Shock (continued)
The kind of shock from my school story, powerful though it was as an early life lesson, of course hardly stacks up against the monstrous scale of hysteria brought on by the evil vices of genocide, enthic cleansing, terrorism, as particularly epitomized by the historical 911; or the tragedies of force majeure, as in hurricane, tsunami or earthquake (yes, earthquake. I had also tasted the life-threatening shock of earthquake - another story for later). But shock is shock, there is no instrument to measure its degree of severity, which perhaps could only be judged from the behaviour of the victim in the aftermath.
So after Killer delivered the shock and executed me, I was in a whirlwind of emotions and could hardly think straight. In that remaining period of surreal confusion before the school bell rang for the end of class, a very faint hope flashed across my mind that it was but a threat, a prank Killer was just putting on to bring back silence, subservience and order to the class. Now that his purpose was achieved, it should be time for patching up damages and making up. He could not be serious about arbitrarily trimming down students' scores for no justifiable reason. "Come on, we are not in a world of tyranny. Get real, give me my scores back."
It was a false hope and I soon realized I was in real hell. The bell rang. Killer did not make the slightest gesture of leniency which gave away any hint that damages could be recoverable any time soon. On the contrary, he meant his business by just leaving the class, like a psychopath- murderer walking off the crime scene triumphantly with blood stains on his hands. The victims were just left to their own cruel fate of suffering.
I recall it was lunch time afterwards. I had my companions of classmate around and there was no shortage of condolence, which of course hardly soothed the pain. I recall myself swearing profusely over lunch, when the shock had eventually subsided and anger filled the space. I lambasted Killer with all the spiteful names that came to mind, swearing that I would report the incident to the school principal, even escalate to the government's Education Bureau. I lamented his absurdity, rebuked his immorality and let my tongue wildly loose for all my rage to vent out.
When even the rage was dissipated, the force of reality hit the hardest, and in came fear and despair. "What am I going to do? How could I tell my parents? Should I really resort to the school principal, who may turn out to be Killer's ally? How could I turn to the Education Bureau for help, would they care? Never in my life yet had I failed so many subjects in a term. How could I live with that?"
I was of course too young at that stage to realize that people do have to live with all sorts of horrible things in life, not least some unfair treatment in school. I don't recall whether the idea of suicide came to mind. Probably not, since the survival instinct kicked in after all, after god-know-how-long a continual torment of mental struggling. I had neither the wisdom to reason with a teacher, nor the courage to make a case, let alone a convincing one, to the principal or higher authority for vindication. I could only swallow my pride and went to Killer to plead for leniency and my scores back. In the old days, they meant almost everything for me.
Perhaps Ayn Rand's literature on integrity and individualism could have made a difference for me. That wisdom only came later in life, not before my early life lesson that ego could become worthless when survival was at stake. Though I did not start with pleading, instead went to Killer's office and tried to speak with a mind of rationality, I hardly did a good job. He did not make it any easier for me and left me alone. Out of desperation, I tried again, this time in front of the whole class of his lecture, during the typical moment when he was taking it easy at his desk. I walked up gingerly to him and tried to reason with him again. He remained obdurate to me, until I could not help but broke down in tears in front of the class for the second time.
Perhaps I got the sequence wrong, that I was first dissolved into pleading and he began to show his reluctant mercy, before my stream of tears followed. But it was all the same. I felt like a begger and he treated me like one. Though he subsided to humanity after all, he chose to amend all the imposed scores of failure to just the passing mark only, instead of my original scores. So he picked out my report card from the stack and instructed me to rub off those marks of damage for his correction. Off I went like an phantom back to my own desk and rubbed it hard, as if trying to rub off all the shame, that those spots on the card were almost ripped open. Killer scolded me for that, then put down the cruel "50" on each spot, as if he was the greatest philanthropist in the world doing me a huge favour.
In retrospect now, after 28 years, it's funny how some details could still manifest themselves clearly and yet all emotions seem to be long dead. But then again, my suffering from this school episode, and even from all other events of misfortune before and after, adds only a tiny drop to the vast ocean of human tragedies, though I can still find resonance with the classical "Candide" of Voltaire.
