19 Aug 2007, ST
While there is a lot of ranting online, why is voicing your thoughts without the cloak of anonymity bound to raise hackles?
By Cheong Suk-Wai
IN THE past week, I have been thinking a lot about a girl in the rain from my childhood.
I remember her because it seems I was the only one among her schoolmates to stop and ask her one day why she, all of seven years, was standing in the middle of our school field as a drizzle turned into a downpour.
I was nine then, but couldn't tell whether the streaks down her face were from raindrops, or her tears, but I did know what my mother would say if she found me like so.
'You will catch cold and fall ill,' I told her, parroting my Mum. 'I'd better take you back to class now.'
She refused to budge.
But after some prodding on my part - and possibly to get rid of me - she told me that two prefects had ordered her out into the field because she was always late for school.
Hmmm, I thought, I'm quite sure risking being hit by lightning in a thunderstorm was not the penalty for tardiness.
And I knew the girl to be among the clutch of kids from the rubber estates ringing outside my town who cycled about 5km to school every morning, usually on empty stomachs. (It was my father, whose job included inspecting said estates, who had told me this, not the girl.)
The girl went on to name the two prefects, who were my seniors, and who both had mothers who taught in my school.
Now, you would think, that should have been enough to deter me from marching to my headmistress' office and demanding that something be done about the big bullies, right?
Well, I admit I did pause to think - but only because I wasn't exactly the pet of Mrs H, my headmistress. I had been stupid enough to argue with her some weeks before when, as I was reading from my primer about Brer Rabbit, she corrected my pronunciation of the word 'lettuce' (I always said 'lattice') to 'let-tews'.
'LET-tews, LET-tews, LET-tews, silly girl,' she admonished.
'But,' I protested, 'my father says it's 'lattice'. And can't we say it both ways, Mrs H? 'Cos 'flour' can be 'flarh' or 'flower', right?'
She went quiet at this, and I 'lattice'-ed on regardless.
So, there I was in Mrs H's office, dripping with rain myself and protesting hotly that students should not be bullied even if they had broken school rules. (Yes, I was quite the lawyer buruk.)
She summoned the two prefects, whose scowls at me meant that I had better watch my back from now on, and made the girl come in from the rain.
The confrontation ended quickly enough, with Mrs H deciding that if the girl in the rain was not complaining, there was no proof that the two prefects had put her out there in the first place.
She also asked the prefects to warn all their ilk that if they made their schoolmates stand in the rain from now on, they would have to stand in the rain with them too.
That's it? I thought then, dragging my feet out of Mrs H's office. That's all?
Oh boy, I decided. I had a lot of growing up to do.
I STILL do, as it turns out.
Recently, I have learnt that a person whom I considered a friend had blackmarked me to people I care about because I have apparently committed a slew of inexcusable social boo-boos.
Thing is, the person did so without telling me why my boo-boos were considered boo-boos in the first place, let alone checking with me first why I had apparently meant to offend her (I hadn't, really).
Permit me to leave out the details of the spat, but suffice to say, it was a clear case of pot calling the kettle black.
My one big mistake was to complain long and loud to my circle of friends about how black The Kettle's deeds seemed to be.
I spat it out thinking that everyone should be used to people thinking out loud by now, what with all the soul-baring and bitching that is rife in cyberspace these days.
Apparently not, as it turns out, because what followed was that most people I knew thought The Kettle right and that The Pot (me) was as black as black can be. (Shameful I know.)
Doubtless, I had broken one of humanity's biggest unspoken rules - never complain, never explain, the point being that if you had to choose between hurting a person's feelings and easing up on your principles, it is better not to hurt a person's feelings.
But how is it I was the only one being chastised?
'Take it easy,' a good friend e-mailed me, signing off with a smiley to cheer me up.
'Don't carry a bag of rotting potatoes,' went another cautionary e-mail, putrid potatoes being a metaphor for the burden of hatred. 'Love a person even if you don't like him or her anymore.'
Two other friends took me to lunch and dinner respectively, hearing me out over long hours and reminding me that people hate only because they fear. Too true.
Usually, I would just let things be. The truth will out some day, I'd say, brushing things off, not realising that, by doing so, I was not respecting myself (so why would others?).
But, somehow, for once I didn't want to be like my schoolmate, standing in the middle of the field in the rain.
So, last Tuesday, The Pot called The Kettle up and had the long talk we should have had well before our bags of emotionally rotten potatoes began to stink.
As human nature goes, we have agreed to disagree, although I doubt we will move on very far.
Still, peace has settled in my heart because, by letting The Kettle know I understood and forgave the fear, at least I have come in from the rain.
