There’s something liberating about not pretending. Dare to embarrass yourself. Risk.
– Drew Barrymore, American actress, producer, talk show host and author.
When I was about six years old, I distinctly remember university students frequently visiting our home.
They were asked by my grandfather to teach my mother how to read and write in the Malay language. Every few months, a new tutor would rotate in due to my mother’s frustration with the learning process.
As I observed my mother’s tutoring sessions, I couldn’t help but wonder why my father leisurely flipped through magazines while my mother struggled to grasp the formation of letters. It was difficult for me to comprehend that both my parents were illiterate, and no one took the time to explain it to me.
The presence of tutors coming to our home three times a week became as normal as the visits from my aunts, uncles, and cousins for dinner.
My mother grew up with four brothers and a sister in an ‘attap’ house in Upper Padawan. These homes were constructed with hard dirt floors and palm-thatched roofs, using sturdy branches for the walls. There was no electricity or running water in their humble abode.
While her brothers started attending school around the age of six, my grandfather forbade my mother and her youngest sister from receiving any formal education.
My mother often reminisced about something my grandfather used to say, which reflected his archaic beliefs: “Girls don’t go to school. Girls belong at home in the kitchen.” This mindset not only deprived her of socialising with other children in the village but also shaped the way our family lived.
To supplement our income, my mother cleaned the homes of wealthier families in Teng Bukap. She enjoyed this work because her customers owned televisions. Watching black-and-white Samurai films in wonderment while ironing clothes felt like a rare luxury for a village girl.
Additionally, she sold homemade chilli side dishes to women in the village. To cover the costs of ingredients, she washed other people’s clothes. Using a granite mortar and pestle, she diligently pounded red chillies, oils, shallots, garlic, and shrimp paste to create sambal.
I have vivid memories of my mother’s tutoring sessions taking place in our dining room. Her focus would fluctuate within an hour. I sat at the opposite end of the table, observing and colouring. She wrote the letters on a sheet of A4 paper with precision, ensuring straight and neat lines and equal spacing between each uppercase and lowercase letter. She initially wrote lightly and then sought approval from her tutor.
After receiving a nod of confirmation, she traced over her outline with noticeable pressure, as if wanting to leave an indelible mark on the subsequent pages. However, when it came time to read, my mother would often argue with these women.
“See Jack run. Run, Jack, run,” they would recite.
Having heard these phrases repeatedly, I found myself silently mouthing along. Each time my mother stumbled, she would lash out and abruptly end the tutoring session, saying, “I need to cook lunch for the kids,” as she ushered the tutor out the door.
I never dared to question her actions.
Despite the uncertainty prevailing in our home, I continued attending school. Mathematics has always been my favourite subject. However, when we started learning how to spell and read, I withdrew.
During English class, our teacher would recite words like “tree” or “cat” and ask us to spell them on the chalkboard. I knew the correct spellings for most words, but witnessing my mother’s struggle with writing and reading had shaken my confidence.
“Medecci, spell ‘shark,'” the teacher prompted.
I sat frozen, hoping I had misheard her.
“Medecci Lineil …” she called again, this time more insistently.
Approaching the board felt like walking the plank. With trembling hands, I began to write, only to be met with a burst of laughter from my classmates.
S-A-R-K, I scrawled on the board. There I stood, chalk in hand, feeling utterly humiliated.
Upon returning home, I sat at the dining room table with my exercise book, repeatedly spelling “SHARK” as tears stained the page.
I longed for my mother to come over and offer guidance. I hoped that she had learned how to read when her tutor visited that day. I needed her to check my spelling before I embarrassed myself again. As she looked down at it, she appeared confused and ashamed, mirroring my feelings from class. She couldn’t help me.
Eventually, I made the difficult decision to stop attending school altogether.
With my studies on hold, my focus shifted to supporting my family in any way I could. I often accompanied my mother to the shops, reading labels and helping pay outstanding debts.
When it was time to settle bills, she would discreetly hand me her wallet. In a hushed voice, she would give me instructions, pointing out the total amount owed.
“Step away to the toilet where no one can see you. Prepare some cash for this amount.”
Her nervousness transferred to me. After preparing the cash, I would tuck it into the waistband of my pants, power-walk to the shop, and discreetly slip it into her bag. It felt as if we were participating in some illicit activity.
At the age of eleven, I attempted to teach her some basic calculations. We would often end up arguing; perhaps I wasn’t patient enough. Eventually, I gave up.
However, during our first visit to the Museum and Art Gallery Bank Negara Malaysia (BNM), I realised that my mother might be dyslexic, noting her struggles with jumbling letters and numbers. It was during that visit that she finally confided in me, expressing her shame.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I could read and write. But you are so naturally talented with numbers. Those people at BNM always praised your skill. What exactly do you do?”
It was challenging not to feel frustrated that she didn’t fully comprehend my profession despite my explanations over the years. But how could I be upset? She had been denied an education simply because she was born a girl.
Reflecting on that journey reminds me of my role as a father to my eleven-year-old daughter. However, this time, she understands that being a girl is an opportunity to champion female empowerment, and education serves as her weapon for justice. Happy International Women’s Day!
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of New Sarawak Tribune.