Anyway, there were other lessons to be drawn from this school tragedy, apart from the one on ego and survival. One is that "when in hell, keep walking through it". The other one is that "there is no eternal enemy". Two years afterwards, I joined the school tennis club - of which Killer was the patron - and eventually became the club's chairman. We played tennis together regularly - and cheerfully.
So after Killer delivered the shock and executed me, I was in a whirlwind of emotions and could hardly think straight. In that remaining period of surreal confusion before the school bell rang for the end of class, a very faint hope flashed across my mind that it was but a threat, a prank Killer was just putting on to bring back silence, subservience and order to the class. Now that his purpose was achieved, it should be time for patching up damages and making up. He could not be serious about arbitrarily trimming down students' scores for no justifiable reason. "Come on, we are not in a world of tyranny. Get real, give me my scores back."
It was a false hope and I soon realized I was in real hell. The bell rang. Killer did not make the slightest gesture of leniency which gave away any hint that damages could be recoverable any time soon. On the contrary, he meant his business by just leaving the class, like a psychopath- murderer walking off the crime scene triumphantly with blood stains on his hands. The victims were just left to their own cruel fate of suffering.
I recall it was lunch time afterwards. I had my companions of classmate around and there was no shortage of condolence, which of course hardly soothed the pain. I recall myself swearing profusely over lunch, when the shock had eventually subsided and anger filled the space. I lambasted Killer with all the spiteful names that came to mind, swearing that I would report the incident to the school principal, even escalate to the government's Education Bureau. I lamented his absurdity, rebuked his immorality and let my tongue wildly loose for all my rage to vent out.
When even the rage was dissipated, the force of reality hit the hardest, and in came fear and despair. "What am I going to do? How could I tell my parents? Should I really resort to the school principal, who may turn out to be Killer's ally? How could I turn to the Education Bureau for help, would they care? Never in my life yet had I failed so many subjects in a term. How could I live with that?"
I was of course too young at that stage to realize that people do have to live with all sorts of horrible things in life, not least some unfair treatment in school. I don't recall whether the idea of suicide came to mind. Probably not, since the survival instinct kicked in after all, after god-know-how-long a continual torment of mental struggling. I had neither the wisdom to reason with a teacher, nor the courage to make a case, let alone a convincing one, to the principal or higher authority for vindication. I could only swallow my pride and went to Killer to plead for leniency and my scores back. In the old days, they meant almost everything for me.
Perhaps Ayn Rand's literature on integrity and individualism could have made a difference for me. That wisdom only came later in life, not before my early life lesson that ego could become worthless when survival was at stake. Though I did not start with pleading, instead went to Killer's office and tried to speak with a mind of rationality, I hardly did a good job. He did not make it any easier for me and left me alone. Out of desperation, I tried again, this time in front of the whole class of his lecture, during the typical moment when he was taking it easy at his desk. I walked up gingerly to him and tried to reason with him again. He remained obdurate to me, until I could not help but broke down in tears in front of the class for the second time.
Perhaps I got the sequence wrong, that I was first dissolved into pleading and he began to show his reluctant mercy, before my stream of tears followed. But it was all the same. I felt like a begger and he treated me like one. Though he subsided to humanity after all, he chose to amend all the imposed scores of failure to just the passing mark only, instead of my original scores. So he picked out my report card from the stack and instructed me to rub off those marks of damage for his correction. Off I went like an phantom back to my own desk and rubbed it hard, as if trying to rub off all the shame, that those spots on the card were almost ripped open. Killer scolded me for that, then put down the cruel "50" on each spot, as if he was the greatest philanthropist in the world doing me a huge favour.
In retrospect now, after 28 years, it's funny how some details could still manifest themselves clearly and yet all emotions seem to be long dead. But then again, my suffering from this school episode, and even from all other events of misfortune before and after, adds only a tiny drop to the vast ocean of human tragedies, though I can still find resonance with the classical "Candide" of Voltaire.
Anyway, there were other lessons to be drawn from this school tragedy, apart from the one on ego and survival. One is that "when in hell, keep walking through it". The other one is that "there is no eternal enemy". Two years afterwards, I joined the school tennis club - of which Killer was the patron - and eventually became the club's chairman. We played tennis together regularly - and cheerfully.
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