Shock
When someone is shocked, it usually means something beyond the reasonable scope of expectation happened to the person suddenly, and the psychological impact is so overwhelming that it could hardly be contained, usually in the sense of terror, panic or dismay, with perhaps despair, hysteria or outrage mixing in or following soon afterwards.
Shocking experiences usually stick and can readily be dug back from memory with emotions afresh. Shock may inflict wounds not readily healed, or even transform a person, for good or bad.
One incident came to mind, luckily with the sense of humiliation and shame suffered at the time long vanished given the length of time elapsed - 28 years. Now I could even tell the story as a joke, that I could not even stop laughing about it. I remember clearly it happened 28 years ago as I was in my form-2 class of secondary education.
My class master for that school year was a middle-aged and spectacled man with stereotyped Chinese eyes and a slickily full head of hair precisely partitioned on one side (I forget which side it was now) as if on a line drawn out with a ruler, with "Killer" as his nickname. Every teacher in my school from the headmaster down inherited a nickname as if he or she was born with it. The names seemed to be ingrained in everyone's mind permanently, like the words inscribed on a building's plaque, that they simply became part of the establishment, the history and the school culture.
Killer seemed a nice enough guy to me, despite his cunning smirk which seemed to be concealing some mischevious thoughts, and though he seemed to be keener on his favourite sports - badminton and tennis - than teaching. Indeed I didn't understand why Killer was called Killer at all. I might have asked around, but was never really elucidated on my misgiving, until I found out the answer myself, through an inadvertently hard way - he was killing me.
In my old days, we used to have tests for every of the 10 compulsory subjects (more or less) every month, plus 2 major examinations during each school year - credits to the free, though rote education system. All scores were marked on a report card for every student. Although my memories may start to fail me on many things as I grow up and age, I clearly remember myself being a reasonably well-performing student in my classes, throughout my primary and secondary education. My report cards, some of which are still in my archive file somewhere, speak for me after all.
Recording all scores on a student's report card was conventionally the duty of the class master. This ritual chore was understandably monotonous, especially considering the number of students in each class (averaging 40 to 50 to my vague memory) and therefore the total number of scores that need to be recorded on these cards manually. Nevertheless, the last place that the class master was expected to do it was at the teacher's desk right in front of his class, at the sacrifice of his lecture time for the class. But that was exactly what Killer did on one occasion, also commanding the assistance of the 2 students sitting right in front of the teacher's desk, by having them reading out all the scores to him to register on the report cards accordingly - never mind the students' right to privacy of individual performance, when data privacy law didn't exist back then.
Killer's apparent intention to reap the economic benefit of division of labour made perfect sense, but he could neither guarantee the shewdness of the 2 students to his assistance, nor secure a tranquil environment for his tedious task at hand. Someone might have read out the wrong score to be put on the wrong report card and, at the same time, the teenage students being who they were, wasted no time in enjoying the free time with chatting and joking that the whole class was swiftly transformed into a bizarre. All of a sudden, his nerve snapped, his mind was lost and the beast was out. The true killer's nature was released that he shrieked, scowled and scolded the class, asking somewhat illogically : "Who is making noises?" Of course, everybody was making noises. What did he expect when he was indulged in his own manoeuver of protecting his private time at the expense of the class', that we all sat there dumb like nerds or zombies or mummies just staring at him day-dreaming? When silence dawned at his interrogation, sadly and hysterically, that was the time for duck-shooting - not logic. Scapegoats had to be singled out, albeit randomly, and executed in public. Shock struck, I was one of the few victims grilled.
"You, stand up. You were talking. Pick out his report card. Read me his scores. Maths 40? Give him 30. English 50? Give him 40..." Those were the scores of somebody else. 50 was the passing mark. As I alluded to earlier, my academic scores had always been good, well above 50, which I naively thought would give me safe enough margins to protect against the mad man's madness. But that was not to be.
"YOU (that's me), stand up. You were making noises. Pick out his report card. English 80? Give him 40! Chinese 70? No way. 30. Maths 90? Make it 40..."Of course I cannot really be accurate with the actual scores and the exact amount of imposed distortion after 28 years. What I can be absolutely sure of was the impact of shock, which was so overwhelmingly immense and near fatal that I broke out crying instantly, right there on the spot in public demonstration to the whole class. It was dismay, humiliation, shame, despair, hysteria and outrage in the tumultuous making that Killer made his clear mark and lived up to his reputation.
