My First Day in Maktab Perguruan

The moment Papa put the long-awaited letter from the Teachers’ Training College into my hand,  I knew that the brightness of my future depended on its contents.  I had been denied admission into the college thrice and one more rejection would have crashed my confidence.

                               My hands were shaking with anticipation as I tore open the envelope.   I was scared by the possibility of seeing the phrase ‘Regretfully we inform you that you are not accepted as a trainee teacher’ in the letter.   It had taken me months to get over my sadness the last time I was turned down from the application.  With bated breath, I unfolded the letter and read it.  The first line of words that greeted me was: ‘Please be informed that you have been accepted as a trainee teacher for the English course in the Teachers’ Training College.’

                               I could not believe my eyes and read the opening again. To my sheer relief, I did not misread the words.  With a cry, I erupted into joy.  My dream had come true. The acceptance convinced me that I had not been wrong in choosing the teaching profession as my vocation.

                               “Papa,” I said in a burst of excitement. “ Maktab has accepted me as a trainee teacher!”

                               “Praise the Lord,” said Papa, making a sign of a cross.  His eyes mirrored his fatherly pride.

                               I wiped my eyes and said, “Ya, all glory and honour be to Him.  He has answered my prayers.”

                               “When should you register at Maktab?” asked Papa, in a voice full of concern.

                               I read the letter again and found that all newly-accepted trainee teachers should register at the Teachers’ Training College on 1^st July 1994, 8.00a.m to 5.00p.m.

                               My head jerked up in shock.  Wasn’t today 1^st July?

                               “Papa,” I asked. “What’s the time now?”

                               “It’s 11.00a.m,” answered papa.

                               “The registration is today,” I gasped. “And I have to report at Maktab immediately.”

                               “Are you sure?” asked Papa.

                               “I am!” I shouted in a paroxysm of impatience.

                               I dashed into my bedroom and dug into the disorganized mess of my personal files.  I ferreted out all the required documents and put them in a large envelope. Then, I left for the Teachers’ Training College in a taxi called by Papa.

                               The Teachers’ Training College was situated at Bakam Road, a twenty-five minute drive from my home on a moderate speed of sixty miles.  Facing a stretch of pine-fringed sandy beach across the highway, it was far from the zest, vigor and stir of Miri Town.   When I entered the college through its gate, wide stretches of well-mowed lawn hemmed in from side to side along the main driveway. The grand assembly hall, the place where the registration of new trainee teachers was held, rose majestically among trees and shrubbery on the far end of the road. There were hostels several yards behind the hall. I wondered how it was like living a communal life with hundreds of fellow trainee teachers.  On the way to the hall the taxi also passed by two large tennis courts. Were they of international standard? Would I have an opportunity to play tennis on any of them during my training in the college? My heart was brimming with joy. Everything boded well for me.  I was sure there were a lot of fun and surprises in store for me in the college.

                               I snapped out of my reverie when the taxi drew up in front of the assembly hall.  After paying the fare, I walked out of the car and made my way towards the assembly hall. There was an inquiry counter on the left hand side of the entrance.  A girl and a boy in smart blazers were sitting there, casually chatting with each other. I came up to the girl and asked her in English: “Good morning,   I am a new trainee teacher for the English course.  May I know where I should register myself?”

                               The girl grinned and said, “Welcome to the Teachers’ Training College.  Enter the hall and proceed to Counter PI which is on the right hand side.”

                               “Thank you, “I said.

                                As I was about to turn on my heel, the girl made me stop in my tracks with a question: “Aren’t you Lo Sin Yee?”

                               “Yes, I am,” I said, baffled.  “How did you know my name?

                                “Can’t you remember me?”said the girl, switching to Chinese.

                               I scrutinized the girl’s face, trying to recall where I had seen her.  She had a short, wavy hairdo.  Skimming over her thin eyebrows were slightly tousled side-swept bangs.  Her slanted eyes had a mischievous glint to them.  Her delicate nose and lips matched her oval face well. All of a sudden I detected some trace of familiarity on her face.   Several years before the face had been a plumper one bordered by curly, shoulder-length hair. Though looking more mature and beautiful, she still carried the same air of cheerful ease.

