Author: Fangjie

There she is – a top scorer,
7As in the bag and a bright future
tantalisingly lying ahead of her;
London-bound and on a full scholarship.

 
We started off on the same path –
Building sandcastles after school in the
run-down sandpit near our blocks and
our homework long forgotten and lost.

 
We grew up and attended the same schools;
Our parents nagged at us equally but
somehow she was always the top scorer while I
barely struggled to make it a pass.

 
We were best friends since young but
I don’t know what went wrong –
Somewhere along the way, somehow now
all the laughter is long gone.

 
What’s wrong, you ask me;
why aren’t you smiling any more?
something is bothering you, you say
but what can possibly be wrong?

 
Nothing, I say – absolutely nothing at all
I looked at your radiant smile and
somehow, I felt as if my problems were
too naïve, too unimportant to be cared for at all.

 
We stopped going out because you’re
always too busy – and every time I needed a shoulder
your phone always seemed not to be working so I
carried all these hurt like big, fat boulders.

 
Today, I sent you off at the airport –
you’ve packed your bags as if you’ll never come back.
And maybe, somewhere deep inside I knew; I thought
I’d lost you a long time ago and now I know it’s true.

 

I turned my body around and refused to look at you.

She’s saying something – her style so hauntingly familiar when she’s about to break some bad news to you. Her voice breaks slightly, and then I hear the same from you. My heart wrenches in pain and guilt from all those things I overheard the other day with regard to you. I want so badly to help you but I can’t – not when I’m as helpless as you.

Your friends gather around you, they’re giving constructive feedback and reasonable suggestions. They are defending you, maybe because they know better than anyone else how much this means to you. I know, I know too. I know you’ve spent all those late nights crying because you felt like no one was there for you. I know you missed out on last year’s chance so this year means the world to you. My heart breaks with yours when I saw what you wrote – but your voice was breaking, your hands shaking and I sit right next to you not daring to utter a single word.

You’ll have to make it through. You must succeed, I don’t know how else to say it to you. I won’t be there to see you on the day which I assume will be one of the best days of your life – but I know, and I pray with all my strength that God should see you through. 

I hate this. I hate not knowing how to help you. Heck, I can’t even help myself. She’s leaving in two days and I have no idea how I’m going to pull through the next two weeks. I feel like I have just lost a major source of motivation, humourous captivation and a massive emotional connection. Arguably, I feel a crippling sense of desperation. I can’t believe I’ve said none of these to anyone, how I let it slowly tear me apart even though I clearly know there’s no practical reason for feeling so much.

Tomorrow will be a better day – but after a thousand tomorrows I’ll still be saying the same thing anyway. 

Just let me be. I’m saving up on oxygen, lest the day will come and I will no longer know how to breathe.

The quietness in the morning is all I need;
your clicking away, body slanted slightly towards the front of your seat.
Brief “good morning”s and some strong coffee –
to make up for a horrible night’s sleep.

White walls, and blue doors;
Familiar (or not so) faces and grey halls.
Early morning ambience disturbed only by
the rattling of your keyboards.

There are a lot of things I wouldn’t say;
that’s how this place works –
a smile to the face but thundering
keyboard wars and incessant complaints.

Yet, something calls for me to stay;
a truth I’ve been wanting to hide from all the way –
no internet connection and my phone separated by numerous hallways, but I
feel your warmth and I want this pain to slowly eat me away.

Friday, 24th February 2017

I was a good student in primary school. Consistently ranked in the top classes, grades that never fell below a band 1/A*/merit for Higher Chinese. In fact, there was once that I scored a 30/60 for my Higher Chinese and it felt like my life was over. I couldn’t bring myself to have my parents sign the paper, but at last I did, and got a tongue-lashing so severe that my typical Asian kind of father could not sleep for the entire night fearing that his daughter was failing primary school. 

I graduated primary school with 3 A*s and 1A, with a merit in Higher Chinese, aggregate score 256/300. I viewed myself as a failure, a disappointment, a disgrace to my parents. My father was clearly dissatisfied, and my hopes of entering the most prestigious secondary school were more or less crushed.

