I didn't have time to read the Time's 2012 Person of the Year until I brought the issue on my Thailand trip.
It's hard to imagine that the shortlisted one is even more admirable than the champion. Yet, that might be the reason the editor made President Obama on the silver border cover, and at the same time added another cover depicting Malala Yousafzai inside the magazine. The fact that a 15-year-old Pakistani girl can stay just behind Obama means quite something. If you ask me, Malala is just as influential as Obama, maybe even more so.
I was moved by Malala's courage to stand up and speak for an estimated 27 million of the nearly 54 million school-age Pakistan children who are not in the class, the majority of them being girls. She'd been writing blogs for girls' right to education, and then the Taliban tried to silence her with a bullet to her head. She didn't listen to them, and was glad to this day. The bullet had pierced the skin just behind her left eye, traveled along the exterior of her skull, gone through her jawbone, all the way through her neck. It did nothing to stop her voice from being heard. The latest Time issue ran a story describing Malala back in a school uniform.
If Obama made the history, Malala created a miracle.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Control
I recounted the story of rainbow in my blog two days ago, after attending Louise Porter's conference on children's learning style.
That was the first time I heard about the term internal locus of control. The concept, in some ways, isn't difficult to understand. If we believe that outside forces such as the rainbow (or luck) determine our mood or destiny, we are said to have an external locus of control. Stated otherwise, we can possess an internal locus of control by staying in command of our thinking and emotions.
Almost forgotten in all these concepts of self-efficacy and locus of control, though, is the fact that we should apply the same line of thinking in teaching children. That's what I learned from the child psychologist. Her advice to parents is simple: Forget punishments and rewards systems.
It won't be easy. I don't have to tell you why. From clan to clan, culture to culture, the oft seen practice of punishments and rewards has been so hardwired into all of us that they don't even need advocates. Grandmas simply believe that it's impossible to teach without "teaching children a lesson." Moms and dads - and certainly many teachers - say earnestly that star charts are the ways to go.
Benign as it may look, a reward system can teach children that other people's approval counts more than their own judgment. Having heard my daughter's crying when she first attended the kindergarten on her own, we were also enthusiastic about putting up star charts to praise her if she didn't break into tears. Soon, we found that withholding a star or sticker when she cried at the door of the kindergarten is like punishing her for being a child. Within a very short time, we gave up the star charts. Soon Jasmine learned by herself that she can be in control, and things are much more relaxed now.
That was the first time I heard about the term internal locus of control. The concept, in some ways, isn't difficult to understand. If we believe that outside forces such as the rainbow (or luck) determine our mood or destiny, we are said to have an external locus of control. Stated otherwise, we can possess an internal locus of control by staying in command of our thinking and emotions.
Almost forgotten in all these concepts of self-efficacy and locus of control, though, is the fact that we should apply the same line of thinking in teaching children. That's what I learned from the child psychologist. Her advice to parents is simple: Forget punishments and rewards systems.
It won't be easy. I don't have to tell you why. From clan to clan, culture to culture, the oft seen practice of punishments and rewards has been so hardwired into all of us that they don't even need advocates. Grandmas simply believe that it's impossible to teach without "teaching children a lesson." Moms and dads - and certainly many teachers - say earnestly that star charts are the ways to go.
Benign as it may look, a reward system can teach children that other people's approval counts more than their own judgment. Having heard my daughter's crying when she first attended the kindergarten on her own, we were also enthusiastic about putting up star charts to praise her if she didn't break into tears. Soon, we found that withholding a star or sticker when she cried at the door of the kindergarten is like punishing her for being a child. Within a very short time, we gave up the star charts. Soon Jasmine learned by herself that she can be in control, and things are much more relaxed now.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Rain
A problem I share with with my daughter is a tendency to get obsessed with the weather. That's an unintended effect of being a huge fan of photography, and it can be hard to get rid of.
There are days when I feel like I'm drowning in a whole week of rainy weather. Very well, before we take out the rain coats, the weather can change quickly, and in what seems like minutes, the sky can be clear with new colours, leaving many oohs and aahs for the rainbow. What a cool way to kick-start a new day. But can you find the trap? (I'll give you a minute.) Here it is:
"It had been raining this afternoon, daddy," my daughter whined. "It's gone but where is the rainbow?"
I began to see a logic in this trap when I tried to give Jasmine a good answer. In most cases, we anticipate the light at the end of a bumpy journey. That's why we teach ourselves to keep our eyes on the rainbow. It's okay to get happy as a clam at high tide once in a while, but soon our mood will depend on the tide - to get high or low.
"I don't know why the rainbow didn't show up," I told Jasmine. "We can't control when the rain stops, much less if the rainbow comes out, ever. What can we decide? We decide whether we want to be happy."
She nodded.
