The most satisfying kind of Christmas gift - and the one most likely to stay for years of festivity memory - is the unexpected kind.
For weeks before Christmas, my wife and I have included our three-year-old darling to prepare and celebrate the holidays. Christmas tree and gingerbread man were decorated in a funny manner. Some of the decorations are traditional, some unconventional, and many are exaggeration. The Santa Claus decoration, as she'd made in the school, had five whopping eyes.
On Christmas Eve, my wife invited Jasmine to wrap the gifts - and again in the most unusual style. Unbeknownst to me, they made use of chocolate gift paper to wrap a scarf for me ("So that daddy will think that's a box of chocolate!"). Jasmine was pretty much focused on the task. Alas, that's a secret to trick the daddy.
That is, until I came home just after they put a finishing touch on that "box of chocolate."
I had not the foggiest idea what my daughter and my wife were doing. "What a beautiful day and a lovely girl," I said. And she is.
"Nooooooo, daddy, don't get too close," my daughter was really excited, "and you won't know this box is a scarf!"
When I realized that she had been trying to keep the secret but actually leaked the story, I told myself, "It's sure to be a kid's secret to remember."
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Stereotype
On my way to work, I heard the news that we have to follow incredibly stringent rules when submitting photographs for application of Chinese visa. Absurd as the requirement is, it states precisely the dimension of the face, the interval length between two pupils, the area for the two eyes to fall within the photograph, and emotion of the applicant. For this very reason, many applicants fail.
I had no idea what these rules are trying to achieve, but I tried to guess. Can they make the identification more accurate? Can they get rid of forged visas? The answer in both cases is no. Be not beguiled. Our brains don't need that detailed and sophisticated photograph to make a conclusion.
Which brings me, somewhat uncomfortably, to the question of how stereotype - and not detailed analysis - determines our decision. To try to prove this point, a psychologist carried out an experiment by flashing either a black face or a white face on a computer screen. The subjects caught a glimpse of the face, and were then shown either a picture of a gun or a picture of a wrench. Each lasted for 200 milliseconds. Imagine you were sitting in front of the computer, you would know that details like the dimension of the face and the pupil separation won't make a centimeter of difference in 200 milliseconds. Here comes the results of that study: when subjects were primed with a black face first, they would identify the gun as a gun a little more quickly than if they were shown a white face first. It's a grotesque "colour-bind" prejudice, to say the least.
What if the subjects were forced to make a snap decision within 500 milliseconds? Well, they were quicker to call a gun a gun when they saw a black face first. But you will be surprised at how many errors occur. In fact - and this is the interesting part - when they saw a black face first, the subjects were also quicker to call a wrench a gun.
Sure, it seems unfair. But so do lots of things. Judging application materials, for instance, seems very unfair. A recent randomized, double-blind study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences confirmed a real bias against female students, even in science faculty from research-intensive universities. Researchers did an experiment by submitting identical curricula vitae to a broad, nationwide sample of biology, chemistry, and physics professors - there were 127 in all - to apply for a science laboratory manager position. The CVs were exactly the same except a random allocation to be submitted under a male or female name. In the end, women were significantly less competent and hireable than men even though student gender was the only variable that differed. Women were, I should make plain, also offered a lower starting salary. How can that be? Stereotype bias, but hey, it's something.
I had no idea what these rules are trying to achieve, but I tried to guess. Can they make the identification more accurate? Can they get rid of forged visas? The answer in both cases is no. Be not beguiled. Our brains don't need that detailed and sophisticated photograph to make a conclusion.
Which brings me, somewhat uncomfortably, to the question of how stereotype - and not detailed analysis - determines our decision. To try to prove this point, a psychologist carried out an experiment by flashing either a black face or a white face on a computer screen. The subjects caught a glimpse of the face, and were then shown either a picture of a gun or a picture of a wrench. Each lasted for 200 milliseconds. Imagine you were sitting in front of the computer, you would know that details like the dimension of the face and the pupil separation won't make a centimeter of difference in 200 milliseconds. Here comes the results of that study: when subjects were primed with a black face first, they would identify the gun as a gun a little more quickly than if they were shown a white face first. It's a grotesque "colour-bind" prejudice, to say the least.
What if the subjects were forced to make a snap decision within 500 milliseconds? Well, they were quicker to call a gun a gun when they saw a black face first. But you will be surprised at how many errors occur. In fact - and this is the interesting part - when they saw a black face first, the subjects were also quicker to call a wrench a gun.