I told myself, I am academically inclined enough, and I will do well in secondary school.

Eventually, I was posted to an Integrated Programme School, where students there did not need to take the GCE ‘O’ levels to directly progress to Junior College. These schools were very limited in Singapore, and only the cream of the crop of the entire cohort could enter these schools. Did it feel prestigious to me then? Actually, yes. At least, I felt “smart enough” to tell my friends and relatives that I went to a somewhat branded school, with somewhat decent islandwide reputation. Not the best, but still, very decent. 

I finished my first term in this school with a GPA of 2.2/4. I failed almost every single subject, else borderline scraping a pass. Come end of year examinations, I just barely managed to pull my GPA up to a 3.0, but I was soon to learn that throughout these entire 4 years of secondary school that my GPA would not exceed 3.3. Not so good. Not so good at all. But at least, I was average.

At the end of Secondary 4, we were given the important task of choosing subject combinations for Junior College. Think of what you want to do in University, they said. Triple humanities is a very risky choice, they said. I followed the mainstream cohort into taking a science stream, doing just well enough to take up a 4H2 combination of Physics, Chemistry, Math and English Literature. Everything was average. Things couldn’t get any worse. 

But it did.

Looking back, I can honestly say that Junior College was one of the toughest periods of my life. The first year was fine – I was the chairperson of my class, my rank points weren’t fantastic but it made do, I was in a relationship and I had plenty of leadership opportunities in that year. It was the second year – the final and most crucial year, that everything fell apart. The relationship ended up in flames, I was crying almost every single day in school. My rank points dropped below 30, I ended up on the par-list and I thought to myself, how the hell was I going to pass my A levels at this rate? My report card at the end of Prelims 1 looked like a S U U E S. Wow, that was literally below 50% for every. single. subject. 

Come Prelims 2, I really did work my ass off but I somehow still managed to end up with 2 ‘S’s and a U. I did manage to pull my literature up to a D, and my physics to an E, but still everything sucked, and if I were to finish my A levels with these grades I would end up nowhere. 

My mind was chanting so hard to me, you are a failure, you are a failure, you are a f*cking failure. I was so sure that I would fail my A levels, but with the encouragement of some friends and a select group of teachers, I pressed on, although I honestly had no idea what I was working for. I went for consultations almost on a daily basis, I stayed in school way past my usual timing and I resubmitted my work over and over again. It was tiring, it was pure hell. After all, why would you try so hard if you’ve been failing all these while? What are the odds of passing your A levels at all? 

7th November 2016, the first paper – General Paper. I have never passed my General Paper, although I’ve been told that I have a natural flair in my command of English. I’ve been told that my content was disastrous, and my formatting of essays sucked. I constantly wrote off topic, and as much as the marker would want to award me more marks for language they couldn’t if my content was absolutely atrocious. I tried so hard to keep on track during the actual paper. I tried so hard to keep my formatting and my content within acceptable range (or at least, as I personally deem them so). 

Come Literature, Physics, Math and Chemistry. Chemistry is the one subject that I have never surpassed a U grade in Junior College. It was the subject I had the least hopes for. I thought, even if I managed to pass the rest of my subjects, I’d never pass my Chemistry.

November 28, 2016. A levels were over. I have graduated from this school. I will not return again until the day I receive my results. Or at least, this was under the very unrealistic assumption that I will pass my A levels. 

I move on with my life, I manage to secure an internship opportunity at the prisons. Everything for a moment, went back to normal. 

Come the fateful day, 24th February 2017. I dreaded the arrival of this day. When I first found out that the results would be released on this day, I couldn’t even believe my bad luck because this year’s result release date was at least a good half a month earlier than previous years. It could mean that I would need to re-register as a private candidate to retake my A levels because I thought I had screwed up so badly.

I met my classmates whom I have not seen since graduation, they haven’t changed much except for their hair. I was the only one with tattoos on my body, and some of them were interested to see them. I dressed as conservatively as I could on that day, just in case. Anyhow, my tattoos can be easily covered with a T-Shirt so there really wasn’t much effort needed to hide them. 