While there is a lot of ranting online, why is voicing your thoughts without the cloak of anonymity bound to raise hackles?
By Cheong Suk-Wai
IN THE past week, I have been thinking a lot about a girl in the rain from my childhood.
I remember her because it seems I was the only one among her schoolmates to stop and ask her one day why she, all of seven years, was standing in the middle of our school field as a drizzle turned into a downpour.
I was nine then, but couldn't tell whether the streaks down her face were from raindrops, or her tears, but I did know what my mother would say if she found me like so.
'You will catch cold and fall ill,' I told her, parroting my Mum. 'I'd better take you back to class now.'
She refused to budge.
But after some prodding on my part - and possibly to get rid of me - she told me that two prefects had ordered her out into the field because she was always late for school.
Hmmm, I thought, I'm quite sure risking being hit by lightning in a thunderstorm was not the penalty for tardiness.
And I knew the girl to be among the clutch of kids from the rubber estates ringing outside my town who cycled about 5km to school every morning, usually on empty stomachs. (It was my father, whose job included inspecting said estates, who had told me this, not the girl.)
The girl went on to name the two prefects, who were my seniors, and who both had mothers who taught in my school.
Now, you would think, that should have been enough to deter me from marching to my headmistress' office and demanding that something be done about the big bullies, right?
Well, I admit I did pause to think - but only because I wasn't exactly the pet of Mrs H, my headmistress. I had been stupid enough to argue with her some weeks before when, as I was reading from my primer about Brer Rabbit, she corrected my pronunciation of the word 'lettuce' (I always said 'lattice') to 'let-tews'.
'LET-tews, LET-tews, LET-tews, silly girl,' she admonished.
'But,' I protested, 'my father says it's 'lattice'. And can't we say it both ways, Mrs H? 'Cos 'flour' can be 'flarh' or 'flower', right?'
She went quiet at this, and I 'lattice'-ed on regardless.
So, there I was in Mrs H's office, dripping with rain myself and protesting hotly that students should not be bullied even if they had broken school rules. (Yes, I was quite the lawyer buruk.)
She summoned the two prefects, whose scowls at me meant that I had better watch my back from now on, and made the girl come in from the rain.
The confrontation ended quickly enough, with Mrs H deciding that if the girl in the rain was not complaining, there was no proof that the two prefects had put her out there in the first place.
She also asked the prefects to warn all their ilk that if they made their schoolmates stand in the rain from now on, they would have to stand in the rain with them too.
That's it? I thought then, dragging my feet out of Mrs H's office. That's all?
Oh boy, I decided. I had a lot of growing up to do.
I STILL do, as it turns out.
Recently, I have learnt that a person whom I considered a friend had blackmarked me to people I care about because I have apparently committed a slew of inexcusable social boo-boos.
Thing is, the person did so without telling me why my boo-boos were considered boo-boos in the first place, let alone checking with me first why I had apparently meant to offend her (I hadn't, really).
Permit me to leave out the details of the spat, but suffice to say, it was a clear case of pot calling the kettle black.
My one big mistake was to complain long and loud to my circle of friends about how black The Kettle's deeds seemed to be.
I spat it out thinking that everyone should be used to people thinking out loud by now, what with all the soul-baring and bitching that is rife in cyberspace these days.
Apparently not, as it turns out, because what followed was that most people I knew thought The Kettle right and that The Pot (me) was as black as black can be. (Shameful I know.)
Doubtless, I had broken one of humanity's biggest unspoken rules - never complain, never explain, the point being that if you had to choose between hurting a person's feelings and easing up on your principles, it is better not to hurt a person's feelings.
But how is it I was the only one being chastised?
'Take it easy,' a good friend e-mailed me, signing off with a smiley to cheer me up.
'Don't carry a bag of rotting potatoes,' went another cautionary e-mail, putrid potatoes being a metaphor for the burden of hatred. 'Love a person even if you don't like him or her anymore.'
Two other friends took me to lunch and dinner respectively, hearing me out over long hours and reminding me that people hate only because they fear. Too true.
Usually, I would just let things be. The truth will out some day, I'd say, brushing things off, not realising that, by doing so, I was not respecting myself (so why would others?).
But, somehow, for once I didn't want to be like my schoolmate, standing in the middle of the field in the rain.
So, last Tuesday, The Pot called The Kettle up and had the long talk we should have had well before our bags of emotionally rotten potatoes began to stink.
As human nature goes, we have agreed to disagree, although I doubt we will move on very far.
Still, peace has settled in my heart because, by letting The Kettle know I understood and forgave the fear, at least I have come in from the rain.
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