Friday, March 25, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Media Resource Library - Getting Ready for May-June Moving to New Site in SHSS - March Holiday Break
and which to remain on the shelves.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
SHSS MRL gears up for EL-MRL Week 2011 Readers' Theatre Performance - Practice Session 1 - 15 March 2011 - 0900 to 1100 hours
The readers - both Mrs. Grace Toh and MRL students - Nicole, Arabella, Eunice and Jasmine - reading their respective lines, looking away from one another. Reading to deliver meaning requires engagement with the text if we are serious about delivery of meaning. Modified readers' theatre in the classroom involves anybody who is interested.
Nicole is a pillar of seriousness. She may want to consider relaxing her legs and place her legs a little apart so that they are not too tense. She should also straighten her spine by raising her script higher up to a more comfortable level.
15 March 2011 - Dinah, Aysah and Beatrice of Secondary 2C.2011 made it to the Literature Remedial Lesson 12 - 2:30 pm at the MRL
There were supposed to be ten students today but only Dinah, Aysha and Beatrice made it. Anyway, small was good because we managed to have detailed discussions with regard to Emily's reaction to Richard's letter. We also talked in details on writing about Emily and Richard: Who should we be sympathetic with - Emily or Richard? The students also took turns to talk about their responses. Kuronekosan hopes that in future, more students would take remediation lessons seriously.
Secondary 2 NA - 2B, C and D. AskNLearn Unseen Prose - Text Unveiled Here.
Mother
By Fadzlishah Johanabas bin Rosli
The sky is steel grey, its whole expanse peeking between tall buildings covered with cloud. But I can still feel the sun from this oppressive warmth even though there are a lot of empty seats, and both air conditioning outlets over my seat are pointed at my face. I barely feel the current, but at least it's cooler than the right side of my face, which I have plastered against the tinted window of the bus. In my head I can hear Mother nagging at me for slouching and leaning against the window, something a proper woman never does. I choose to ignore it. I will be thirty-two in three months, I work as a cashier at a hypermart, I am still single, and I live with my parents. I don't have the energy, the will to sit up straight.
I give a small jump when my handbag vibrates. My ringtone – a kiddy-techno music that seems to annoy anyone who hears it – fills the bus when I slide the zipper open. I press the green button on the phone without looking at it before I take it out of the bag. The plastic and rubber surface feels cool against my right ear and cheek.
"Rohaya Ahmad, where are you?" Mother always uses my full name when she's miffed at me. I hold the hand phone away. I can hear her well even from this distance.
"On my way home." I feel like shouting back, but I tone my voice down to a forced whisper.
"What's taking you so long? Your shift ended forty-nine minutes ago."
"Traffic jam."
"Well, make sure you reach home soon. I'm expecting company."
"Bye." I press the red button and drop the phone back into the mess I call a handbag.
I prepare myself to continue staring at the passing cityscape, but a couple two seats in front and across the aisle are conversing loudly I cannot not listen in even though I try not to. Well, at least the large middle aged woman in bright flower-print baju kurung and an equally bright red scarf is. There is a rule: the emptier the place, the more hushed the conversation. Apparently she never received the memo.
"Make sure you're in your best behavior. I mean it."
The man sitting next to the window nods like a little lamb. He's taller and larger than the woman. I wonder how they can fit the narrow and uncomfortable seats. I can make out his face. Full cheeks, acne ridden, pinched nose, and thin lips. Eyes that seem to be fixed looking down. His center-parted hair is oiled slick and hugging his scalp. His checkered shirt is buttoned up, and his chin is straining between the collars. From the lack of facial crease, I gather he's the woman's son. He's too ugly to be her plaything. My body gives an involuntary shudder.
"Now tidy up your shirt, sit up straight." I roll my eyes at this. Mothers. "I want to make sure you give the best first impression."
"Must we go through this?" For a big man, his voice sounds...small. And whiney.
"If everything goes well, I'll get you married by the end of this year."
My ears perk at this. I lean closer, my forehead touching the seat in front of me. Now this is interesting.
"What if it's like the last girl we went to see? What if she laughs at me?"
"Her mother tells me she's a very proper woman."
"How old is she?"
A slight pause. "Just over thirty."
"That's old!"
She swats the side of his head, sending oily hair jutting out at odd angles. Serves him right. "Don't be picky! You'll be thirty-five this year. She's younger than you. Be thankful for that."
