Life In The Fast Lane – On Turning 19 February 3, 2010
Posted by Shiru in Life, Thoughts.2 comments
19.
I am officially nineteen years of age now, and for the next eleven months I will be trying as far as possible to shed my teenage skin elegantly.
Adolescence is escaping me. Already my fellow interpreters, CEP volunteers and other members of the Youth Olympics organising committee overestimate my age. Twenty-plus is an answer I commonly receive. Having lived for nineteen years, coupled with the fact that people seem to think I look older than I really am, I can no longer get away with being immature, self-indulgent, juvenile or childishly irresponsible.
I won’t say this is difficult for me; I daresay I haven’t been (too) guilty of the aforementioned attributes. But now, should I rush in where angels fear to tread, I will indeed look even more like a fool than ever before. More cognisance, careful consideration, and at the same time, even more courage and chutzpah – these are things I will need in large quantities as I proceed into adulthood.
One of the things that comes with nineteen years of age is the most anticipated phase of academic life: undergraduate studies. Two days before the close of 2009, I found myself consigned to the fate of spending university life in London. This reality means that my dreams of experiencing education from the top cannot be realised, and I am still greatly saddened by this fact. I still drift occasionally down a fast-moving spiral of disenchantment and distress into bouts of teary-eyed foul mood, where no QI, Monty Python, Top Gear, Stephen Fry, John Cleese, Oscar Wilde, Mock The Week, David Tennant, stand-up, Brit com, books, languages, History readings, academic interests, chocolate and other distractions can soothe this seething being.
But of course, I know my future is not going to be as bleak as I had woefully concluded it to be when I received my rejection from my first-choice institution of higher education. The institution I’m most probably heading to is a first-choice university on many pre-university students’ UCAS application forms, and is possibly, I daresay, one of the best places to be receiving an education at. The course – History V101, rather than the usual V100 – seems to be tailored to fit my Europhilic inclinations, and just cursorily reading through the list of modules available is enough to get me excited and make me want to begin lessons there immediately. There will always be a part of me that will forever yearn to belong to that community of elite academics, but I am certain I will find a satisfactory level of happiness reading History at my prospective university, and I now genuinely look very much forward to a three-year student life in London.
As I look forward to the fast-approaching period of undergraduate studies, I ineluctably look back on my short but unforgettable stint as an ACSian and IB slave student. It was an incredible, unbelievable two years, and no two years have ever, ever, ever passed by so quickly. However horribly unscientific my previous sentence may be, I still stand by the assertion I made. From orientation, the release of the results of the pioneer batch of ACS IB students, my first taste of an ACS holiday, to the official beginning of IB work, Centrestage, common tests, IOP, FOA, WOW, the first onslaught of EETOKIA, to coping with being a Year 6, World Lit, IOC, exams, exams, exams and exams, I have thoroughly enjoyed my years in ACS.
Yesterday a friend of mine said to me, “Two years is too short, too short. Seriously.” And I know he’s right. I miss ACS, and I would walk into school again and roam the corridors like a tourist on his first trip to the Louvre, just to be my ACSian self again. The campus, the humour, the teachers, the friends and the friendships have already become unofficial mental benchmarks, and so far, no school compares.
Melodramatic, I know. Melodramatic, but true, ingenuous and sincere.
As I begin life as a Year Seven, I find I have much to be proud of. The pre-university seminar, performances with the school’s Philharmonic Orchestra, the numerous model UN conferences, the esoteric articles I wrote for !nk, being the only non-British finalist in the Royal Economic Society Young Economist of the Year Essay Competition … and of course, the 43 points, in particular my 7 for HL English.
ACS was about non-academic life as much as it was about academia. Choosing subjects was a serious matter, and as much as I would like to believe that I chose my Higher Level (HL) subjects because I wanted a fulfilling last two years of pre-university education, I, in fact, didn’t have much of a choice. My strengths lie in the arts and humanities, which explains my eventual choice of subjects: HL English A1, HL History, HL Economics. Yes, despite my attempts to shed the skin of Singaporean kiasu-ism, I actually exhibit this embarrassing trait rather often.
Upon saying that, however, my rationale for choosing to take SL Physics and French ab initio is in direct contradiction with my purported fear of dropping points in my eventual diploma. I chose Physics because I found, and still find, it was (and is) more fascinating than my other options. Physics still appeals to me immensely, and I know that I will continue reading essays and engaging in other media on quantum mechanics, cosmology, uncertainty principles, relativity, atomic and nuclear physics, even when my academic life ceases to officially include scientific endeavours.
