MALLIKA VASUGI, The Star Education Columnist wrote
You can always recognise a teacher, anywhere, anytime.
ONE of my teacher-friends, Raj, boasts that the mantle of “teacherhood” sits so firmly on his shoulders that everywhere he goes, he is greeted with a deference not accorded his more affluent business companions, despite their designer suits and flashing Rolexes.
“I don’t have to say a word about my profession,” he says.
“I could be paying bills at the post office, or buying keropok lekor in the pasar malam, or just sitting on a bench in the park.
“People always call me Cikgu when they speak to me. How they know I am a teacher is beyond me. Most times, I have never even met these people before.
“This happens when I am outstation or on holiday, too.
“Usually, the hotel receptionist will just take one look at me and ask how long the school vacation is. With a Cikgu affixed in front of my name, of course.”
My friend, Jill, sighs.
“There is no escaping this,” she says, in the morose voice she usually reserves for the last day of the school holidays.
“It is stamped all over us – the Cikgu chop. We can try our utmost best to disguise the fact that we are schoolteachers, but, somehow or other, we give ourselves away.
“The way our clothes are coordinated – she gives me a long, disapproving look) – the inflection of our speech, the words we use, the way we walk, hold a pen, even the way we reach into our handbag to pay for purchases ... they all give us away.”
“But why would anyone want to hide the fact that he or she is a teacher?” I ask.
Jill gives me another long, disapproving look.
“Really,” she says, “sometimes I wonder whether you ever switch off from teacher mode.
“OK, picture this, if you can. I’m in this exclusive boutique and want to try on this figure-hugging fuchsia slip of a thing with a plunging neckline and thigh-high slits ...
“Do you think I want the whole world to know I am a schoolteacher?
“And what if I decide to colour my hair purple, or get my tongue pierced ... Do you think I want the people at the hair salon or 'tongue piercing place' (where do you go for such things anyway?) to purse their lips and say: ‘Oh, there she is, the schoolteacher; she is such a role model for our school-going daughters.
“The point is, sometimes you just don’t want to be recognised as a teacher.”
Teacher mode ...
I think I get her point. There are times when you wish you could just let your hair down, forget that you are a teacher who has to observe a certain code of conduct and behave with decorum in public.
But then again, after years of trying to inculcate high moral standards, etiquette and proper conduct among students, it is impossible not to have elements of this rubbed off on you. Which is probably a good thing for teachers.
A friend, who is not a teacher, once said: “I can always tell a teacher by the way he or she speaks. It is usually in full sentences, with a lot of ‘please’ and ‘thank yous’. “
Another man, whose wife is a school teacher, wryly observes: “Almost every sentence that my wife speaks is preceded by, ‘Now, look here ...’ and accompanied by lots of hand gestures for emphasis.
“Having a conversation with her is like participating in a management forum.
“Even if I ask her something as mundane as where the house keys are, her answer will come out something like this: 'Now look here, first you have to remember where the keys were yesterday. Where were they the day before? What conclusion can you draw from that?’
“Why the heck can’t she just tell me that the keys are on top of the piano? But,” he admits with a shrug, “she is a great wife in other ways and the kids adore her, so I suppose I can put up with this extended teacher-mode for a few more years.
“Once she retires, I’m going to send her to a non-teacher re-education camp,” he finishes with a chuckle.
... and teacher mould
Jill has another theory about what might happen to teachers who have been teaching for a long time if they don’t take care.
“Your features slowly change,” she says, with an intent look in her eyes.
“You begin to get plastered into the teacher mould and, before you know it, you are completely stuck. You can’t break loose.
“Deep frown lines get etched on your forehead and you walk as though you are always in a hurry to catch the next class.
“You don't feel complete unless you have at least two pens and a notebook in your handbag.
“One more thing ... you have this imaginary red ballpen in your mind that goes into auto-correction each time you hear or see a mistake in people’s speech.
“You can’t even begin to imagine what a pain that can be to other people.
“But the time to really get worried is when you begin to expect every kid of school-going age that you meet on the street to greet you: ‘Good morning, teacher.’
Hail, chop cikgu!
“I don’t know if I should tell you this, “ she continues in a lower tone, “but I once knew a teacher who couldn’t switch off from being one, not even long after she had retired. A wonderful teacher she was too, although a little prim and prudish.
“She was actually charged with assault and battery. We didn't believe it at that time but it was true.
“The story goes that she hit the bread vendor on the head with her walking stick when he refused to ask for permission to leave the house after delivering bread. It’s a little scary, don’t you think?”
I mull over this a while. How much of this “teacher stamp” is on me,” I wonder.
Meanwhile Jill happily rattles on.
“It’s all those school-marmish stuff you have on. Now, look at me ... folks outside would probably think that I am some top-level representative for an international line of clothing or beauty product.
“This top I have on – this was COLA (cost of living allowance) well spent. Goodness girl, what do you think they give you cost of living allowance for?
“And these boots, very unteacher-like don’t you think? I bought them with last month’s EKA (civil service allowance).
“And, get a load of this handbag ...”
