If you ask any Singaporean kid about secondary school, they’ll tell you about Co-Curricular Activities—or CCA, the bane of every lazy student’s existence. Back in Secondary 1, I couldn’t be bothered to submit my CCA option form. I thought, no news is good news, right? Maybe they’ll forget about me.
Big mistake.
Because I didn’t choose, the school system automatically dumped me into the Chinese Culture Club. I wanted to play sports or do something outdoors, but instead, I was sentenced to three afternoons a week sitting in a stifling room trying to appreciate Chinese calligraphic arts, tea ceremonies, and traditional music.
And to make matters a hundred times worse, the teacher-in-charge was Ms. Huang.
She was a PRC teacher sent over on an exchange scheme, and one look at her face, you’d know instantly: absolute witch. She had high, sharp cheekbones, paper-thin lips that were permanently pursed in disdain, and eyes that looked through you like you were dirt stuck under her shoe.
For some reason, the moment I walked into the room, she decided I was Target Number One.
Maybe it was because my Mandarin was atrocious, or maybe it was because I clearly didn’t want to be there. But Ms. Huang made it her personal life mission to make my life a living hell. She was constantly picking on me to do the most absurd, useless tasks.
“Hey, you!” she would bark in her piercing, high-pitched Beijing accent. “Go wash the tea sets! Every single cup must be dried and polished before 5:00 PM!”
While the other students were comfortably practicing their Chinese ink painting, I was bent over a sink in the toilet, scrubbing clay teapots. If a single drop of water was left on a porcelain saucer, she’d make me re-wash the whole tray.
And the punishments were endless. If I was two minutes late because my math class ran over, she’d make me stand at the back of the room holding heavy wooden calligraphy paperweights at arm’s length for half an hour. My shoulders would burn, tears stinging my eyes, while she sat at the front, calmly sipping her Pu-erh tea like some ancient imperial inquisitor.
“If you cannot respect Chinese culture, you will learn discipline!” she’d sneer, shaking her head.
I hated every single second of it. I hated the smell of the ink, I hated the clanking of the teacups, and above all, I absolutely loathed her. I counted down the days until Sec 4 just so I could be freed from that hellhole.
Fast forward fifteen-plus years.
Today, I’m doing well for myself. I’m comfortable, financially secure, established in my career, and living a life where nobody can force me to scrub a teapot or hold paperweights ever again. On paper, I’ve “made it.” People say school days are the best days of your life and that you should let go of past grudges.
Honestly? Bullshit.
Even today, whenever I drive past that stupid secondary school campus, or whenever I smell cheap Jasmine tea, my blood boils a little bit. I haven’t forgotten the pettiness of that power-tripping teacher, nor have I forgiven the school system that randomly dumped me into a nightmare just to fill up a quota. Some memories don’t fade, and some teachers don’t deserve a pass just because time has gone by.