To further disprove my purported kiasu-ism, SL French ab initio was almost an instinctive choice for me. In fact, one of the reasons why the IBDP looked so attractive to me while I was still trapped in the undergrowth of the O Levels was the option for me to take subjects with the ab initio suffix. Amongst the array of Group 2 subjects, French ab initio and Spanish ab initio caught my eye, but the charm of the French language proved more enticing, and thus began my relationship with this beautiful, beautiful language.
The French language has long intrigued me, and I’m happy to say that two years of French ab initio has given me even more reason to be intrigued by this dulcet, honeyed language of Western Europe. At times, the journey through the French ab initio course did feel mundane and ordinary, but if topping the subject consistently, being a recipient of the French Alumni Language Award and the fact that I am preparing myself to be a French interpreter during the Youth Olympic Games in August are reflections of how well I’ve gotten along with the language, I think nothing has been more worth it. Late dismissal times, more work, more exams and finishing on the last day of the 2009 IB exam calendar might have been slightly bothersome, but I now speak French, write French, and I love French.
Yet there is something else about my subject combination that I myself would consider outstanding and brave, setting myself apart from everyone else in my cohort. Self-praise? Disgrace? Maybe. But I do think it took a significant measure of courage to do what I did; I managed seven, not six, subjects throughout 2008 and 2009 – an unspeakably risky undertaking, making me the only person in the cohort – and the first and only IB student in ACS (Independent) – to shoulder the burden of seven examinable subjects throughout the two heaviest, most demanding years of pre-university education. For those who know nothing about this apparently clandestine endeavour of mine, let me belatedly reveal it to you here: on top of my six IB subjects, I took A Level German (H2, in case any Singaporean readers were wondering).
Time lord I am not, so this move was indeed draining on my limited energy and time. If disastrous time management was a crime, I was in huge danger of getting guillotined. Most of my schoolmates – and even my teachers – are still completely bewildered by my decision to take on the additional A Level subject, and my History teacher often joked about how much of a masochist I am. I always disagreed with him – and anyone who made a similar remark. Six years, an immersion programme, an exchange programme, straight As, three trips to Germany and a whole Widmung to the sadly misjudged language later, my love for the language – and the land it comes from – still endures.
Upon turning nineteen, these achievements in the linguistic field make me particularly buoyant about future academic endeavours. I cannot wait to immerse myself in the density of a History undergraduate degree and in the British academic atmosphere.
Taking genuine pleasure in academia isn’t exactly the norm in school; I hence have earned a reputation as being quite a nerd, whatever that is. I prefer to see myself as a philomath – a lover (philo-) of learning (-math); I embrace learning opportunities like a cold, hungry and homeless vagabond would gratefully accept warmth, food and shelter. Although this seemingly far-fetched comparison appears to cheapen and denigrate the suffering of homeless tramps, I find that the analogy captures my appetite for learning rather accurately. Like the vagabond, I am intensely hungry – hungry for knowledge. Opportunities to pursue erudition are to me like balm for my wounds that bleed ignorance and unawareness. Learning comforts, pleases and satisfies me.
I want to know things. I want to understand things. I want to tap into realms that are available to me, that welcome me, and almost invite me to participate in their activities and goings-on, but yet are distant, detached, and travelling to which would require me to use uncharted routes and complicated means.
For nearly two decades now I’ve been a member of the global community. I’ve tried to acquaint myself with the ways of this complex little planet, but the ground I’ve managed to cover remains absurdly infinitesimal.
Despite this outlook that I hold, I have discovered several significant things in the past year. I’ve discovered that my love for History as not just a subject, but an area of knowledge, and as a discipline, runs deep within my veins. I’ve discovered that no matter how long I abandon my piano and my cello for, I can still play respectably well whenever I return to them. I’ve discovered that in spite of my detachment from the classical music world, I retain much of my knowledge and interest for it. I’ve discovered that I am rather linguistically inclined. I’ve discovered I am more independent than I think. I’ve discovered that my love affairs with European languages have not diminished my love for the good old English language. I’ve discovered that my interest in comedy has developed into a passion. I’ve discovered that I can be exceedingly intolerant and condescending, yet I can be very kind, friendly and helpful.
