What I’m about to tell you is the story of how my mother called the cops on my school teacher. It dates all the way back to primary school. I had this art teacher who often picked on me. We called her “Ms. Ng” and if she miraculously happens to read this, I hope sis knows I’m about to spill the tea.
On the first day of our class, Ms. Ng had us all introduce ourselves; our names, backgrounds, and interests. Towards the roll call, she decided to call me “Moh Ting Ting,” a “nickname” for my surname Mohideen. Everyone laughed of course, but I did not. She tried to be funny but it just wasn’t. This was my surname and a representation of my family and past. It was my identity. But to her, it was nothing more than a joke. You see I did try to speak up, I said, “that isn’t my name”. In response, Ms. Ng just brushed it off, said “whatever” and carried on with the lesson. The true issue isn’t that she made a joke, but rather the everlasting effect of that joke, the negative impact just three wrong words from a teacher’s mouth can have. Long story cut short, I was “Moh Ting Ting” for the rest of the school year. Everyone called me by the name and I had to live with it.
As time progressed, I would see Ms. Ng every week during art classes but I wasn’t too bothered by it. She would pick on me for little things and I’d let them slide, accepting the unfair treatment and assuming that’s just the way it’s supposed to be. Then, it finally happened. I was talking with some friends during our art class and that was the final straw. Ms. Ng asked me to stay after class and demanded I bring in my parents to see her the next day. I was scared, but not for myself. I knew my mother and I was confident she would have my back for a situation I had no fault in. All I had in my mind was “oh you do not want to meet my mum girl.”
The next day, I walked in with my mother. Although in my eyes it was no different than any other time a teacher had asked to see my parents, I was gravely wrong. The meeting went by fine and as expected, my great and divine mother had my back. As Ms. Ng began to list out all the things wrong with me, my saviour reasoned with each and every attack.
“He’s talkative!”
“Aren’t all kids?”
“His grades are far from satisfactory!”
“Well, you're his art teacher. I, as his mother, know enough about my son’s grades from his more 'academic' teachers.”
“No ma’am YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND, your son cannot stay still or shut up, it’s as if he’s MENTAL or something!”
*Silence*
Those ladies and gentlemen were the words Ms. Ng would swallow with painful regret.
The day after, I was running around in the school playground with all the other kids during recess. With the past behind me and the meeting between my mother and Ms. Ng now an outdated concern, I was chilling, just having a good time man. Suddenly, my gaze stumbled upon a dark and familiar figure approaching the front gates of the school. It wasn’t just me, everyone had stopped in their tracks and curiously glared at this person. As the other kids had their attention glued to this woman who was no other than my mother, I turned the other way with nothing but fear and confusion in my eyes. As my heart began to race and the wrinkles over my brows formed, I had only one question in my head. WHY was my mother being followed by two policemen behind her?
My mother, in her gleaming black burka, blazing eyes, and shoes that shook the earth with every stride she took, walked towards the school lobby. It felt as if the end was near. I didn’t know for whom but someone was not going to walk out of this school alive today.
The recess bell rang and as all the kids began lining up to return to their classrooms, I was called upon to the school’s main lobby. There awaited all the faces I had never imagined to be in the same place. My mother, the two policemen, the school principal, the vice-principal, and of course the suspect at question, Ms. Ng. The worried look on the teacher's faces was enough for me to understand that my mother was not the one in trouble, nor was I. The tables had turned and we were literally about to wage war against Ms. Ng. My mom looked at my face and asked me to tell everyone what had happened during the meeting and the unfair treatment I had been receiving from Ms. Ng all year round. As everyone stared at my face awaiting a response, all I could cough up with was “I don’t know.”
The conversation carried on between my mum, the policemen, and the principal. I simply stared at the floor, trying my best to avoid eye contact. Ms. Ng on the other hand was nervously explaining how whatever she said or did was my good only. While I was zoned out, I got snapped back into the scene when my mother called my name again. She was demanding that Ms. Ng apologised to me for calling me mental and continuously treating me the way she did. This was it, payback time, but for some reason, it didn’t feel good. In fact, it felt weird and uncomfortable. To put everything to an end, Ms. Ng went on her knees and actually apologised to my mother and I. It felt unreal, to see the very art teacher I disliked on her knees because of me, or my mother to be exact.
I felt intimidated, ashamed, and afraid. I felt as if I would never again be able to show my face at the school for the drama my mother had created. You see, at the time I didn’t feel affected by Ms. Ng’s unfair treatment. I never cried about it, like “oh racism and discrimination boo hoo.” I just rolled with it and thought it is what it is. Even now, very often, I let such bigotry treatment slide because I have normalised it my entire life. At home, although my mother is a strong and determined woman, she too teaches me to adjust to “racism.”
For example, you should stand up for yourself and voice against unfair treatment, but also know when to let it go for personal gain, to keep a job for instance. It’s tactical, she says. I however disagree. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s not to let the little bits of discrimination go unquestioned. Be it the nicknames, the unfairness, or even the small jokes. It is exactly these smaller actions that end up painting a much larger image of discrimination and unfairness. Not just for you, but for the entire ethnic community.
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