There are days when I feel like I'm drowning in a whole week of rainy weather. Very well, before we take out the rain coats, the weather can change quickly, and in what seems like minutes, the sky can be clear with new colours, leaving many oohs and aahs for the rainbow. What a cool way to kick-start a new day. But can you find the trap? (I'll give you a minute.) Here it is:
"It had been raining this afternoon, daddy," my daughter whined. "It's gone but where is the rainbow?"
I began to see a logic in this trap when I tried to give Jasmine a good answer. In most cases, we anticipate the light at the end of a bumpy journey. That's why we teach ourselves to keep our eyes on the rainbow. It's okay to get happy as a clam at high tide once in a while, but soon our mood will depend on the tide - to get high or low.
"I don't know why the rainbow didn't show up," I told Jasmine. "We can't control when the rain stops, much less if the rainbow comes out, ever. What can we decide? We decide whether we want to be happy."
She nodded.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Worm
When most people think of school, they think of homework. But that word homework means different things for my daughter's kindergarten than it does for many of us.
It's hard to imagine that my daughter's homework is to raise a darkling beetle.
Last week, I borrowed a book How Not to Be Eaten written by an entomologist, but haven't had time to read. When I went home tonight, my daughter could not wait to tell me the great news, "Dad, come and have a gander. A mealworm. A worm that won't eat you and me." Jasmine was holding a box in which I found a wormlike larva. That's a baby creature that doesn't look like its parents at all. Her teacher isn't teaching her complete metamorphosis, of course, but the theme of her class is "Change" this month. Yup, the reason of asking my kid to raise a darkling beetle from the larva rings clear as a bell.
Wait. I got puzzled when I thought more about it. The teacher gave Jasmine the box to bring home this morning. And my maid picked up Jasmine after school. Oh no, my maid has never really come to terms with her visceral distaste for any crawling creature. The mere thought of a caterpillar could have provoked a squirt of stomach acid into the back of her mouth. How could my maid bring that box of ugly worm home? That's on par with giving her a heart attack. I could hear her heart thumping around her chest like a tennis shoe in the washing machine.
If I had to summarize the second part of this mealworm's story in a sentence, I could say that it's a story of observing how Jasmine changes to a mature girl. I was expecting a tale of my panicky maid covering her eyes, but all my daughter said was, "I know; it's too scary for Wati, and I told her the worm won't eat her. I didn't ask her to hold the box. I bring the box home all by myself."
It's hard to imagine that my daughter's homework is to raise a darkling beetle.
Last week, I borrowed a book How Not to Be Eaten written by an entomologist, but haven't had time to read. When I went home tonight, my daughter could not wait to tell me the great news, "Dad, come and have a gander. A mealworm. A worm that won't eat you and me." Jasmine was holding a box in which I found a wormlike larva. That's a baby creature that doesn't look like its parents at all. Her teacher isn't teaching her complete metamorphosis, of course, but the theme of her class is "Change" this month. Yup, the reason of asking my kid to raise a darkling beetle from the larva rings clear as a bell.
Wait. I got puzzled when I thought more about it. The teacher gave Jasmine the box to bring home this morning. And my maid picked up Jasmine after school. Oh no, my maid has never really come to terms with her visceral distaste for any crawling creature. The mere thought of a caterpillar could have provoked a squirt of stomach acid into the back of her mouth. How could my maid bring that box of ugly worm home? That's on par with giving her a heart attack. I could hear her heart thumping around her chest like a tennis shoe in the washing machine.
If I had to summarize the second part of this mealworm's story in a sentence, I could say that it's a story of observing how Jasmine changes to a mature girl. I was expecting a tale of my panicky maid covering her eyes, but all my daughter said was, "I know; it's too scary for Wati, and I told her the worm won't eat her. I didn't ask her to hold the box. I bring the box home all by myself."
Monday, February 18, 2013
Proud
Of all the words a proud, jovial daddy might use to describe her daughter after a holiday trip, perhaps only I would choose quiet.
It's no secret that as a toddler continues to grow, so too will the list of parents' surprise items. The very last thing that a toddler needs is our suggestion to make up a thousand ways of playing. The toddler learns the trick by herself.
Hear that thumping sound? That's my daughter's game of flying pillow (when we stayed in a two-storeyed resort at Taiwan). Oops! Did you hear hundreds of bombs dropping on the city? No worry, that's my daughter jumping on the bed. The list goes on and on. Dad and mum are supposed to listen and stay calm, leaving room for imagination. If you're worried that you might really get a big surprise, don't worry - you will.
The biggest surprise for me happened when we visited the Taipei Fine Arts Museum at the end of our holiday. It suddenly seemed absurd for a three-year-old to whisper to her dad to lower down the voice. Things got a lot easier than I could have imagined. She had figured out herself to use indoor voice in a museum gallery. Well, even lower volume than her dad's.