Shocking experiences usually stick and can readily be dug back from memory with emotions afresh. Shock may inflict wounds not readily healed, or even transform a person, for good or bad.
One incident came to mind, luckily with the sense of humiliation and shame suffered at the time long vanished given the length of time elapsed - 28 years. Now I could even tell the story as a joke, that I could not even stop laughing about it. I remember clearly it happened 28 years ago as I was in my form-2 class of secondary education.
My class master for that school year was a middle-aged and spectacled man with stereotyped Chinese eyes and a slickily full head of hair precisely partitioned on one side (I forget which side it was now) as if on a line drawn out with a ruler, with "Killer" as his nickname. Every teacher in my school from the headmaster down inherited a nickname as if he or she was born with it. The names seemed to be ingrained in everyone's mind permanently, like the words inscribed on a building's plaque, that they simply became part of the establishment, the history and the school culture.
Killer seemed a nice enough guy to me, despite his cunning smirk which seemed to be concealing some mischevious thoughts, and though he seemed to be keener on his favourite sports - badminton and tennis - than teaching. Indeed I didn't understand why Killer was called Killer at all. I might have asked around, but was never really elucidated on my misgiving, until I found out the answer myself, through an inadvertently hard way - he was killing me.
In my old days, we used to have tests for every of the 10 compulsory subjects (more or less) every month, plus 2 major examinations during each school year - credits to the free, though rote education system. All scores were marked on a report card for every student. Although my memories may start to fail me on many things as I grow up and age, I clearly remember myself being a reasonably well-performing student in my classes, throughout my primary and secondary education. My report cards, some of which are still in my archive file somewhere, speak for me after all.
Recording all scores on a student's report card was conventionally the duty of the class master. This ritual chore was understandably monotonous, especially considering the number of students in each class (averaging 40 to 50 to my vague memory) and therefore the total number of scores that need to be recorded on these cards manually. Nevertheless, the last place that the class master was expected to do it was at the teacher's desk right in front of his class, at the sacrifice of his lecture time for the class. But that was exactly what Killer did on one occasion, also commanding the assistance of the 2 students sitting right in front of the teacher's desk, by having them reading out all the scores to him to register on the report cards accordingly - never mind the students' right to privacy of individual performance, when data privacy law didn't exist back then.
Killer's apparent intention to reap the economic benefit of division of labour made perfect sense, but he could neither guarantee the shewdness of the 2 students to his assistance, nor secure a tranquil environment for his tedious task at hand. Someone might have read out the wrong score to be put on the wrong report card and, at the same time, the teenage students being who they were, wasted no time in enjoying the free time with chatting and joking that the whole class was swiftly transformed into a bizarre. All of a sudden, his nerve snapped, his mind was lost and the beast was out. The true killer's nature was released that he shrieked, scowled and scolded the class, asking somewhat illogically : "Who is making noises?" Of course, everybody was making noises. What did he expect when he was indulged in his own manoeuver of protecting his private time at the expense of the class', that we all sat there dumb like nerds or zombies or mummies just staring at him day-dreaming? When silence dawned at his interrogation, sadly and hysterically, that was the time for duck-shooting - not logic. Scapegoats had to be singled out, albeit randomly, and executed in public. Shock struck, I was one of the few victims grilled.
"You, stand up. You were talking. Pick out his report card. Read me his scores. Maths 40? Give him 30. English 50? Give him 40..." Those were the scores of somebody else. 50 was the passing mark. As I alluded to earlier, my academic scores had always been good, well above 50, which I naively thought would give me safe enough margins to protect against the mad man's madness. But that was not to be.
"YOU (that's me), stand up. You were making noises. Pick out his report card. English 80? Give him 40! Chinese 70? No way. 30. Maths 90? Make it 40..."Of course I cannot really be accurate with the actual scores and the exact amount of imposed distortion after 28 years. What I can be absolutely sure of was the impact of shock, which was so overwhelmingly immense and near fatal that I broke out crying instantly, right there on the spot in public demonstration to the whole class. It was dismay, humiliation, shame, despair, hysteria and outrage in the tumultuous making that Killer made his clear mark and lived up to his reputation.
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