Roots

Yesterday, in a burst of nostalgia, I visited my Primary School with Son No 2, who is already on holiday. This was something that I wanted to do for years, but I never got down to doing it. The primary school holidays have started and it was an opportune moment to visit the school without disturbing the students.

My first memory of the school was when my late father brought me here for the registration when I was 6. I had earlier been registered in the Bukit Bintang Girls' School in KL but since we were going to shift to PJ, my father had to pull strings to get me into Assunta Primary which was the best girls' school in PJ at that time. I don't have a lot of memories of my father and this was the only outing I ever remembered with my father, who died of a stroke in October that year.

The school building is much like how it was 30+ years ago. For such an old building, the maintenance is commendable. The most noticeable difference is that the driveway is now bumper-to-bumper packed with cars. These belonged to the teachers as I realised later that they were having a staff meeting during the school holidays.

As I stepped into the school compound, I realised that everything has shrunk in size. As a child, the surroundings looked much bigger. The school field, the canteen and the hall were actually much smaller than I remembered.

The first place I passed by was my Standard Two classroom. The door was opened and I walked in. During my time, this was the only classroom in the whole school with yellow-painted steel chairs and tables arranged in rows. It was a very cheerful classroom. Now, the furniture has been replaced with plastic chairs and wooden tables. But this classroom will always bring back memories of my best friend at that time, a girl whose name I can still remember vividly in my mind. She holds a special place in my heart because she is the one who introduced me to the world of books. She lent me an Enid Blyton story book and as I struggled through the pages (the only English I read up to then was the English Reader that we used during lessons), I was drawn into another world.
From then on, I remember the gifts I requested for when I did well in school were always books. Two of my first possessions were "The Boy Next Door" and "Hurrah For The Circus", both by Enid Blyton. The latter was a gift from my Cousin Peggy - it just goes to show that a book gift is a treasure that lasts forever (is that a slogan from MPH or Times?!)

As I toured the school with my son, I remembered all my teachers - Mrs Chew, Cik Rusiah, Cik Sayang, Cik Sharifah, Mrs Bala and Puan Hajjah Maisarah - who taught me from Standard One to Standard Six. It's funny, but ask me about my high school or JC teachers, and I can only give vague recollections - I would have forgotten many of their names, maybe I can recall some of their faces. Worse, my varsity lecturers hardly left any impression in my mind, I only remember those who were involved in scandals, like that lecturer who purportedly was having an affair with a student! But when I dream of teachers, it would be these primary school teachers that appear in my dreams.

And when I dream of school, it is this old primary school building that I dream of - the wide gently-sloping stairs (see left) where the Standard One students would gallop uninhibitedly to reach the canteen, the huge Standard Five classroom that overlooked the nurses' hostel next door and the doorways at the hall (below) where we sat and played Five Stones during recess.

Even the Prefects' notice board (below) was at the same place, though the notices are in Malay now.

Those were the days.

As I luxuriated in the past, I wondered whether there is any value to sentimentalism?

In Singapore, my high school has been upgraded and transformed beyond recognition. The varsity hostel, where I stayed for four years and where I met my husband, has been torn down to make way for a new highrise hostel-building that can cater to the needs of varsity students today. The tangible value-addedness of such actions is undeniable and obvious to all. Nevertheless, I have never felt the compulsion to visit any of these places. There is nothing there for me.

But here, the pull to visit the old primary school building is irresistable. I feel a sense of connectedness to the past and as I explained my memories to my Son No 2, it was like cementing the bond between generations. How important is this sense of history? I don't know. All I know is that while change is inevitable, it is good to have some balance. And as a mother, I am glad I can share my roots with my sons in a most tangible way.