I had only been in my new primary school for an hour before deciding that I hated it.
There was a bevy of crying children clamouring for their parents to stay with them, and a boy had burst into tears after he had seen me write my name with a flourish and found himself incapable of doing the same. My teacher had said my name wrong, again, after I had reminded her for the 10th time of what it was. Even worse, I had been put in a Mandarin class with a group of people who had never learned Mandarin before, forcing me to endure days of chanting one, two, three and heads, shoulders, knees and toes in mandarin, which I could do in my sleep by two years old. There was no homework, and teachers rarely shouted when scuffles broke out, preferring instead to talk to each child separately to find out what they could do to resolve the situation. As a Malaysian-Chinese kid from a local kindergarten, all these things made little sense to me – I was born and bred in a culture where I had to always be number one. This competitive nature didn’t just disappear at my new school – regardless of whether it was academic achievement or personal excellence, I wanted to be the first to carry out each task and complete it. Music, reading time, sports, even hopscotch at breaktimes: you name it, and I was at the top, relentless in my pursuit of perfection at school, barrelling through any opposition like the chariot in Chinese chess.
It was not until I cruelly took my friend’s place in class was I given a lesson in humility. She was chosen to be the first one to ring the afternoon bell – a treat reserved for well-behaved students. Disgruntled at not being chosen, I decided to ring the bell before she could. Later, when I saw my friend crying, my chest seized with guilt – it was my fault that she was upset. Shamefaced and regretful, I apologized and promised the girl that I would never do it again.