Sure, it seems unfair. But so do lots of things. Judging application materials, for instance, seems very unfair. A recent randomized, double-blind study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences confirmed a real bias against female students, even in science faculty from research-intensive universities. Researchers did an experiment by submitting identical curricula vitae to a broad, nationwide sample of biology, chemistry, and physics professors - there were 127 in all - to apply for a science laboratory manager position. The CVs were exactly the same except a random allocation to be submitted under a male or female name. In the end, women were significantly less competent and hireable than men even though student gender was the only variable that differed. Women were, I should make plain, also offered a lower starting salary. How can that be? Stereotype bias, but hey, it's something.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Rebuke
One day, a city was struck by a hurricane.
There's no joy for the citizens in such bad weather, and certainly none for the fire brigade. All the firemen were exhausted. And that's not all. Some frustrated firemen grabbed the streetsleepers' shawls and blankets to wrap themselves up in. Some defecated in the open. Some fled. Morale had been swept away as if by a tsunami.
So what can be done to a poor guy whose home happened to be on fire?
The answer: not much - at least not immediately according to that fire brigade's triage system.
There are few experiences as depressing as a fire brigade's manager who was helpless and watched his home ablaze. Horror. Sheer horror. That's what the manager felt when he decided to make a long distance call to his fireman friend in another city. His friend was a middle-aged fireman who had been in the fire service for years.
The middle-aged fireman rushed to the scene, did his job, and went home before the manager had time to thank him. The fireman, by now quite used to help people in need, didn't seem too flamboyant at the thought of his rescue. He almost forgot the event until, one week later, he received a complaint letter from the hard-pressed fire brigade. "Oh," said the middle-aged fireman, puzzled. He glanced at the complaint, with a frown. He said nothing for a while. He was more than a little bewildered by the intrusive language.
"All right," said the middle-aged fireman. "All right. I won't let this ridiculous letter sour my daughter's birthday tomorrow." He tried to control his temper and started to write a spur-of-the-moment reply:
My dear colleagues,
I confess that I went to your city and put the conflagration out last Wednesday morning. I had no right whatsoever to be critical of the way you feedback. Please forgive me.
The scene happened to be our fire brigade senior manager's home. The flames were out of control, and his home could have burned to the ground within minutes. I happened to know this manager for many years, and he requested me to make a quick assessment. I find it not true that I "didn't acknowledge any of your team member (as what was written in the feedback)." In fact, I was so grateful that your fire service superintendent handed me the hose and gave me a key to the equipments. I did return them after finishing my job.
Now I ask your forgiveness because I violated your policy. I'm very sorry that I had to let the poor gentleman "jump the queue (to quote your words)." I thought an early intervention was necessary to help my fire victim - before everything turns into ashes. I don't want to whitewash my stupid mistake, but the fact is that the house was saved.
When I read the sentence in your feedback letter that I "create more chaos and endanger all the other people waiting to be seen," I would beg to differ. I am in no position to make your department more chaotic than the current situation - and how can I?
You might call this type of wording an Attorney's Apology: "I confess to nothing, but if I'm guilty of anything, forgive me and please be lenient on me."
But my mother has always taught me that an apology requires our pride step aside, our egos lie low, and our prejudice die down. I will make this short and sincere...
"I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"
There's no joy for the citizens in such bad weather, and certainly none for the fire brigade. All the firemen were exhausted. And that's not all. Some frustrated firemen grabbed the streetsleepers' shawls and blankets to wrap themselves up in. Some defecated in the open. Some fled. Morale had been swept away as if by a tsunami.
So what can be done to a poor guy whose home happened to be on fire?
The answer: not much - at least not immediately according to that fire brigade's triage system.
There are few experiences as depressing as a fire brigade's manager who was helpless and watched his home ablaze. Horror. Sheer horror. That's what the manager felt when he decided to make a long distance call to his fireman friend in another city. His friend was a middle-aged fireman who had been in the fire service for years.
The middle-aged fireman rushed to the scene, did his job, and went home before the manager had time to thank him. The fireman, by now quite used to help people in need, didn't seem too flamboyant at the thought of his rescue. He almost forgot the event until, one week later, he received a complaint letter from the hard-pressed fire brigade. "Oh," said the middle-aged fireman, puzzled. He glanced at the complaint, with a frown. He said nothing for a while. He was more than a little bewildered by the intrusive language.
