TURNING POINT WORDS A s e m i- a u t o b i o g r a p h i c a l e s s a y b y V e r n e S e r P a k Y e e
Tick-tock.
15 minutes passed. I sighed after checking the clock again. The words that came out of the teacher’ s mouth were unintelligible. I stared at the blackboard absentmindedly with a pen spinning around my fingers. Her voice began to fade into the background as the ticking of the clock grew louder. Tick-tock. I glanced around the classroom, finding my classmates were zoning out as well. Some of the girls were picking their nails, twirling their hair, and some of them were asleep. I rested my head on my palm and gazed out at the cloudless sky while waiting for the bell to ring. That was how I spent my days of my junior years in secondary school.
I was sorted into band 3 school because I failed my core subject. My school was infamous for its poor academic results and discipline problems. The sight of police cars outside the main gate would not be surprising. I was reluctant to go to school since it appeared to be a waste of time. Half of the teachers were indifferent and would read the passages from the book until the class was finished, and the other half had given up out of frustration. I used to wear a sweater regardless of the weather because I could cover my school badge with it. I would even lie when someone asked where I studied. To make matters worse, all my cousins were from traditionally prestigious schools. It was impossible to avoid being compared to them. I did not change my attitude about my school until I met my Chinese History teacher, Mr. Lee. He was highly praised by the senior students. That was also why I chose his elective. Part of me wanted to prove he was an overrated teacher who was no different from the others. Yet, I was wrong.
The first day of class, he walked in with a guitar on his back. He was in his mid-forties. Only a few strands of hair were on his round head, and he had a flappy stomach. My classmates and I often teased that he had a face of the Buddha. His voice would remind someone of a quiet, soothing tea house which played nothing but classical music. After introducing himself, he distributed the lyrics of a song to us.“ I don’ t know what you think of your futures. It’ s not too late to start working hard now. But once you begin, either give all you can, or quit,” he said before he played. His words rippled across my mind. Should I quit? Would that be a better choice? I tossed and turned in my bed that night as these questions screamed in my head.
His lessons were filled with laughter. He could turn tedious historical events into the most intriguing stories. One of his methods was to compare them to trivial family arguments. I would burst out laughing sometimes remembering his jokes during revision. He told us to forget about textbooks, mocking that they were designed for examinations but not learning. Therefore, he would make his own notes and write essays on possible exam questions. When he first delivered those 3-inch-thick notes to us, the whole class was shocked. A thought surfaced simultaneously in our heads,“ We don’ t need to recite all of these do we?” Having known he also needed to manage school orchestra after school, we wondered at his efficiency. He ridiculed,“ How can I scold you lazy-bones if I sit back and do nothing?”
Despite his light-hearted personality, he would be strict when we could not fulfill the tasks, especially if we did not put effort in them. He often emphasised the importance of critical thinking which other teachers might think was too demanding for us. He showed his faith in us and disappointing him was the last thing I wanted. Thus, I
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