"Yes, Mak."
She licks her fingers and straightens his hair. Gross. "This girl works, so talk about that when you meet her."
"Working as a what?"
"I don't know. At a shopping mall or something."
He gives a small smile, making him look...less ugly. "You think she'll like me?"
"Of course she will. You're my son." I can't believe how she pulls that one off sounding proud.
"My future wife. I wonder what she looks like."
"Remember, don't be picky."
I don't know how the snort escapes my nostrils. The man turns at my direction but doesn't make eye contact. I cover my mouth to contain my laughter. I can imagine how equally ugly and desperate this mystery woman is. I shake my head, amused. This is 2009, not 1949. People are supposed to find their own love, their own future wife or husband, without parental intervention. Parents are not supposed to play matchmaker. But looking at him, I'm sure he needs all the help he can get.
"How did you get to know about this girl anyway?"
"Oh," she says, "Her mother and I meet up for prayer group every Friday afternoon. She's a good woman, that Halimatun Rahim."
My heart lurch into my throat and my stomach shrivel up in a tight knot. I taste bile in my mouth. I feel like gagging but I clamp my mouth shut with both hands.
Halimatun Rahim.
Mother.
QLRS Vol. 8 No. 4 Oct 2009
By Fadzlishah Johanabas bin Rosli
The sky is steel grey, its whole expanse peeking between tall buildings covered with cloud. But I can still feel the sun from this oppressive warmth even though there are a lot of empty seats, and both air conditioning outlets over my seat are pointed at my face. I barely feel the current, but at least it's cooler than the right side of my face, which I have plastered against the tinted window of the bus. In my head I can hear Mother nagging at me for slouching and leaning against the window, something a proper woman never does. I choose to ignore it. I will be thirty-two in three months, I work as a cashier at a hypermart, I am still single, and I live with my parents. I don't have the energy, the will to sit up straight.
I give a small jump when my handbag vibrates. My ringtone – a kiddy-techno music that seems to annoy anyone who hears it – fills the bus when I slide the zipper open. I press the green button on the phone without looking at it before I take it out of the bag. The plastic and rubber surface feels cool against my right ear and cheek.
"Rohaya Ahmad, where are you?" Mother always uses my full name when she's miffed at me. I hold the hand phone away. I can hear her well even from this distance.
"On my way home." I feel like shouting back, but I tone my voice down to a forced whisper.
"What's taking you so long? Your shift ended forty-nine minutes ago."
"Traffic jam."
"Well, make sure you reach home soon. I'm expecting company."
"Bye." I press the red button and drop the phone back into the mess I call a handbag.
I prepare myself to continue staring at the passing cityscape, but a couple two seats in front and across the aisle are conversing loudly I cannot not listen in even though I try not to. Well, at least the large middle aged woman in bright flower-print baju kurung and an equally bright red scarf is. There is a rule: the emptier the place, the more hushed the conversation. Apparently she never received the memo.
"Make sure you're in your best behavior. I mean it."
The man sitting next to the window nods like a little lamb. He's taller and larger than the woman. I wonder how they can fit the narrow and uncomfortable seats. I can make out his face. Full cheeks, acne ridden, pinched nose, and thin lips. Eyes that seem to be fixed looking down. His center-parted hair is oiled slick and hugging his scalp. His checkered shirt is buttoned up, and his chin is straining between the collars. From the lack of facial crease, I gather he's the woman's son. He's too ugly to be her plaything. My body gives an involuntary shudder.
"Now tidy up your shirt, sit up straight." I roll my eyes at this. Mothers. "I want to make sure you give the best first impression."
"Must we go through this?" For a big man, his voice sounds...small. And whiney.
"If everything goes well, I'll get you married by the end of this year."
My ears perk at this. I lean closer, my forehead touching the seat in front of me. Now this is interesting.
"What if it's like the last girl we went to see? What if she laughs at me?"
"Her mother tells me she's a very proper woman."
"How old is she?"
A slight pause. "Just over thirty."
"That's old!"
She swats the side of his head, sending oily hair jutting out at odd angles. Serves him right. "Don't be picky! You'll be thirty-five this year. She's younger than you. Be thankful for that."
"Yes, Mak."
She licks her fingers and straightens his hair. Gross. "This girl works, so talk about that when you meet her."
"Working as a what?"