I have accumulated a considerable wealth of achievements, but I want so much more. It has been a hell of a ride and I don’t expect the bumps on the road to smoothen out.
19. It is a milestone.
I step into this new year of existence tremulously. Please join me.
Sola Lingua December 18, 2009
Posted by Shiru in Culture, French, Friends, German, Language, Sights and sounds, Thoughts.1 comment so far
Your eyes scan the dining hall for a placard that reads “18”; you’re assigned to Group 18 – a group which requires a French-speaking interpreter.
You. You’re the interpreter. Their interpreter. You.
You diffidently approach the table where your group members are seated; you’re unconfident. The French language has only been an official – albeit admittedly peripheral – part of your life for less than two years. Tu as peur – you are afraid. Your fellow interpreters tell you it’ll be fine, but you refuse to deceive yourself; you’re unconfident, so, so unconfident.
You nervously drum your fingers on the table. You ardently hope that the French speakers speak good English as well. Worry is written all over your visage, but when you finally make conversation, you smile instinctively. First came the Singaporeans – you’re relieved; there are six people who definitely don’t require translations. Then you spy an African, but owing to your unfamiliarity with the continent’s people you’re unable to distinguish what his nationality is. Keith, South Africa. “Do you speak (good) English?” you ask. He smiles and nods. Immense relief.
Empty seat. You apprehensively take it, smiling sheepishly at the international participants around you. You turn to your right. Hello. Samuel, Switzerland. “Do you speak German?” You hope for a yes. Yes! You switch language immediately. The Singaporeans gawk at you and wonder aloud about how long you’ve been speaking German. You ignore their gasps and relax a little, still chatting with Samuel. His Swiss accent is strong and slightly lustig to a strictly deutsche German speaker like you, but you’re comfortable in your current linguistic circumstance.
You look up from your (unappetising) lunch. Sitting opposite you are two Africans. You chide yourself silently for being so blatantly undiscerning, for treating the continent as if it were a nation. Joel Pascal Thierry Abolo Abolo, Cameroon. No English – seulement un peu, he notes. You tense up slightly as you explain, ma maîtrise de français n’est pas très bien – my command of French isn’t very good. The nerves pile up, even as the Singaporeans resume their gasping and wowing at your ability to speak another foreign language, unable to comprehend any part of your conversation with your new Cameroonian friend.
Someone wearing a light blue collared t-shirt identical to yours walks past and waves. A facilitator. You explain your role, and she welcomes you cordially. She introduces you to the chief facilitator of the group. The facilitators are friendly, approachable, warm. Then they point out the African beside the Cameroonian. Only Portuguese. No English. Hardly any at all. Your eyes dilate, and you exclaim, “What?” “How about Spanish?” you ask, thinking you could tweak your French and use your rudimentary knowledge of Spanish to communicate with the boy. But no – no Spanish.
You borrow the facilitator’s name list and urgently direct your eyes to the columns with details on language abilities. Five French speakers, two of which only have an awfully basic knowledge of English. The Cameroonian you spoke to earlier, and a Moroccan. You sigh and cross your fingers under the table, where they would be well away from everyone else’s sight.
Time zooms impossibly quickly by; the first day of the camp concludes. You’re exhausted.
Still lacking confidence in your ability to fluently conduct French-English and English-French translations, you think you should make your limited abilities known. FRANÇAIS (UN PEU), you write on the label which you then stick on your right sleeve. A label reading DEUTSCH goes above it.
FRANÇAIS (UN PEU) (BEAUCOUP), someone gently prods you in the arm and corrects you. You smile as you shyly thanked her – Julia, the Parisienne in your group – for her compliment. Tu parle très bien français, Shiru! Pourquoi tu as écrit “un peu”? Soufiane, the French-speaking Moroccan footballer in the group, vehemently agrees. You daren’t say anything; you’re flattered, but secretly pleased – very pleased.
Time.
The camp concludes with confetti, innumerable camera flashes, autographs, exchanges of contact details, more camera flashes, reluctant goodbyes, spontaneous hugs and kisses. You bid your friends a teary farewell – in more languages you actually speak.
D’accord – indeed.
Possibly the most valuable lesson from the Friendship Camp is the importance and the role of language. Learning languages and about the cultures of the people who speak those languages has always been exceedingly, inexplicably enjoyable and exciting to me – an autotelic venture, but now I add to that list of loves the joys of translation. How apt for me to be working my way through Umberto Eco’s Mouse or Rat? – Translation as Negotiation at the moment. The subtleties of French, German, Chinese and of course, English have to be dealt – negotiated – with utmost care and thought.