                               “Are you Kee Yu Hui?” I asked.

                               “Yes, you are right,” said the girl, turning to the boy next to her. “Sin Yee is my school mate in St. Patrick. He’s very good at Art.”

                               The guy did not say a word, sizing me up from head to toes with a smile.

                               “Nice to see you here,” I said, feeling embarrassed about Yu Hui’s compliment. “How long have you been in the college?”

                               “I have been here for two and a half years,” she replied. “I will be graduating end of this year.”

                               “That’s great!” I said. “I hope I’ll have no problem to graduate.”

                               “You will, “Yu Hui said. “As long as you put your mind to it.”

                               “Yu Hui,” the guy cut in. “What an arrogant friend you have.”

                               “You are right,” Yu Hui said. “He flaunted his knowledge of English before speaking Chinese to me.”

                               “You misunderstood me,” I explained earnestly. “I thought it was polite to speak in English. Besides, I did not recognize you in the first place.”

                               The two people exchanged glances and dissolved into laughter.  Embarrassed, I took leave and hurried into the hall.

                               There were many counters inside the assembly hall.  In every one of them, a pair of mentor desks and a pair of mentee desks were positioned against each other.  I stopped at the English Counter.  The mentors were an elegant Punjubi lady and an austere-faced Chinese lady.

                               “Are you a trainee for English?” asked the Punjubi lady.

                               “Yes,” I said.

                               “Give me your IC,” demanded the Punjubi Lady.

                               I did as what I was told and she scanned over a list of names with my identity card in her hand.

                               “You are not in my class,” declared the Punjubi lady, passing my identity card to her neighbour. “You are in Madam. Mitty’s.”

                               “Thanks.” I moved over and stood in front of Madam Mitty, the Chinese lady.

                               Looking at me icily over the rim of her glasses, Madam Mitty said, “Sit down.”

                               I sat in front of her obligingly.  A rhombus of sunlight fell across me from the upper portion of a stained glass panel on the wall.

                               “Show me your academic certificates,” ordered Madam Mitty.

                               I took out all my documents from my envelope and put them in a pile on Madam. Mitty’s desk. Some were frayed at the edges.

                               “How disorganized you are,” said Madam Mitty, browsing through my documents. “You should have shown me one whole file, with every original certificate on one page and its photocopy on the other.”

                               “I am sorry,” was my shameful reply.

                               “Not only that,” said Madam Mitty, glaring at me with disapproval. “Your documents have not been certified yet.  What a remiss on your part.”

                               “Sorry,” I stammered. “I did not read the calling letter properly.”

                               “As a future teacher,” said the lecturer, with emphasis in her voice. “You ought to have read through the instructions in the letter properly.  Today’s occasion calls for good self discipline. Being observant to instructions is part of it. You are not even dressed  properly.”

                               “You should wear a tie, a long sleeve shirt and a pair of slacks,” explained the Punjubi lecturer.

                               “I’m sorry.” I bowed my head in shame. I must have looked sloppy in a faded T-shirt and a pair of well-worn jogging pants.

                               “Where is your luggage?” Madam Mitty asked.

                               “I do not bring anything with me,” I said.

                               Tapping her desk, Madam Mitty gave me a stern look and said, “All new trainee teachers have to move into the hostels this evening. Don’t you know that?!”

                               The Punjabi lady shook her head and said, “Mitty, what a mentee you’ve got.”

                               Madam Mitty snorted, “Ira, it seems that all bad ones come to me.”

                               I kept on saying sorry effusively, hoping to burrow into a hole to hide myself.

                               “Now let’s see what you got for English,” said Madam Mitty, looking at my SPM certificate.

                               “What did he get?” asked Madam Ira, there was a hint of contempt in her voice.

                               “Only a C4,”said Madam Mitty, smirking. “It is poor by Malaysian standard. Not many of my mentees obtained an A1 and an A2.”

                               “I am more fortunate,” gloated Madam Ira. “Most of my mentees scored an A1 and an A2 for their English.”

                               “Alas!” exclaimed Madam Mitty.”Before teaching my mentees how to teach, I have to polish their English first.”

                               I felt very unfair to be labeled as poor. I had been voracious in reading several years after having left school. I believed my current proficiency was much better than before.