I watched with immense pride as one of my closest friends went up on stage as she attained full rank points, and a beautiful portfolio. I felt so happy for her. 

At last, the moment of (not so anticipated) truth came. I held my School Graduation Certificate in my hands, my results were a flip of the cover page away. Another friend of mine whom I have known for 6 years offered to flip open our certificates together to view our results – I told her I wasn’t ready. But at last, I was. 

I flip open the file with trembling hands.

It was relief, it was not entirely euphoria but it was a huge sigh of relief. I’d gotten above 70 rank points, it was good enough for the course I wanted. I passed all my subjects with “good passes”, except Chemistry which was pretty much a borderline pass. It was okay. I was alive. It’s not the best, it’s nowhere near stellar, but it was good enough. I actually even got an A. I went from a S grade to an A grade for my General Paper. 

After all these moments of self doubt, I did well enough. 

I don’t think I’ll ever want to relive these JC memories of the intensely difficult moments of failing everything and feeling like I’ve hit rock bottom. I am so grateful to have survived, I am so grateful to have done decently, I am so grateful for all the support I had received along the way. Thank you.

Now finally, it is the official closure of my A level journey. It was a hell of a ride, I’ll never do it again, but hey – I survived.

My schedule has never been this tight.

Gone were the days where I could look forward to an early dismissal Tuesday, or a TGIF Friday even though it meant that I had to stay back for extra literature classes. Gone were the days where school was a 15 minute walk from home, and now every single day is a 1 hour 45 minute train/bus/walk. To and fro.

There are plenty of mixed emotions to be here, and to be very honest the amount of allowance I’m getting per month is in my own opinion much too less for the emotional trauma I am going through inside here. There are too many things I cannot say, too many opinions I must think through ever so thoroughly before voicing out, and frankly I feel like I’m constantly being put under surveillance – although this is very much inevitable considering the work environment. I have never conformed so much, and it doesn’t help that here your mouth is better kept shut than open. One wrong word, and your whole reputation is gone.

Nonetheless, I am grateful to have been given a chance to see the much harsher side of societal reality. I am heartened to know that these people are capable of love and compassion, and would give anything to start again. My personal heartbreak is nothing compared to theirs, and their strength in conquering their inner demons is something I don’t think I can ever imagine myself doing (Not that I want to). There are some things here I must do that seriously goes against my choice, but I have figured out that many of the harder decisions are emotional obligations – even to the permanent staff. 

This place can be a cold dungeon, but it can also be a warm place. The staff are genuinely nice, some I even relate to on a personal level, and I learn about their personal troubles working here too. Some you’d never expect to take on a job here, and some you wonder if they are made out of steel.

Nonetheless, three months ought to be good enough for a brief glimpse into the path that most would rather not venture in, there are the good, bad, and ugly – but this is society and not everywhere is all smiles.

Ever since young, the idea of tattoos and body piercings have always intrigued me in the most fascinating ways possible. I remember going to an Audi car exhibition when I was barely 4 years old and was given a temporary Audi logo tattoo that I loved so much on my skin, that night when my Mother washed it off me I was inconsolable in tears. I remember walking pass tattoo parlours watching grown men and women being held at the mercy of the tattoo artist’s tattoo gun, the buzzing sound of the needles penetrating the skin somehow didn’t scare me even though the looks of agony on their faces clearly said otherwise.

Then, I read that tattoos are associated with gangs and are often connected with violence and secret societies. “Good people” don’t do tattoos, and tattoos aren’t good. I read that the origin of tattoos came from gangs, but slowly became more popular in today’s society as a form of body art and self-expression. In a sense, a tattoo also symbolises your bravery in pain tolerance because as much as I am not afraid to get on the tattooing chair, tattoos do hurt. 

I was never really into the game of hair dyes, lipsticks or nail polishes, as were the more common body modifications and beautifying agents that society generally accepted. Cosmetic surgery is something I will never try as long as I am sane, and anything temporary just didn’t really appeal to me.

