure we are on the same page.

#2  Learning to budget and allowing others to extend their kindness

One very humbling experience was learning to only purchase things within my own means and giving in to other people’s kindness. Even though I may usually draw a rather dismal income, I always had enough to pay for my own expenses (with a lil extra to splurge once in a blue moon). In fact, because I used to work while studying, I was privileged to play the more generous part and to treat my friends whenever we go out. This habit stayed even after my friends started earning way more than I did. Needless to say, it felt odd to eventually let someone else pick up my bill instead.

While I still managed to pay for my installments and insurance policies as well as the usual allowance for the house, I no longer fought for the bill if someone else offered to pay. During the three months’ break, I had also downgraded some of my usual purchases. I am proud to say that I did not need to touch my fixed deposit or to borrow money from anyone else. 

#1 Spending time with family and loved ones

Of all the blessings I had received during these months, I guess this would be the most meaningful and precious. When I was working, I hardly had any time for myself, let alone to spend time with my family members and loved ones. With nowhere particular to head to, I could finally make myself available whenever a family member or a friend needed me.

Yes, I truly enjoyed the time I was able to catch up with friends and relatives but I guess it was even more crucial that I was there in times of need. I was able to accompany a cousin who had to undergo a surgery, to be there for my aunt and her family when my uncle passed away suddenly, to visit a church-mate who became paralyzed after a stroke, to hang out with my cousin who came back from UK, and just to laugh and create more wonderful memories with my family members and friends.

Would I do the same again? Hmm … forfeiting 3 months’ salary is no joke on the pocket but if it means I get to keep my sanity and repeat the things mentioned above, I might just do it again, though not so soon.     

Great Expectations!

Much of life's disappointment stems from our ridiculously high expectations.

The other day, I took out a Chinese workbook meant for kids aged 3 to 5, in a rather embarrassing attempt to teach myself how to scribble a few Chinese characters. This was what I had learned, instead: If I were my own Mandarin tutor, I would have lost all patience with a student like myself. My blood would boil and I might just end up strangling myself ... 



Jumbo writing, indeed! 

All I had to do was to follow the dotted lines on the page, yet the pencil chose to be rebellious and had persistently refused to obey. It was as if the paper had put a charm on the pencil and lured it away from the dotted lines. No. It was not my fault that my lines did not coincide with the dots. It was truly the pencil's fault. Or maybe the paper. Or maybe the uneven floor.

All I had to do was to follow the dotted lines 

That got me thinking - nobody had expected me to write perfectly. There was no teacher or parent to punish me even if I were to produce the most horrible writing in the world. Why then did I get so upset and defensive? Truth be told, I have been like this since young. It's one of my many bad traits, I admit. If someone were to keep my record, this should be diagnosed as a severe DISEASE (not even a disorder) which needs to be eradicated, failing which may eventually lead to death, or insanity (whichever comes first). Too bad the eradication process is easier said than done. 

As far as I can remember, I have always scored averagely good results throughout my primary school years. In fact, I recall the distraught I put my family members through when I had my first B in Mathematics back in Standard Four. Not only had I shed buckets of tears, but I had also refused to go to school and was inconsolable for days, even though my aunt tried comforting me. I thought my world had crashed.

Paradoxically, the situation in secondary school eased a little as my studies began to deteriorate. Nonetheless, I would still stress myself silly to get relatively good results, albeit without having to study hard. 

At this point, you may think that my parents must have been slave drivers when it came to my studies. You cannot be more wrong. To put it a little crudely: My parents couldn't be bothered. What I meant was, they NEVER had to worry about my academic results at all. There was no need to put any pressure on me because I had already put enough pressure on myself. My brother had always been the problematic one in his studies. =) So problematic, in fact, that my parents were too preoccupied with his performance to dwell too much in my academic success. They had just assumed that I would do well eventually. And I usually did. Well, except maybe during STPM ... but that is another story altogether!

Someone once wrote that being born as a second (or third, fourth, fifth etc.) child in the family is like competing in a race, but you have to wait ten minutes at the starting line. I cannot agree more. 

While it may be rewarding to wait, watch, and learn from an older sibling's mistakes and blunders, it is equally exhausting having to keep up with the things they do and to vie for the affection that they had inherited as the firstborn. I did not know what I wanted to prove by doing well in school but I secretly thought my parents would surely love me more if I had scored my fair share of As. The irony, though, is this: the better my academic results were, the less my parents had to worry for me. Instead of getting more attention for performing well in school, I had relieved them of their worry and ultimately, their attention.