Suddenly, Madam Mitty became quiet. Something in my certificate seemed to have arrested her attention. She smiled at me and said, “You scored an A1 for your History. Why don’t you change your option to History?”

Madam Ira nodded and said, “Mitty is right. I think you can do a better job as a History teacher. Not many people can handle the teaching of English well.”

Madam Mitty added, “With the switch, you will spare us one big trouble.”

I shook my head and said, “No, thanks. Being an English teacher is my ultimate goal.”

Rolling her eyes, Madam Mitty returned me my certificates and said, “Now go home and get a Grade A government officer to certify your documents.  Then come back here and pass everything to me.”

                               With a heavy heart I took a bus home. Papa could not believe his ears when I told him about my negligence. After changing into proper attire and packing my clothes into a luggage bag, Papa took me to the office of a government officer friend. I had all my documents certified there.  Then, I took a taxi back to the Teachers’ Training College.  Having submitted my documents to Madam Mitty, I proceeded to the Chinese Community Counter to sign up as a Chinese Club member.  There were two girls at the counter, one petite and the other tall. They gave me a form to fill. It did not take me long to fill in my particulars.

                               The petite girl read my form and said, “According to what you have filled, you like singing.”

                               “Yes,” I said, mustering a smile.

                               “Entertain us by singing a song,” requested the other girl.

                               I blushed and mumbled my reluctance.

                               “Come on,” coaxed the tall girl. “You are going to be trained as a teacher. Don’t feel shy to sing in public.”

                               “May Ping is right,” said the petite girl. “You should do your seniors’ bidding. Sing us a song.”

                               Having no choice, I cleared my throat and sang a Chinese folk song.

                            “I’m traveling on a skiff across the wide sea,

                              The azure sky and the turquoise waters are my friends,

                              With the aid of the gentle wind I rowed my boat

                              Towards the merging point of the sky and the sea

                              The seagulls fly above me, singing me a song of courage

                              My spirit is soaring high among the clouds

                                All my worries disappear beneath the undulating sea…”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

                               The two girls clapped their hands, cheering, “Bravo, bravo!”

                               A smattering of clapping also rose from the neighbouring counters.

                               Raising her thumb, the tall girl said, “You have a rich, powerful voice.”

                               The petite girl nodded and said, “Madam Chong Pek Lin will be glad to have you as a new choir member.”

                               “Thank you,” I said, grinning from ear to ear. It was the first time I felt happy in the college today.

                               I bade the girls goodbye and lugged my bag in the direction of the warden office.  It was housed in the corner of the administration block.  Half way along the roofed corridor, I was waylaid by a fat Chinese girl and three Iban boys. 

                               “There he is,” The fat girl said in Malay, pointing her finger at me. “The cocky one!”

                               “Where do you think you are going?” said one short boy, blocking my way with his outstretched arms.

                               “I’m going to collect my room key,” I said. “Can you let me pass?”

                               “Wow!” The short guy exclaimed theatrically. “See how arrogant he is.”

                               A dark guy said, “He looks down on us, holding himself high and mighty.”

                               Their noise attracted quite a number of students to rubberneck at us.

                               Composing myself, I asked, “What do you want from me?”

                               The short guy bellowed, “Maktab is such a noble place.  It is not for a cocky person like you!”

                               The girl said, “We are all your seniors. You should respect us!”                                                Bearing down on me, a beady-eyed guy said, “You bastard, don’t you know that it is polite to call us senior brothers and senior sister?”

                               I staggered backwards and said, “Leave me alone, please.”

                               My plea was met with jeers and catcalls.

                               “Ha, look at that coward,” said the fat girl, with asperity. “Groveling shamelessly to us like a sissy.”

                               I felt so insulted that I became speechless.

                               The short guy growled, “Who are we? Where is our greeting!?”

                               “You are…..,” I stammered, my tongue dry and my breathing rasping against the walls of my lungs.

                               “Louder!”

                               Trying very hard to keep my body from shaking, I said, “Good afternoon, senior brothers and senior sister.”

                               “Kneel down now!” commanded the short guy.

                               I hesitated. Many people were goading me to comply.