Come 2016, I’ve once made promises to someone that we would get matching chain tattoos on our wrists, but that dream that I once so looked forward to was scrapped and very thankfully so. Yet, my burning desire to get inked only became more and more overwhelming until the day just a few days before my first A level paper, I decided to get my first ink from an inexperienced artist. The ink wasn’t bad, but I will probably never visit her again because I have now connections with an experienced and fully licensed artist. I remember the first time I held my arm outstretched and being asked if I was scared. I told her to go ahead because there was no turning back.

The second the needle penetrated my skin, all the memories of my youth experiences came back. The Audi tattoo encounter, the familiar sound of the tattoo gun and the broken promises on the chain tattoos came crashing down on me. All the words I never said, all the emotions I thought I had bottled up for good came pouring down like a waterfall, so much so that I barely felt the pain even though the soreness hit me bad afterwards. 

Conservative Asian families and cultures, I was told to never get a visible tattoo and to date I still haven’t got past the mental barrier of getting my arms and legs tattooed even though I have 2 on my inner forearm and biceps. My internship in prison has given me a lot of insight on the tattoos the inmates have, and some of them really do tell a story.

Sometimes, I am insecure because of my education and family background. People don’t usually expect someone like me to get inked because it’ll supposedly “clash” with my background ideals. Nonetheless, I am tired of living under the facade of a “good kid” and as long as we have the rights of self expression, this is how I choose to do it because I’m never good at any other form. I can’t pull off the most basic things other girls my age can, because of my personality, because of my character. I am different. I am not ‘normal’.

I live by these insecurities that do haunt me even though I try my best to put up a confident outer image. I try my best, but these tattoos will come to me and I will embrace them with opened arms.

There are nights when my eyes won’t sleep. Nights when these thoughts prick and pry at my insecurities, bugging me to succumb to my failures.

There are certain reminders I don’t ever need, certain contacts I’d rather lose. Certain photos I wish I never saw, certain names I wish I never came across again. Certain memories I cannot seem to erase.

I wonder what thoughts went on through your mind. Perhaps, they didn’t race through yours like they raced through mine. Perhaps, you never did open the letter. My words can only travel as far as the paper that meets the eye. And you, you were never afraid to deny.

It’s been a long time since you crossed my mind. I’ve been very busy with my life – and hopefully you are with yours too. I live with the reassurance that you have forgotten me, and know that once I have completely exited your life, so will you, mine. The long train rides every morning take me right by your side, and in a flash I am gone, leaving nothing but your building behind. These empires of mine will see better times, the cataclysmic wreckage of the past year will be left behind.

————————————————————–

And for you, I still sleep with banana every night. I never threw away anything you gave me, sometimes I still wear your t-shirts at night. Perhaps it was because I’m lazy, but I never finished the chocolate cereal bars you gave me on my birthday. I still keep the scrap book because that’s what you were known for making, but you don’t hurt a single bit anymore.

We used to cling on to each other for life, but now we are absolutely unnecessary and unwanted to each other.

Let’s keep it this way, and I hope we never see or hear from each other again.

We took away each other’s firsts, but I am glad we will never be each other’s last.

—————————————————————–

These are the nights when my eyes won’t sleep.

Today, I found out that visible body art is not permitted within the premises of high-security areas owned by the government. These are things that my stubborn mind simply will not understand.

Your body is an empty canvas waiting to be filled with beautiful things. You lose your first kiss on your lips and you lose yourself between hot breaths and messy hair, sweaty mess and intimidating glares. You paint your nails and dye your hair, you spend three hours sitting on a chair just for that picture perfect moment and occasional stares.

Why then, are tattoos such a taboo? Tattoos are a statement of bravery, the highest level of body art commitment. They speak the words you have never dared to speak, they express the emotions you were too afraid to express. They are not violent. They were never violent. They were not supposed to be associated with violence.

My tattoo reminds me of all the things I ever needed to prioritize, it reminds me to be a human and against all odds fight to keep what’s mine. I am not ashamed, I am not afraid of my tattoo. If anything, I wear it with pride.

Some things I am probably too dumb to understand; but tattoos, they have always been all around me and one day they will be all over me.