The Friendship Camp has taken my relationship with languages to a higher level of proficiency and mastery. For an aspiring polyglot who currently speaks four languages (to varying levels of proficiency), the camp was extremely meaningful. In my case, my ability to converse fairly well in French and pretty well in German drew me closer to the French-speaking Cameroonian Thierry Abolo Abolo and Moroccan Soufiane Hamdani (both of whom have only basic commands of English), the Parisienne Julia Pacaud and of course the German-speaking Schweizer Samuel Gammenthaler.
I’ve spoken and written previously about music and football being “universal languages”, but though they really produce plenty of truly magical moments, they fail to foster equally strong connections as those fostered by language and language alone. The camp showed that things like sport can unite us to a certain extent, but where the linguistic barrier exists, there lies a gap in communication – a deep divide, a fissure in our potentially blossoming friendship.
I’m really not exaggerating. During the camp I fell into this fracture in the linguistic landscape on a few occasions. Portuguese? Arabic? On these occasions I timidly apologised and quickly scoured the venue for fluent speakers of the required language. (Many of these hitches were solved by the amazing, multilingual person that is Mr Javier Robinson – Head of Language Services in the YOG organising committee. He. Is. Brilliant. I am so thankful to him.)
The linguistic barrier inevitably self-constructs at events such as the Friendship Camp. With participants and staff from over 100 countries, speaking… tons of languages, the linguistic landscape is anything but immaculate. But when language builds a bridge across the fault lines, things change – almost miraculously.
Sibite Coldjam from Group 18 spoke only Portuguese, no English and no Spanish; quite clearly, between Sibite and I lay a linguistic gap chasm. But while going through the crowd in the dining hall I found Carlos Alberto from Angola – fluent in Portuguese and moderately fluent in English. Perfeito. Watching Carlos talk to Sibite – and hearing Sibite’s voice – was moving.
Language alone – and perhaps just a bit of my sociability – gave me my friends from Austria, Benin, Chad, Mozambique, Angola, Syria, and Monaco. Interestingly enough, the languages that helped establish my friendships with the athletes from some of the aforementioned countries were not among the four that I already speak. I crossed the bridge that was the Portuguese language to meet my friends Delicia, Haly, Salome and Carlos from Mozambique and Angola; I tread on the stepping stones that were the Middle-Eastern and North African variants of the Arabic language to meet Basel from Syria, Ameen from Libya and to forge closer ties with two of my Group 18 members, the Moroccan footballer Soufiane and the Lebanese taekwondo nut Tarek. (Yes, the tiny bit of Arabic that I now know can go an incredibly long way. Just ask Basel.) Incredulous Miraculous, but true.
It makes me bizarrely, curiously proud to say that I made friends with all the German-speaking international participants in the camp: Samuel and Chiara from Switzerland; Jacqueline and Luis from Austria. I will never forget how Samuel, Jacqueline and I chatted and laughed our heads off on the first evening of the camp, speaking only German, sharing quips and anecdotes in our very, very different German accents. He taught us chuchichaschtli; she taught us oachkätzlichwoaf. I’d been to both their home towns – Bern in Switzerland and Innsbruck in Austria, and seen the characteristic Sehenswürdigkeiten of both places: the Zytglogge and Bärengraben in Bern; Axamer Lizum (near where Jacqueline lives!) in Innsbruck. We bonded incredibly quickly.
My command of French proved to be not only sufficient, but extremely valuable in this camp, where almost 40% of the participants spoke French. I also discovered how easy it was to approach participants and offer a simple salutation and conduct a friendly conversation, in French, if need be. I never knew how pleasant Comment ça va? or Tu as besoin d’aide? or Tu as faim? could sound until I saw how much these French-speaking participants (many of them almost monolingual) eased up about two seconds into our conversations.
Begin your conversation in English, and they don’t seem to have much to say. They’re reserved, you might think. Switch to French, German, Arabic, Portuguese, Spanish, Afrikaans, Dutch, Korean, Japanese, Russian… and watch things change.
Language isn’t just a collection of phonological sets within a continuum of meaning. Words run in our cultural bloodstream, and our cultural bloodstream impels its countless tributaries through language. They flow both ways, and I’m going with their flow. Et toi?