                               “If you don’t,” sneered the fat termagant. “We won’t let you go.”

                               I could feel my ego disintegrating.

                               One by one, I kneeled down at their feet.  All the onlookers roared with uncouth laughter. Among them were Kee Yu Hui and a few male lecturers. They were thrilled by how the four people browbeat me into submission.  Instead of watching the show, the lecturers could have used their authority to stop the senior trainees. Why didn’t they come to my rescue? Was Yu Hui the one who had told the bullies about my supposed arrogance?  Why was I here? What had motivated me to be a trainee teacher? Nothing could efface the indignity of being publicly shamed.  

                               When I had got my room key, I rushed into the hostel and was relieved to find that I was the only occupant of my room.  My room-mate had not registered himself in the college. I selfishly hoped that he would not turn up.  My room was nondescript and dusty.  A window could be found in the northern part of the room, with two writing desks arranged separately on the left and right corners.  In the southern part were two built-in cabinets on both sides of the door. The top could be used to store books while the bottom could be used as a wardrobe.  Interposed between the desks and the cabinets were a bed against the eastern wall and the other against the opposite wall. There was only a small space for moving around in the middle.  After unpacking my things, I sat huddled up on the bed against the western wall. Recalling what had happened to me earlier on, all my pent-up feelings burst forth in a sob of anguish.  I buried my face in my hands, an intense tremor of grief shaking through my body.  Why did I let the vile seniors torment me in such a humiliating manner? Why did I yield to their will? Where was my self-worth?  Why was I so weak?  “Crying is not a sign of wimpy weakness.”Mama’s advice came unbidden into my mind.  “It is a good way to unburden you from sorrow.  Through tears courage arises and we will be armed with a stronger tenacity to face tomorrow.”

When I stopped crying, I felt as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders.  I got off my bed and crossed myself.  Being calmer and more collected, I found myself dirty and sweaty.  I decided to take a shower to make myself refreshed.  Stripping to my underwear, I walked into the shower room with a towel wrapped around my waist.  What with so many slim, average-sized and athletic-built boys in the dank place, self-consciousness came over me and I felt bashful about my fat body.  I unwittingly sucked in my stomach to make it less paunchy.  My 220 pound body was like a ball of flesh, a hippopotamus among ducks and chickens.  All sorts of negative feelings came into play within me. “You fool! Why are you feeling negative again?” I said to myself in an inaudible voice. “Do not let this petty thing defeat you.” The self-chastisement made me less embarrassed. After all, everyone in the shower room was half-naked like me. 

It took me nearly fifteen minutes to get into a shower stall.  There were simply too many people in the room.  I scrubbed myself as soon as possible.  Gone were the days when I could dilly-dally with time in my shower room.  Every minute and second was precious in the college. I finished my shower in only a few minutes and my place was quickly taken by a Malay boy.  The next thing I did was washing my clothes.  In a race against time, I only used a little washing powder.  Too much of it would make rinsing time-consuming and difficult. I pegged all my washed clothes on the congested drying lines outside.   I managed to catch a shuteye in the private comfort of my room before queuing outside the hostel for dinner.

                               While ‘marching’ to the dining hall with other new trainee teachers, we were harried by a few barracking seniors.  With the previous harrowing experience fresh on my mind, I greeted all of them subserviently. Some trainees had to submit themselves to the demand of sniffing shoes and slippers.  “We are your super seniors,” a barrel-chested, bespectacled senior called Roland said. “Anything belonging to us deserves respect!”   He was large by Malaysian standard, looking intimidating with his six feet one.  He was please with himself for evoking fear in us.   There was nothing respectable in his character. He and his accomplices were typical sadists whose only motive was to sate their craving to humiliate the weak. You can’t shape a noble character through bullying. Anything done out of spite spawns vindictive hatred.

                               A rule in the dining hall dictated that everyone should enter the building barefooted. So, a motley confusion of slippers, sandals, flip-flops, shoes and whatnot was left outside the sliding doors. We lined up waiting for the kitchen hands to scoop rice and dishes onto our trays. The spicy aroma of curried chicken filled the entire hall. I felt a deep pang of hunger stab me in my stomach.

