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We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories. – A Sister’s Eulogy (for Steve Jobs)

That’s why I love stories – not because they’re an escape, not because of the aesthetic use of words, but because good stories speak certain truths about life – a good story is life itself. And the act of creating a story is going back to reconnect with this truth that we already know, just that life’s gone and covered it all up. I like writing “essays” here to cut through all these stories to get to the truth – sometimes it works, sometimes it just goes a bit further from the truth. So today’s just two stories on two pretty disconnected things I’ve come across recently from things friends have written: student leadership and Singaporean literature. They remain stories because an essay of sorts seemed like too blunt an instrument to cut to the truths they hold to me; I hope you’ll get an idea of the meaning behind them too. They’re written from memory, but the big parts are pretty much as I remember them to be.

A Story on Leadership

We started running the moment we were out of the gate (we had never used the RJ entrance before but the guards basically ignored us) - unseasonable rain clouds were already hanging low. It was lunchtime, and we weren’t supposed to be out of school yet – but we didn’t know that (believe it). We were a motley crew of Sec One kids sprinting down the pavement and the iPhone 3G hadn’t been released yet, so that meant navigating by road signs.

The path down Jalan Pemimpin was longer than we expected, but we found the “factory” complex in the end.

We entered via the loading bay which was all rust, huge trucks and more security guards (and a guard dog – who all basically ignored us). The cargo lift only stopped at level 3, so that’s where we got off.

The lady had gotten our email in advance and we rushed through the order – ten minutes before science started. We dropped a coin fumbling with all the notes, then grabbed a box each and started running the moment we were out of the shop – apparently the lady was a parent of a senior (maybe a PSL!).

Then we turned a corner and a duo of those seniors stared back at us absentmindedly – cigarettes still lit. They even had their uniforms on. Looking at them was one smooth motion – no one caught their eyes, but we all saw.

And before we knew it we were five minutes late for science, drenched but forgiven – “out looking for you, ma’m.”

We gave out the class T-shirts after science – they were saved from the rain by plastic wrapping – and for the moment we forgot about the seniors.

A Story on Singaporean Literature

I had read The Giver and annotated “every single page!” of A Wrinkle in Time, as well as making sure others knew all about it, so it seemed natural to attend “A Discussion on Singaporean Literature” when the PA system advertised it at the National Library.

It may seem weird, but it was about 5 years back and the so-called “Singaporean Literature” scene was even more undeveloped then. A few current famous names in the scene attracted a small gathering of less than fifteen at the multipurpose room back then. At least a familiar beard stood out.

Anyway, a question from an aspiring writer, an aspiring publisher and an aspiring investor afterwards, I was feeling brave and literary so I raised my hand and said that I thought literature seemed only accessible to those who got “higher education”; otherwise it was just textbooks and grammar exercises. So was Singaporean literature being elitist?

That woke up another famous name in literature, and for about ten minutes afterwards we heard about how he had grown up in a broken family – his brother/father in jail – but somehow somewhere he had found a bookshop and started reading and writing poetry, that he made the effort to get interested, that despite being poor and from a bad background he had made it. So that was that about your “higher education” point.

Even back then, I didn’t feel my question had been answered in full – or even appropriately.

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