We all woke up early, Enzo, Ate and I. Today is Phase 3 and last day for Singapore’s Primary One Registration Exercise, the only day left for children who are not citizens or Permanent Residents of this country. That is our category. Enzo has turned six and there is no other way for him to enter school come January 2008 if we miss this process.
Being last in the pecking order, I can only wait in frustration and dismay while primary schools recommended by friends have either disappeared from the on-line list (yes, there’s an on-line update of available slots) or they simply do not do Phase 3. With whatever is left, one can just say, “whatever.” But as I am, without shame, an academically-inclined parent, I had to choose the one with the best annual competitive scores.
Ate, Enzo and the nice sidewalk...
If there is one thing Singaporean’s are so obsessed about, it would be sending their children to the RIGHT school. Nothing abnormal, I share the same passion. While this, to me, is a normal parenting exercise, in here it IS a ballgame. Much like managing a football team where tightly-lid strategies are carefully laid-out. There is no other goal but the championship which, in this case, is getting there FIRST. Stories abound of mothers doing volunteer work for years just to get a slot in a very reputable school. Or of camping out on the queue the night before.
“Kiasu” that’s how they call this attitude. An online dictionary on Singlish says, in Hokkien, it means “to be scared to fail” and due to the varying degrees Singaporeans would manifest this, its connotations can mean something that is very endearing, to one that is outright derogatory. Very much a part of the Singaporean DNA, you would also witness this whenever new HDBs (their public housing) open to the market. People line up a day before. They bring food, water, collapsible chairs, little cushions, and chatting partners whose more important role is to serve as a “linebacker” whenever nature calls. Oh, there can be an endless list where being kiasu can be evident.
Nevertheless, in a country where students “fit” for university are determined early on and follow a different stream of education; and where the government and the society, in general, hold in high esteem and give real merits to the brightest, I think kiasu-ness is very understandable.
So this morning, armed with a stern advice from Singaporean friends, I had to be kiasu and I had a big plan. Ate, "my linebacker," left the house at the crack of dawn, traveled 15 minutes to West Coast and, with whatever glint of daylight, navigated the streets with confusingly similar signs. The school is at West Coast Avenue but this avenue is not so straightforward after all… it would disappear somewhere and you would come across a West Coast Road… West Coast Lane… West Coast Drive… West Coast Walk… West Coast Terrace… West Coast Grove… West Coast Rise… I’m not joking!
Ahh… such costly digression! She lost a good 15 minutes! But as I was as kiasu as I can get, such scenario was carefully anticipated. And when she finally got there, we were rewarded with THE stub with the big, fat number “1” on it. Hah! Ate told me that a few minutes later, a Singaporean arrived and had disbelief written all over his face upon seeing her at the first row chair holding THE coveted stub.
First in the finish line!
Dragging along a visibly sleepy Enzo, I arrived just in time, when the tables opened at 8 a.m. We were back at home, before 9 a.m., victorious... and drowsy.