                               When I reached the food distribution counter, a scrawny male kitchen hand portioned out a hillock of rice, a sliver of chopped chicken breast and some mustard greens onto my tray.

                               I protested, “Why did the girl before me get a larger chunk of chicken?”

                               The male kitchen hand said, “You are so big. You don’t need that much chicken.”

                               “It’s not fair,” I groaned.

                               “Stop complaining,” said the man. “I can give you more mustard greens.”

                               With that he scooped a generous amount of mustard greens onto my tray. The vegetable looked yellowish and limp.  I hated to be fobbed off in that manner.

                               Boys and girls had to dine in separate territories.  Any one seen sitting with girls would be harangued and ‘relocated’ to a different table. Our seniors also warned us against sitting according to our own racial groups. Hence, each table consisted of multi-racial trainees. Having exchanged greetings with the boys at my table, I shoved some mustard greens into my mouth with the urgency of hunger. However, I almost vomited the vegetable out. It was not only overcooked but greasy, salty and gritty with sand.  There was also a touch of unpleasant metallic taste to the leaves. While chewing, something cracked in my mouth. I spat it out and saw a tiny, broken snail.  It made me so ill with disgust that I decided to stop eating the dish.  I tasted the chicken but was turned off by its blandness.  The morsel of meat which almost came off the bone had no succulence and firmness at all.  How I missed my Papa’s cooking.  If I were at home, he would surely have cooked a simple but delicious dinner of porridge, stir-fried spinach and steamed minced pork patties. The only tolerable food in the dining hall was the rice. I gulped it down with the help of water to get rid of my hunger.  “Terrible meal,” remarked a peeved Melanao. “It reminds me of slops”.  His comment elicited affirmative nods and knowing chuckles around the table.  “I could cook far better than this when I took up cooking at the age of ten,” A sturdy Bidayuh boy named Christopher said to me, sotto voce.  I gave him a wry smile and continued conveying plain rice to my mouth.   After eating, I rose from my seat and joined the tray-washing queue at the back of the dining hall. Like me, most of the trainees consigned the mustard greens to garbage bins. Many kitchen hands shook their heads and berated us for being too picky about food.  When I came out of the dining hall, darkness had descended and it almost consumed all the last rays of twilight. My enthusiasm for life in the college was reduced to a flicker. I was desperate for the warmth of my home. God, was it a sin to complain nonstop? All my attempts at self-motivation failed. “Keep your chin up, Tai Tai,” I said to myself.

                               There was an assembly for all new trainee teachers at 7 p.m. that night. The hall was filled to its capacity.  Its fully-lit interior made the tall stained glass panels on the walls look iridescent from the outside. Below them were a series of side doors. The fanlight on top of each door beamed like a half moon.  We sat according to our majors.  Right before our seats was a well-decorated stage.  Along its octagonal edges were blue, glossy clothes which had been folded and pinned in an overlapping pattern.  On the backdrop were seven gold-dusted words which read: ‘Welcoming Ceremony for July Intake Trainee Teachers’.  The letterings and decorations gave the stage a grand and formal look, albeit a little gaudy.  When the master of the ceremony announced the arrival of the dean with her entourage of lecturers, we rose and gave them welcoming claps.  The dean, Puan Zakiah Haji Omar, looked dignified in her light purple Malay traditional headscarf and gown.  She was my former principal at SMK Lutong, the school I had attended for six years before going to St. Patrick.  Known for her strictness and charisma, she was one of the most influential figures in Sarawak’s world of education.  I was glad to be her student again. After a brief prayer session, Puan Zakiah was invited to give a speech.  She began with positive, encouraging words: “All praise and glory be to Allah the Almighty for the presence of three hundred new trainee teachers in this evening assembly. Welcome to the family of Maktab Perguruan Sarawak.  You are all the future teachers we are proud of.” At that very instant, clapping erupted throughout the hall.  When it subsided, the dean went on saying that there was nothing as noble as being a teacher because his or her mission in the world was to educate the younger generation to be future leaders.  “We are all the servants of Allah,” said the dean in her well-articulated voice. “We help Him to counsel the trouble-hearted and direct the disorientated ones to the right path.”   Puan Zakiah also advised us to respect the lecturers. “They are highly qualified educators who are concerned about your well being,” said she. “They drill and guide you to be qualified teachers with their unequivocal commitment. Respect them by giving them full cooperation.” Madam Mitty and Madam Ira sat in the front row on the stage, looking incomparably distinguished with the air they exuded.  A lot of lecturers seemed to be blasé about the whole thing.  They must have attended too many occasions like this.  When the dean’s speech was over, she walked down the aisle and left the hall with the lecturers in her wake.  Elated and motivated, I looked forward to the next session with high expectations. However, the bad treatment we received from 9.00 to 11.00 p.m. dampened my spirit.  The prefects forced us to stand and cup our hands behind our ears throughout the speeches of the head male prefect and the head girl prefect.  “By standing like this, you will be more alert and attentive,” said the head boy prefect.   Of course, it was easier said than done.  The posture gave us extreme soreness in the shoulders and elbows as time slipped by.  If we lowered our arms under the strain of pain and tiredness, other prefects would stride over and animadvert upon us as ‘disgracefully slack’.  I wondered if the seniors themselves were able to hold the posture for the same length of time as we did.