"All right," said the middle-aged fireman. "All right. I won't let this ridiculous letter sour my daughter's birthday tomorrow." He tried to control his temper and started to write a spur-of-the-moment reply:
My dear colleagues,
I confess that I went to your city and put the conflagration out last Wednesday morning. I had no right whatsoever to be critical of the way you feedback. Please forgive me.
The scene happened to be our fire brigade senior manager's home. The flames were out of control, and his home could have burned to the ground within minutes. I happened to know this manager for many years, and he requested me to make a quick assessment. I find it not true that I "didn't acknowledge any of your team member (as what was written in the feedback)." In fact, I was so grateful that your fire service superintendent handed me the hose and gave me a key to the equipments. I did return them after finishing my job.
Now I ask your forgiveness because I violated your policy. I'm very sorry that I had to let the poor gentleman "jump the queue (to quote your words)." I thought an early intervention was necessary to help my fire victim - before everything turns into ashes. I don't want to whitewash my stupid mistake, but the fact is that the house was saved.
When I read the sentence in your feedback letter that I "create more chaos and endanger all the other people waiting to be seen," I would beg to differ. I am in no position to make your department more chaotic than the current situation - and how can I?
You might call this type of wording an Attorney's Apology: "I confess to nothing, but if I'm guilty of anything, forgive me and please be lenient on me."
But my mother has always taught me that an apology requires our pride step aside, our egos lie low, and our prejudice die down. I will make this short and sincere...
"I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Gorilla
Jasmine is going to be three years old tomorrow.
Three years isn't such a long time in the equation of life, but it was long enough for me to see every amazing new page in her life. What makes these three years special is the way my ever-more-independent daughter changes and grows. Gone is the packing of napkins every time we go out, so too is the bib. Before you know it, she walks. Before you know it, she talks. Before you know it, she is learning to use dental floss.
It's amazing that Jasmine loves storybooks, too. In fact, we bought so many books that she can reach with minimal effort. Some are silly like Gruffalo and Room on the Broom, others unfailingly interesting and humorous (yes, I mean Good Night, Gorilla).
Which brings me to a Sunday afternoon at the countryside. When we were looking for the helmet crabs, Jasmine tiptoed behind her mum's back, looking amused. I didn't know what's going on, except a glimpse of Jasmine who grabbed something from the pocket of her mum's trousers. I saw nothing and yet knew that Jasmine was somehow, by some miracle, really carrying something important. "Shhhhhhh.... this is funny," said her silly look.
"Honey," I said, "what'd you just take?"
"Keys," my daughter whispered. She held out her right hand as if opening a gate with an invisible key. "Out comes the elephant."
I got my intuition back when I made space for it, when I almost "heard" the clattering of keys in Jasmine's hand. Wow! She was pretending to be the Gorilla in the storybook. See, Gorilla tiptoed, followed by an elephant. Then a giraffe. And a hyena...
"And... armadillo!" We both laughed.
Three years isn't such a long time in the equation of life, but it was long enough for me to see every amazing new page in her life. What makes these three years special is the way my ever-more-independent daughter changes and grows. Gone is the packing of napkins every time we go out, so too is the bib. Before you know it, she walks. Before you know it, she talks. Before you know it, she is learning to use dental floss.
It's amazing that Jasmine loves storybooks, too. In fact, we bought so many books that she can reach with minimal effort. Some are silly like Gruffalo and Room on the Broom, others unfailingly interesting and humorous (yes, I mean Good Night, Gorilla).
Which brings me to a Sunday afternoon at the countryside. When we were looking for the helmet crabs, Jasmine tiptoed behind her mum's back, looking amused. I didn't know what's going on, except a glimpse of Jasmine who grabbed something from the pocket of her mum's trousers. I saw nothing and yet knew that Jasmine was somehow, by some miracle, really carrying something important. "Shhhhhhh.... this is funny," said her silly look.
"Honey," I said, "what'd you just take?"
"Keys," my daughter whispered. She held out her right hand as if opening a gate with an invisible key. "Out comes the elephant."
I got my intuition back when I made space for it, when I almost "heard" the clattering of keys in Jasmine's hand. Wow! She was pretending to be the Gorilla in the storybook. See, Gorilla tiptoed, followed by an elephant. Then a giraffe. And a hyena...
"And... armadillo!" We both laughed.
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