It's no secret that as a toddler continues to grow, so too will the list of parents' surprise items. The very last thing that a toddler needs is our suggestion to make up a thousand ways of playing. The toddler learns the trick by herself.
Hear that thumping sound? That's my daughter's game of flying pillow (when we stayed in a two-storeyed resort at Taiwan). Oops! Did you hear hundreds of bombs dropping on the city? No worry, that's my daughter jumping on the bed. The list goes on and on. Dad and mum are supposed to listen and stay calm, leaving room for imagination. If you're worried that you might really get a big surprise, don't worry - you will.
The biggest surprise for me happened when we visited the Taipei Fine Arts Museum at the end of our holiday. It suddenly seemed absurd for a three-year-old to whisper to her dad to lower down the voice. Things got a lot easier than I could have imagined. She had figured out herself to use indoor voice in a museum gallery. Well, even lower volume than her dad's.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Vacuum
I never delight much in the Chinese New Year.
The feeling of emptiness occurs when you know that even the daily newspaper will come to a break. Newspaper stops, shops are closed, and a lot of hospital services come to a halt. Everything stands still, the way a city stays behind after all the clocks vanish and the minutes quit their orderly tick. Pause.
I can also remember all those legendary words of greeting one has to say in front of the elderly. It isn't that I hate to say kind words. But a lot of them are coming out of courtesy, not from the heart. Add a few more those pretentious sentences, and you end up in a hollow vacuum.
In trying to get out of the vacuum, I have developed my own rituals. Every year, I use up all my library card quota before this long holiday, as if the library won't open again. I made good picks this year, and now end up reading four books at the same time: Michael Sandel's Justice, The Glamour of Grammar by Roy Peter Clark, Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die, Fiction 100: an anthology of short fiction.
Now there's a man living fully.
The feeling of emptiness occurs when you know that even the daily newspaper will come to a break. Newspaper stops, shops are closed, and a lot of hospital services come to a halt. Everything stands still, the way a city stays behind after all the clocks vanish and the minutes quit their orderly tick. Pause.
I can also remember all those legendary words of greeting one has to say in front of the elderly. It isn't that I hate to say kind words. But a lot of them are coming out of courtesy, not from the heart. Add a few more those pretentious sentences, and you end up in a hollow vacuum.
In trying to get out of the vacuum, I have developed my own rituals. Every year, I use up all my library card quota before this long holiday, as if the library won't open again. I made good picks this year, and now end up reading four books at the same time: Michael Sandel's Justice, The Glamour of Grammar by Roy Peter Clark, Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die, Fiction 100: an anthology of short fiction.
Now there's a man living fully.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Feel
One of my colleagues got a bout of serious gastroenteritis last week.
When we went through the patients together during the morning round, he could hardly walk. His stomach hurled heavenward, bile and acid scratching his throat as he told me the discharge plan for our patients one by one. He talked as if his tongue turned into flypaper; he walked as if he trousers would fall. My poor friend stopped after each patient (which he seldom has to) before he could go on, insides cramping.
But, and it's a very big but, what he learns from his own experience of being sick to the pit of his stomach turns into something that really sticks in the heart. He was rather surprised at himself after the illness, feeling what a patient feels. "As doctors, we should never be satisfied simply with how quick we send our patients home. Learning to talk to them and listen to them is the license we need to get," he told us.
Absurd as the moral of this story is, being sick himself is as important as a flu shot when it comes to what a doctor needs. Knowing how a patient feels is like an itch. Every day we reach for it and can't quite scratch it. Every day, it itches a little worse.
Some 50 years before, Herrman Blumgart, a Harvard Medical School professor, said it best: "The patient knows how he feels but doesn't know what he's got — while the doctor knows what he's got but doesn't know how he feels."
When we went through the patients together during the morning round, he could hardly walk. His stomach hurled heavenward, bile and acid scratching his throat as he told me the discharge plan for our patients one by one. He talked as if his tongue turned into flypaper; he walked as if he trousers would fall. My poor friend stopped after each patient (which he seldom has to) before he could go on, insides cramping.
But, and it's a very big but, what he learns from his own experience of being sick to the pit of his stomach turns into something that really sticks in the heart. He was rather surprised at himself after the illness, feeling what a patient feels. "As doctors, we should never be satisfied simply with how quick we send our patients home. Learning to talk to them and listen to them is the license we need to get," he told us.
Absurd as the moral of this story is, being sick himself is as important as a flu shot when it comes to what a doctor needs. Knowing how a patient feels is like an itch. Every day we reach for it and can't quite scratch it. Every day, it itches a little worse.
Some 50 years before, Herrman Blumgart, a Harvard Medical School professor, said it best: "The patient knows how he feels but doesn't know what he's got — while the doctor knows what he's got but doesn't know how he feels."
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