As if studies were not stressful enough, I pushed myself to do well in whatever form of tests I could lay my hands on. I tried my best not to fail a single piano exam. And when I was barred from sitting for my first undang (some theoretical paper for driving) due to my poor eyesight, I decided to make up for it by scoring full marks on the paper. Although the administrators at my driving school were surprised, I was not. It was, after all, another test in which I had expected myself to excel. If I were to hide behind the sugar-coated truth, I would just say that I was trying to give my BEST in everything I did;  

... but to call a spade a spade, I had gradually been consumed by a horrendous Chinese monster named Kiasu. 

Kiasu 

Definition of Kiasu

A pinch of kiasu-ism (if the term, indeed, does exist) goes a long way. Well, both ways, in fact. For one, it serves as a great motivator for success. In reality, Kiasu-ism and Great Expectations are merely siblings from the same parents. Behind each kiasu soul lies an individual with great expectations. Even so, without such expectations, one may not be inspired to succeed. Take the protagonist of Charles Dicken's Great Expectations for example. Given Pip's humble beginnings in life, he would not have become a refined gentleman in his adult years if not for his ... great expectations (even if his motives may sometimes seem thwarted)! If he were to live in our present-day Asian society, you would probably accuse Pip of being a kiasu, too, even though all he ever wanted was to be able to sing along with Robbie Williams i.e. "to be a better man".

 

On the other hand, when we set our expectations too high and place the doormat for the kiasu monster to move in and make itself at home, we set ourselves for even greater disappointment and discontent. Years ago I read of a 12 year-old girl who hung herself because she did not score straight As for her UPSR. It may have seemed like a big deal to her at that point of her life, but I wished someone had the chance to tell her that if she had only clung onto life a little longer, she would eventually arrive at a stage where she wouldn't care two hoots about her UPSR results anyway. PMR would also amount to nothing. And as long as one gets admission into college after SPM and graduates, the SPM cert wouldn't matter much, too. Even if one fails to graduate, that is not the end of the road. I can name many more people who contribute more to the society and earn more than I do, all without having any tertiary education to brag about. As an educator, it may seem rather 'blasphemous' for me to give such strange advice but I am merely stating the truth. 

I kept in touch with a boy who received his SPM results a few days ago and although he had 10As, he was a bit upset about the one B+ that he received. It is so easy for us to lose focus on the 10As we have in our pocket if we choose to look at the one B+ that in a way 'marred' the otherwise perfect result. This reminds me of the story of 99 gold coins. You can read it here: http://mythologystories.wordpress.com/2013/01/19/99club/

To cut the long story short, a king wanted to find out why his servant was so much happier than he was. His advisor suggested that he place a bag with 99 coins (not 100, mind you!) for the servant to discover. The rest is history as the servant began recounting the coins just to make sure that the 100th coin was not missing from the bag. He began to work doubly hard, became extra grouchy, and less of a human just to be able to top the amount to a complete 100. Yeah, that is what ridiculously great expectations can do to us, too. Wouldn't you agree that it is more disconcerting to score a 99 than a 96 in an exam where the full mark is 100?

I guess the worst damage that results from one's great expectations is not the loss of our own happiness and life, but more so the happiness and lives of our friends and loved ones along the way. We will know that the situation has gone out of hand when we begin to impose our expectations on others, be it in terms of education, work, or even relationship. Throughout the years, I have slowly learned (and am still learning) that it is not right for me to expect things/favours/accomplishments from others. If my students want to fail despite my best efforts, there is nothing I can do about it. If my best friends are not aware of the special treatment I have reserved for them, there is nothing I can do about it. If family members are not satisfied with what I do for a living, there is also nothing I can do about it. It does not pay to work myself up over how other people choose to treat me or to expect others to understand. But this is not an easy lesson to learn, I admit.




We are not potatoes but humans

Am I then suggesting that we should go through life with nary an expectation at all? Definitely not! We are not potatoes but humans. We are creatures who need to be challenged and motivated. Can you imagine waking up in the morning without any aim? (Yes, it may be a relief for a day or two, but what about a lifetime?) Nonetheless, as with everything else in life, it is always good to strike a balance between having no expectations at all and setting ridiculously high standards for us to achieve. Should we fail to do that, we better brace ourselves for greater disappointments in life.

Here's to a good week ahead!