We did a mini-unit on Norway.Fara ( dd8) wrote a poem (unassisted) which reflected her thoughts while viewing a video of fjords on youtube.
MIST
“The mist sails,
The mist covers,
as the sun rises,
it’s a whole new day for surprises.
The mist shades the sun.
It strips the sun of its glory,
and covers the gold ball till it sets.
The whole day is gone,
The new story is tomorrow”
There has been some discussion about culture and history in the homeschool newsgroup that I subscribe to. It was sparked off a comment made by a professor in an article in the newspaper. The professor claimed the following: “”It is my gentle reminder that parents need to expose
their children to the Malaysian culture, and the different races in Malaysia.
With modules from abroad, there are no elements of our local culture so children
miss out on learning about their country and its history.”"
Responses from homeschoolers have been more or less the same, except for one or two deviant reactions. The consensus seems to be that culture is all around us and therefore one cannot help but take it in, like air or water.In addition, there are calls also to expose our children to culture, embodied in museum visits, watching cultural performances and exhibitions. One or two talked of their participation in community projects.
Well and good. Yet , there seems to be something missing from the plethora of opinions. The first has to do with the definition of culture itself. What is culture? Is it something that’s all around us? And if it is, where are we ‘located’- in terms of place and identity? If you live in an upper-middle class neighbourhood and interact predominantly with English-speaking, Chinese Christians in a church setting- the question then is to what extent this is representative of local or Malaysian culture.
The next question that begs to be asked is – what is it that constitutes Malaysia culture? What does it mean to be Malaysian?Shouldn’t we be talking about Malaysian cultures instead?
I for one, would like to draw the distinction between cultural appreciation -the museum visits, the cultural performances, the whole works- and active participation in society. In the former, you are the spectator, even when you try your hand at batik painting or Chinese calligraphy. On the other hand, active participation in society places you -the parent, the citizen, the person- in the ring. You choose to assert your responsibility to affect the society that you live in. For some, that might take the form of socio-political activism, voluntary community work or participation in community events. For others, it might take on something on a ‘minor’ scale- asking your lonely neighbour for ‘teh tarik’ or ‘dim sum’, doing storytelling for a playgroup, looking after your Malay or Indian neighbour’s house for the weekend.
At the heart of the concerns about culture and history is the question of apathy. I for one don’t take too kindly towards those who get all fired up over a human rights march but who, for most of the week can’t be bothered with the needy person next to him/ her. It just doesn’t add up.
So , how does one learn about one’s country? By participating in community. Be a good neighbour. Look out for others, whether you’re in the park, in church or in the mall. For goodness’ sake, don’t live in a Christian bubble that encases church programs, church people and leaves everything and everyone else out. Listen well. Learn the local languages.Read the official textbooks.Then put that aside and talk to people- grandparents, ah cheks and ah chims. Find out about the rich oral history that our ancestors passed on from one generation to another. Find out about how other peoples here conceived of history. Be respectful. Be kind.
So, in one sense you cannot isolate yourself from culture because you are part of society. However, you can become disengaged from the culture around you simply because you choose to be a spectator instead of a participant who can affect change, no matter how small. I for one, have decided for my family which posture we are taking. We’re walking with the full force of the wind beating against our faces and the rain sailing upon our backs.
I must admit, I began facebooking with more than a thwack of snobbery. Frivolous pursuits. Frittering away precious time with inconsequential minutae like “Hey, this is what I had for dinner ” (picture of lobsters slapped in sauce on table) or “Went to the grocery store this morning” (no pic of exciting store) or “Can’t wait to watch BGT! ” ( youtube video of some one yelling his spleen out). I made up my mind not to do anything more than get the contacts of some old friends and be out of there in no time.
But I stayed. And posted similar insignificant messages. And reconnected with old friends. In short, I’m becoming a facebook groupie but only in the sense that I’m beginning to understand more about human communication; and why small talk -often cursed as low-status “women’s talk” – has so much value in the fostering of human relationships.
And of course, I get to see some really wonderful pictures taken by talented old friends!
“One short sleep past, we wake eternally,/And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.”
(Donne)
Here’s a poem I’m working on:
“I’d like to think on Easter Day,
you’d be spending a whole weeks’ pay
on drinks for the boys and jokes
for the gals.
Leaning on elbows
with leaves in your sleeves
you’d talk of
daffodils, yellow
and full,
bursting -dancing on that
self-same hill,
where the gentle poet walked
and waited until,
the day had passed and the
sparrows still-
and make us long
for home.
I’d like to think on Easter day,
you’d be with us,
steeped in earth and mud
and blood ;
not velcroed in cloisters
of polished steel.
Clay
cup
holding
You.
Thank you
thank you
for not being
syrup contained in
tinkling glass cupcakes.
Happy Easter Daysies.”
Today, I had the opportunity to co-teach at a church-run tuition centre for underpriveleged children. It has been a long time since I experienced the teacher-student dynamics of a classroom. Eleven years ago, I was teaching five classes of forty to forty-five teenagers per classroom. There were lesson plans, record books, worksheets and whiteboard dust floating everywhere in the midst of the noise, the adrenaline and the heat of the typical Malaysian public school classroom. Perhaps it was my youthful idealism of wanting to “change the world” , or the intensity of my upbringing that gave me a sense of mission- for I found that those hours with my students inspired , drained, refreshed and challenged me to a measure matched only by the task of parenting that I would encounter later after I’d walked along the corridors of public school for the last time as a secondary schoolteacher.
Today, my pupil was a 6 year old girl who could write A-Z (both capital letters and regular letters), spell ‘yes’ and ‘no’. She was the only one under my ‘care’ today. We spent the two hours learning how to read “I like “, “I don’t like” and “I can” by drawing, talking ( me asking and she, answering) and playing short games like “pin this tag on things you don’t like , like smelly shoes and rubbish). When “class” was over, she skipped merrily off to the playground and pounced on the swings together with her sisters and friends.
I can’t quite understand it, but I so enjoyed the experience of being with the children, even though I taught only one of them today. Intan’s enthusiasm was infectious : ” I can jump “, “I can skip”, I don’t like kasut busuk” . How I loved it when she could read the those simple words!
When I reached home and my two rapscallion dears grinned at me- my heart was full with gratitude: thank You for Easter!
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