Lashing storms

Just the other day, I chanced by a shop that sells rattan art and crafts. Interestingly, what caught my eye was not the beauty of the myriad of cane curios and knick-knacks. It was a long unassuming vase at the left corner near the entrance of the shop. Sticking out from that vase were different rattan canes of varying sizes. Thick solid canes of an inch in diameter, light-colored medium ones and sword-thin cane switches that could whistle when waved through the air.

It was during that moment of examining these canes, that a ghoul of my past revisited me. I remember the year all so clearly. I was only eight.

For most Asians, excelling in studies is important although there may be different reasons attached to it. My foster mother believed that image and appearances must be seen as successful and so she emphasized that we maintain a high standard of excellence in our studies, no matter what level of studies or age one is at.

So, I was in trouble after my final examinations at the age of 7. I had been placed in the top class when I began school. However, I guess because of the problems of trying to find enough money through part-time work, my grades slid. So, I was demoted to the second class for the following year.

I remember when I brought home of my report card. I knew in my heart that I was in for a tirade and a sure sound beating with the thin cane which customarily lashed and marked my back and buttocks. I was so naive.

For my jailor had greater plans. She told me that she was personally going to be involved in helping me with my schoolwork. She vowed to help me rause my grades up throughout my Primary Two year and until I was reinstated in the top class again. Sounds great, right? A personal tutor and extra coaching. Dream on....

My foster mother's version of tutoring was indeed out of this world. She devised a nightly schedule. After dinner, I was to sit in my room and complete all my homework assignments. Then, I was required to revise all that I had studied in class for that day.Mind you, revise is used specifically and intentionally here, not read nor refresh.

This is because when I had finished, I had to call her in to the room and show her what I had done - homework and studies. She would then go through my homework with a fine comb searching for mistakes. I would be given one chance to rectify them. If they continued to be wrong - I would savor the stinging flavor of the cane.

Part two of the tutoring, would be the drill of my day's studies. I was made to stand by her left side, within reach while Mr Cane lay on the right. For every wrong answer, the cane would "worm" the right one from me. In gross exaggeration, it was akin to the interrogation that enemies apply to the spies that they have caught - to get them to spill the beans!

Of course, the tears would flow. It certainly did not help the recall of information stored within my memory banks. I do not know how my foster mother thought that Mr Cane would help speed the retrieval of stored information just escapes me. As quickly as the cane came in contact with me, the more the tears flowed and the faster the facts soared out the window. The nightly saga only ended when she became exhausted or I was totally collapsed in incoherent pile of tears. Then, like a wounded animal, I would climb into bed, with my back curled against the cold wall that was like a soothing balm to my hot stinging back and amidst tears, drift off into slumber.

So began the vicious nightly cycle nightly, question, answer, caning, tears, more wrong answers and more caning. It just went on and on from Sunday to Friday! Week in and week out. It was not "Thank God, it's Friday" for me but "Thank God, it's Saturday", my off-day from the "prison".

Jesus had 39 lashes and Apostle Paul had 39 lashes multiplied by 4. I lost count of the number of lashes through that year. All I can recall is that it was always raining lashes and from me, it was raining tears. Of course, I had moments of reprieve - such as public holidays and term breaks. Since there were no active lessons on, so the schedule was laid aside. Then, there were also times when my mother went outstation or for functions and whatever entertainment, she chose to indulge in while leaving us all at home to fend for ourselves. But that is another chapter that will unfold along the way.

Yes. Must not forget that as part of my "improve the studies" process, my TV watching hours were limited or as added punishment for shoddy studies, became a privilege that could be taken away. Not only that, depending on how she judged my level of improvement in my studies, the level of housework would also increase or decrease accordingly.

I dreaded coming home each day and honestly, would drag my feet home. I would use the excuse of the slightest rains to delay my return from school. In fact, I would ensure that I left my umbrella or raincoat at home.

Do not think that a day go by, that I did not entertain the thought of running away or committing suicide. Yet, where could I have gone? With no money and no place to stay, running away was not a viable option.

You know, with such motivation as the need to avoid pain, my grades began to climb. In fact, at the end of the year, it was even good enough to earn me third placing in class. Of course, the reward was a promotion to the top class for the following year and a school prize at assembly.

In reflection, I see my prize as a paid tribute to the marks etched on my back, tears and pain for that year. However, my soon pride turned to tears when I unwrapped my prize. It was a book that sent me into tears all the way home. What was the title of the book? Cinderella! Ironically, the book described my life to a T.

Thereafter, I made sure that through my entire primary school days, although the plotting of my monthly grades moved like the likes of an E.C.G. reading, it always pointed upwards after the final year examination. And I made sure that I made it to the top class yearly. Under the threat of the rain of lashes really.

In fact, one of my teachers, who was my class teacher for two consecutive years and took an intense dislike for me ( I was too vocal for my own good, I guess ) would enjoy plotting my grades on a large 4ft x 3ft piece of cardboard. She would after every monthly test, made it a point to draw the class' attention to my grades.

Then, she would ridicule and mock me. Even when my grades soared for the final examinations and I would fare better than her favorites, she would find a way to jibe at me. I really detested her for this. Now, I have forgiven her, understanding that she was actually a small person with small character and a bully, just like my foster mother.

Besides, the last I heard of this teacher was that her husband, an Englishman divorced her, some three years after I left primary school. The word off the grapevine was that he could not stand her bullying at home. I guess what one sows, one reaps.

That is why, I can be gracious, for I have experienced much grace from God in my life. What am I talking about? I am alive, aren't I, despite all I have had to endure, That alone is grace enough for me.