'My boyfriend is SEM'

Attended this full day workshop on SEM - School Excellence Model - yesterday. Basically, I'll be attached to a team next year to do auditing of school practices.

During one twilight zone moment, this extremely passionate and enthusiastic trainer shared that there were days when she dreamt about SEM and she went on to declare that 'I'm single, so my boyfriend is SEM!'

Oh shit.

She reminded me of a dozen other ladies I have come across in the education service in Singapore. Late 30s to late 40s, well-put together. Highly intelligent. Organised. And completely brainwashed into giving their entire lives to the ministry.

NONONONONONONOONONONNNOONONNONO........ N O T M E.

I've decided to blog about this to remind myself to shake off any inertia and prepare to leave.

The Little Systems Robot who could..

Three intense days of strategic planning and systems review.

The scary thing is not that I can't do it, or that I don't understand the rationale for it. The scary thing is that I am good at doing all of this and I understand why our excellence-driven organisations need these structures - yet I think it will kill our spirits and the spirits of the children we teach.

Each time we precariously balance yet another structure upon this Babylon of 'strategic thrusts', we produce more paper work and erode whatever trust remains between colleagues. We try to measure the things that are unmeasurable - relationship , morale , learning - and in so doing we inevitable take life away as we dissect and probe.

And I am part of this. I dutifully apply my brains to SWOT analysis and systems proposals, dutifully vet SEM reports for review flaws, dutifully provide feedback on key leverage points.

It feels like I am prostituting myself.

Maybe that's why I feel like shit after these 3 days. Not because I am mentally drained (though I am) but because I am contributing to the shitloads of crap spiritless work that my colleagues have to plough through next year. Me with my smart little brain and efficient meeting of deadlines.

Fucking hell.

Panic attack in midst of meeting yesterday, when talk turned to monitoring of the paper usage of teachers in individual departments, in order to cut down on paper costs.

You fucking want me to get teachers to report to me how many worksheets they use and why?!?!?!?!?

I need out.

It's not just about the foolish focus of individual leaders. It is about the culture of systems that dominates Singapore.

I need out.

2008.

On my father's 66th birthday

I've been working on my nanowrimo (national novel writing month) project - of the coming of age of a 13 year old girl. Once again, my reach seems to be exceeding my grasp, but no matter, I must press on.

Was locked out of the house today (Where the fuck did i put my keys? Still can't be found, and now Ma wants to change all the locks. Urgh.) So I loitered about and finally decided to go to the kopitiam and manually write bits of my novel.

All throughout the day, at various points, I remembered that if Daddy was alive, he would be 66 today.

At the kopitiam, I wrote this :

' The Chinatown open air market was a lot quieter than what I had expected. My most vivid memory of it was the Chinese New Year’s Eve when I was in Primary Two, when Daddy had brought Ma and me to the market after our reunion dinner. It had been so crowded that everyone could hardly move. I was holding on to Daddy’s shirt in front, Ma ‘s hands were on my shoulders, masses of bodies around our little family train. Then - I remember the exact moment Daddy lifted me onto his shoulders and suddenly I could see everything – a sea of bobbing black heads, a million red and gold lights from all good things, streamers and bakkwa and cushion covers and angbaos; and Daddy holding Ma’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. I guess I had expected the market to always be that magical. But as Ma and I trudged past lethargic stallholders and endlessly repetitive decorations limp from the afternoon heat, I felt disappointed and increasingly irritated.'

It's made up. Not a real memory. But I kept trying to remember if there had been a moment like that for me, for us. I couldn't remember.

Did I make it up because I want to idealise my memories of him? The 13 year-old part of me probably does. But the adult part of me is scared that I remember wrongly, that I'm so continually irritated with Ma because of this wrong remembering, these unfair comparisons.

I wanted to cry when I wrote 'and Daddy holding Ma’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd'. Maybe because I don't recall him holding her hand. Maybe because I feel more sorry about Ma than daddy, even though it's his birthday today. Maybe because so often, I feel that Ma is lost in the crowd, and I don't know how to lead her, or I don't bother to.

I'm sorry Ma.

I've been daydreaming about the dedication at the front of the book, if it ever gets published. One of the dedications will be : To my daddy, Roosevelt. Someday I'll get to tell you all the things I never said.

I haven't figured what my dedication to Ma will be.