Have I Told You Lately? December 16, 2009
Posted by Shiru in Friends, Life, Sights and sounds, Thoughts.add a comment
I’ve never had such a hangover.
I’ve described it to many as “the best four days of the year” and I won’t change that. There was nothing this year that was as fun, meaningful, enriching, productive and enjoyable – much less all of these simultaneously – as the Youth Olympic Games Singapore 2010 Friendship Camp. There were moments where I was rather stressed and bothered, but the increases in blood pressure were always merely temporal. The joys of the entire camp completely flatten out any annoyances or grievances, and I can sincerely and solemnly say that I will very willingly do it all again.
Very often the happenings of the camp flood my mind involuntarily, and my vision blurs slightly as I move quickly through the still-fresh memories. I’ve been spending a sinfully disproportionate amount of my free time on Facebook these few days, uploading photographs and videos, tagging friends in photographs and videos, viewing other participants’ photographs and videos, commenting on photographs and videos… basically clinging onto the media that will alleviate my current withdrawal symptoms.
When I first heard about the Friendship Camp I flinched at its tawdry, tacky name. “Friendship” Camp!? I concluded – oh so prematurely – that the Singaporeans at the top of SYOGOC (Singapore Youth Olympics Organising Committee) had a whole line-up of banal activities with trite underlying messages and hadn’t gotten enough of the kitsch that many national events, songs and the annual NDP shove in the faces of the citizens of this tiny island state. “Friendship” Camp!? It sounded awful. Even its French equivalent didn’t sound much better. Camp de l’amitié?! How odd. During the introductory briefing for the camp I cursorily read through the activities planned for the camp. Kitsch, kitsch and more intolerable kitsch, I thought.
But the camp proved that kitsch can be tolerable, and, if you spend your time with the right people, unbelievably enjoyable.
I started my first day at the camp as a bundle of nerves. My role was that of an interpreter, and to translate in my fourth language – French – was extremely daunting and in fact, more honestly, frightening. My fears and reservations thankfully faded away quite quickly once I immersed myself in the multilingual environment of the camp, and I daresay I coped very well – far better than I’d expected. The French language and I have become such good friends – another positive impact of the Friendship Camp. It is, literally – and in many ways, a Camp de l’Amitié.
One reason why being in the position of an interpreter is interesting is that it is a role where I alternately plunged myself into the action and withdrew from it, depending on the need for translation. When I occasionally withdrew to the sidelines, I took the opportunity to observe Group 18 and its mélange of nationalities and characters. It was incredibly interesting and I must admit, rather enjoyable watching how the different personalities mingled, occasionally clashed, and towards the end of the camp, complemented each other in this group of fourteen lovely people.
I feel so fortunate to have been assigned to my group. Group 18 had – from my experiences working with groups and in teams – the best mix of persons and personalities. The international participants in Group 18 were a diverse, colourful, lively, fun-loving, enthusiastic, sociable, multilingual and illustrious bunch – what more can one ask for? There was the ever-sweet and merry Julia (tennis) from France, the (also) ever-sweet Julia (handball) from Finland, the good-natured, good-humoured Samuel (athletics) from Switzerland, the impulsive and crazily uncontrollable Tarek (taekwondo) from Lebanon, the underestimated but very, very interesting Soufiane (football) from Morocco, the participative and friendly Sibite (athletics) from Guinea-Bissau, the soft-spoken and always-cooperative Keith (fencing) from South Africa and of course the hilarious person that is Joel Pascal Thierry Abolo Abolo (athletics) from Cameroon.
Though this already sounds like a pretty damn exotic combination of nationalities, there were a whole lot more; I met people from Angola, Colombia, Benin, Syria, Libya, Egypt, Monaco, Latvia, Haiti, Chad and… plenty more. Never had I seen so many people of different nationalities in the same small place. During the camp I often recalled the slogan Die Welt zu Gast bei Freunden from the 2006 World Cup in Germany and nodded smilingly, knowing this Friendship Camp is yet another solid opportunity to make friends with the world.
What I particularly loved about Group 18 was that all members, regardless of their prevailing traits had an underlying streak of craziness waiting to be unleashed – essential to upping the fun factor at any event. Of course there were some who from the beginning were unable to conceal their crazy sides – Tarek, Abolo and Samuel, for example – but it is those who gradually gave their craziness a free rein that further augmented the level of mirth and amusement. And besides, I love surprises. Sibite, our Portuguese-speaking Bissau-Guinean, grew increasingly comfortable with the group, picked up several English phrases and surprised us all by becoming Tarek #2 at times, playing pranks on other group members. Soufiane, unhindered by his lack of proficiency in the English language, let his insanity loose progressively; the initially quiet Moroccan footballer had, by the final day of the camp, allowed his insanity to run riot.