"I don't know. At a shopping mall or something."
He gives a small smile, making him look...less ugly. "You think she'll like me?"
"Of course she will. You're my son." I can't believe how she pulls that one off sounding proud.
"My future wife. I wonder what she looks like."
"Remember, don't be picky."
I don't know how the snort escapes my nostrils. The man turns at my direction but doesn't make eye contact. I cover my mouth to contain my laughter. I can imagine how equally ugly and desperate this mystery woman is. I shake my head, amused. This is 2009, not 1949. People are supposed to find their own love, their own future wife or husband, without parental intervention. Parents are not supposed to play matchmaker. But looking at him, I'm sure he needs all the help he can get.
"How did you get to know about this girl anyway?"
"Oh," she says, "Her mother and I meet up for prayer group every Friday afternoon. She's a good woman, that Halimatun Rahim."
My heart lurch into my throat and my stomach shrivel up in a tight knot. I taste bile in my mouth. I feel like gagging but I clamp my mouth shut with both hands.
Halimatun Rahim.
Mother.
QLRS Vol. 8 No. 4 Oct 2009
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Japan Was Hit By A Massive Earthquake on 10 March 2011
There is something in the spirit of Japan and the Japanese,
There is something in the warmth of Nihon,
There is something in the kokoro of Nihonjin,
Kuroneko salutes the Japanese,
Admire not, your cutesy exterior or plastic smiley faces,
Admire not, your clean and spotless cities with clinical efficiency,
Admire not, your well-rehearsed mannerisms and well-spoken politeness,
There is something which you have in you,
Which I admire most - you take what comes to you,
in your stride,
You take everything that you may possibly take in your stride
In your stride,
Your stoicism shines through,
Your courage is put to the greatest challenge,
While the rest of the world watches you...
ride through your most difficult of times.
Rise Japan again,
Remake, rebuild, reshape, recuperate, resurrect...
You have made me what I am today...
Dear Japan,
Be strong...
You will become stronger and stronger still.
There is something in the warmth of Nihon,
There is something in the kokoro of Nihonjin,
Kuroneko salutes the Japanese,
Admire not, your cutesy exterior or plastic smiley faces,
Admire not, your clean and spotless cities with clinical efficiency,
Admire not, your well-rehearsed mannerisms and well-spoken politeness,
There is something which you have in you,
Which I admire most - you take what comes to you,
in your stride,
You take everything that you may possibly take in your stride
In your stride,
Your stoicism shines through,
Your courage is put to the greatest challenge,
While the rest of the world watches you...
ride through your most difficult of times.
Rise Japan again,
Remake, rebuild, reshape, recuperate, resurrect...
You have made me what I am today...
Dear Japan,
Be strong...
You will become stronger and stronger still.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
My Alma Mater 1 - Bukit Ho Swee East School
A very humble school along Jalan Bukit Ho Swee, otherwise known as the Old Road.
When I was a student (1970 - 1975) there, the school was known as Bukit Ho Swee East School. The medium of education was in English. There was another school right next to it - Bukit Ho Swee West School, which was a Chinese medium school.
Gan Eng Seng School - School Song
School song
composed by: Mr R.C. Scharenguivel
In eighteen-eighty five, our founder Gan Eng Seng
Conceived the noble aim for a new breed of men
He started a free school for boys who were poor
To give them a chance to be something more
To teach them to learn, play and live at the fore
To give of their best and say forever more
Chorus
Onward, Onward
Gan Eng Seng for Gessians
Onward, Onward
Gessians for Gan Eng Seng
The story of our school is a history of change
But truth, faith and vigour survived circumstances strange
And true to the meaning of the signs on our crest
A dragon for fire of leadership
And ship for seeking and making progress
In word and deed we vow forever more!
composed by: Mr R.C. Scharenguivel
In eighteen-eighty five, our founder Gan Eng Seng
Conceived the noble aim for a new breed of men
He started a free school for boys who were poor
To give them a chance to be something more
To teach them to learn, play and live at the fore
To give of their best and say forever more
Chorus
Onward, Onward
Gan Eng Seng for Gessians
Onward, Onward
Gessians for Gan Eng Seng
The story of our school is a history of change
But truth, faith and vigour survived circumstances strange
And true to the meaning of the signs on our crest
A dragon for fire of leadership
And ship for seeking and making progress
In word and deed we vow forever more!
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