 “As far as my observation is concerned,” continued Hamzah, the head male prefect, in a cocksure way. “Many of you are cocky. What you don’t know is that there are many people   who are more capable than you are in the college. Hence, we will conduct ‘hazing’ on you. Our main objective is to purge you of all undesirable qualities in the first week of your training in the college.”  I grimaced at the words ‘hazing’ and ‘purge’.  They caused a feeling of inexorable doom to well up from the pit of my stomach.  “Hamzah was spot on with his observation,” said Siti, the head girl prefect. “Hazing is a rite of passage for all freshmen to go through.  The seniors, be they prefects or ordinary trainees have the right to discipline you. None of you can question our authority because we have been empowered by the dean to instill the values of obedience and humbleness in you.  You have to obey us, whether you like it or not!”  The firmness in her voice intensified my anxiety. It was apparent that every Tom, Dick and Harry could haze us.  What madness! Couldn’t the dean see that irresponsible seniors might abuse and usurp the power?  I had had an awful encounter with some fiendish seniors earlier in the afternoon and their so-called corrective action had nothing constructive at all. Was hazing a trend to discipline freshmen in all Malaysian colleges and universities?  Did it serve educational purposes? It should be excised at its root!                                On our way back to the hostel after the assembly, a knot of raucous ruffians let fly a torrent of abuse at us. They called us knuckleheads, twits, prigs, wimps, mother-ridden kids and the like.  A trainee from Pahang did not greet a curly-hair senior and he was pushed down on all fours.  Refusing my help, he scrambled to his feet with pain in his eyes. Pinpricks of blood swelled on his palms under the glare of a lamp post. The gravel along the crudely-paved ground must have caused the cuts.  Pale from the restraint of anger, he bowed to the senior and offered him a greeting. A smug, villainous smile spread across the monster’s face and he let him go.  I could not help muttering execrations.  The senior trainee had gone overboard.  He rankled me with his flagrant disregard for the injured boy’s feelings.

                               All of us were told to sleep at 12 a.m. However, the senior prefects were bent on making the night a hellish one for us.  We were awakened several times in ungodly hours by the wails of loud hailer sirens and the banging on our doors. The culprits ordered us to gather outside the hostel and do silly calisthenics such as pushups and hopping in the cold of the night.

                               At 3a.m, the head male prefect promised to grant us an uninterrupted peaceful slumber.  He told us to wake up before seven the next morning. There would be a mass aerobic on the basketball court before breakfast.  I heaved a sigh of relief and schlepped back to my room.   Before turning in, I said a prayer to God:

                               “Lord, I am tired and overwrought.  I have experienced the whole gamut of emotions today.  I can’t bear all this bullying. My life is now like a walk along a trail full of thorns and snares.  I am too weak to seek justice for myself.  People trample on me at will, treating me like dirt. Be the master of my thoughts and actions, O Lord. I have just crossed the threshold of the teaching profession and I don’t want to quit and disappoint my parents. Give me a steely determination and a persevering heart to complete my three-year-training here. Unto you I submit my whole-self. Amen.”

                                                                              END