I miss them all.
Nous avons fait plein de jeux ensemble.
Nous avons mangé ensemble.
Nous avons dansé ensemble.
On a fait la fête ensemble.
Nous avons beaucoup ri.
Nous avons exploré ensemble.
Nous avons accompli des objectifs ensemble.
Nous voulons être des champions comme Asafa Powell.
Nous voulons devenir des légendes comme Michael Klim.
Personne ne se connaissait puis nous sommes devenus amis.
Tears were aplenty during the closing ceremony and afterwards in the dining hall, but so were smiles, hugs and kisses. Although, expectedly, the female participants shed the majority of the tears, a sizeable number of male participants contributed considerably to the spectacle of cried-out eyes and tear-stained tissue paper, and the intermittence of departures triggered several consecutive displays of embarrassed or unashamed tearing and weeping. I was particularly emotional sappy during this goodbye, and I hated myself for being so. I knew I would be seeing them – most of them – in 2010 during the games, but sentimentality triumphed rationality – not for the first time in my life.
The Singapore Sports School will probably be stripped of the YOG decor and the indoor track will return to its usual grey and white monotony after the removal of the hundred-odd flags of the participating NOCs. But in the minds of all participants of the camp, the Sports School will always be remembered as the venue where we came as strangers, but left as friends – personne ne se connaisait puis nous sommes devenus amis. The camp, though short in duration, brought us incredibly close, and I thank all participants for that. Friendship has never seemed so transcendental.
C’est incroyable November 21, 2009
Posted by Shiru in School, Thoughts.2 comments
It’s unbelievable.
IB exams are over.
The IBDP is over. My pre-university (formal) education is over.
I. Am. Free!
Yes I am, and as I’ve been repeatedly announcing to my family, my friends on Facebook and the Twittersphere, je suis de bonne humeur.
I’m in a good mood. A very good one. One that I haven’t been in before.
This isn’t the usual post-exam relief, nor is it the freedom I pretend to experience during every year-end holiday. Those feelings are temporal, fleeting, almost unreal. I’m convinced that this time, the feeling is different – and it is real. Emerging from the French exam (which was held in B3-06, due to the tiny candidature of French B and French ab initio combined) evoked an inexplicable sense of triumph. This feeling was probably reinforced by the fact that the French papers were on the very last day of the November 2009 IB exam calendar, but it is nonetheless truly splendidly gratifying to know that I have overcome The Baccalaureate.
My life for the past two years really revolved around IB-related tasks. Sounds like I’ve had a pathetic two years of “life”, eh? I disagree. (Cue gasps of shock and horror.) The evils of lifelessness, sleeplessness and arduousness are said to be the main characteristics of the life of an IB slave (i.e. all students undergoing the IB programme), but honestly this greatly exaggerates the very exciting and enriching roller coaster ride that is the IB programme.
The IB programme impelled us through the fires of EE, pushed us through the sieve of TOK, forced us through CAS (oh those tiresome AEFs – I’m sure everyone will remember those), whipped us with tons of science IAs, wrecked our sleep cycles with World Lit (World Lits, in plural, for HL English A1 students like yours truly), kept us in a stranglehold with IOC, and nearly killed us with the amount of studying we had to do on top of all that. My above summary of the IB workload makes IB sound like a two-year period where one is cruelly obligated to adhere closely to a set of regulations from a page of The Academic Slave Driver’s Handbook. But really, IB – at least from my experience – hasn’t been so terrible, and I doubt I will look back on the years 2008 and 2009 and think to myself, “Oh, what hell I had to endure.”
Reflecting on the examples of purported academic nightmares I mentioned above (EE, TOK, CAS – fine, this isn’t in any way academic; it is merely energy-, time- and brain power-sapping), IAs, World Lit, IOC), I think the experience has been more enriching than excruciating. Take EE for example. Sure, I sacrificed many, many Saturday afternoons to work out the extent to which the collapse of communism in Poland in 1989 was significant in precipitating the final collapse of communism in the USSR, but I enjoyed it so, so much, have learnt an incredible amount, and won’t mind doing it again.
Am I crazy? Yes? Jaw-droppingly insane? Yes?
I’ve heard that before.
But I must add that IB was also made tolerable and rather pleasant by the lovely venue the programme was conducted in: ACS. Yes, I know, the IB programme in ACS is actually run according to The Academic Slave Driver’s Handbook, but there was always a good mix of intense studying, even more intense slacking, ridiculous fun, fun and more fun. My Year 6 experience of HL English A1 strongly exhibits this balance. I thank my Year 6 English teachers from the bottom of my heart for making HL English wonderful – so wonderful that it proved a veritable competitor to HL History to be The Favourite Subject. My two teachers deserve heaps and heaps and heaps and heaps and heaps of praise for the amazing work they have done in making HL English manageable and enjoyable. Besides, both teachers have been exceedingly wonderful people in and outside of class, and I’m eternally grateful for that.
I haven’t begun to be sentimental about IB; it’s probably too early for emotions like that to sink in. Around January, when the usual school calendar begins – that’s probably when I might feel the void.
2008 and 2009 was really, mostly about the IB programme, ACS and IB-related tasks. Even A Level H2 German – save the Gießen trip and exchange programme – seems peripheral to the overall picture of 2008-09.
And now that the Baccalaureate is no longer ensconced in my system (as I have asserted for many, many months on my “About the Author” page), I even have to edit – no, re-write – my “About the Author” page on this site! Incredible! I’d written about how my subject combination is but “ostensibly undemanding”, about how the “brutally selfish” IB programme rarely deals out any free time, and about the pressure which during the last lap of my IB race was mounting on my “increasingly enervated shoulders.” All this looks almost comical now, now that I no longer need to “soldier gallantly on” amidst the onslaught of IB-related tasks.
Yet I fully understand that I mustn’t let myself deteriorate into an intellectually dead non-school-goer with a rusty brain in the following months of free time. University life isn’t that far away, and now that I’ve a place at both UCL and Durham to read History, I’m reminded that (some level of) work and (plenty of) reading must resume. Books by Francis Fukuyama, David Crystal and Steven Pinker sit on my shelf, awaiting my loving perusal, even as my latest haul of Hannah Arendt, John Lewis Gaddis, Eric Hobsbawm, and Edward Said makes its debut appearance on my desk. I will start on all these very, very soon, savouring Crystal’s and Gaddis’s wit, Fukuyama’s originality, Pinker’s and Hobsbawm’s scholarship, Arendt’s and Said’s astuteness… My academic pursuit of History must proceed apace, and after I get through the essays on Theorising Historical Consciousness as well as Margaret Macmillan’s The Uses and Abuses of History, I might return to Spence, Fairbank and Gray to keep in touch with the history of China, after which I must begin reading on modern Eastern European history again, after which I will…
IB is no more, it has ceased to be, and has gone to meet its maker. As the ecstasy begins to settle, I am reminded that there is just so much to do now! I must be off now; there is just no time to lose.
Post-HL History Reflections November 10, 2009
Posted by Shiru in History, School.add a comment
(This was written two hours after HL History Paper 3 on the 10th of Novemeber.)
Unbelievable. It’s been only approximately an hour since I emerged from the examination venue after my last History exam paper of my pre-university education. Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start The Fire” is playing on loop on my nearly-three-year-old Sony Ericsson phone’s Walkman application. Peter Seixas’ “Theorizing Historical Consciousness” and my notebook lie in front of me; my History files full of Regional Paper material are to my right. I’m still surrounded by History-related things, even after completing yet another History-related endeavour, and I plan to make sure this is a situation I will be familiar and comfortable with in the many years to come.
HL History has been an exhilarating journey. Some of my fondest memories of my two years in ACS are undoubtedly thanks to this subject that I have spent hours and hours on. From the introductory lecture during the bridging course (where the sound system in CPA1 refused to play the Billy Joel song mentioned in the above paragraph – to my utter displeasure) in my first week in ACS last January, to the actual IB HL History Paper 3 just now, I’ve enjoyed it truly and tremendously.
Although my love for History originated not during the IB History course but during my time studying O Level History in NYGH, HL History here takes more credit for strengthening that love. Beginning with lessons on the 1905 October Manifesto and ending our last lesson with reflections on our prelim results, the journey had its highs and lows, but it was overall exceedingly fun, interesting and promisingly memorable.
Here’s to many, many years of happiness between History and me. Yes, we’re married. ♥
