Gen Y: A Report in TODAY

They're lazy, want it all, narcissistic: Study on 'unhappy' Gen Y



Reading the posts by Yakkity Yak reminds me of a news report from the UK's Daily Telegraph carried in the Singapore free newspaper, Today, on the 26 of May about Gen Y, those born between 1980 and 1990.

The Report goes,

"They're lazy, want it all, narcissistic: Study on 'unhappy' Gen Y



by THE DAILY TELEGRAPH 05:55 AM May 26, 2010LONDON -

The young adults of today want it all but are not prepared to work for it, a new study suggests.


Those who were born into "Generation Y" have an over-inflated sense of entitlement and lack the work ethic to achieve their goals. They also hate being criticised, it is claimed.


Researchers believe that the problem stems from being constantly told from birth they are special and as a result now believe it - and will ignore anybody who says otherwise.


But far from making them happy, their approach to life leads to higher levels of depression and "chronic disappointment" as unjustified levels of self-esteem masks the ugly reality.


Academics have concluded the values drummed into their grandparents, such as a strong work ethic and self-sacrifice, have been lost in the relentless quest for self-fulfilment.


"Generation Y" or Gen-Yers refers to those born between the 1980s and 90s who are now in their 20s or approaching their 30s.


Members have long complained they have been unfairly characterised as lazy but the new research appears to prove that the stereotype is actually true.


Professor Paul Harvey of the University of New Hampshire carried out a series of studies measuring psychological entitlement and narcissism on a group of Gen -Yers and found they scored 25 per cent higher than respondents ages 40 to 60 and 50 per cent higher than those over 61.


In addition, Gen-Yers were twice as likely to rank in the top 20 per cent in their level of entitlement - the "highly entitled range" - as someone between 40 and 60, and four times more likely than a pensioner.


Professor Harvey concluded Gen-Yers are characterised by a "very inflated sense of self" that leads to "unrealistic expectations" and, ultimately, "chronic disappointment".


He explained that the 20-somethings of today have "an automatic, knee-jerk reaction to criticism", and just dismiss it.


"Even if they fail miserably at a job, they still think they're great at it," he said.


Prof Harvey said the sense of entitlement "gets ingrained in the formative years".


"It stems from the self-esteem movement, telling kids, 'You're great, you're special,'" he said.


He added that the ultimate irony is that such an approach to life leads to higher levels of depression because unjustified level of self-esteem masks the ugly reality.


A separate study due to be published in the Journal of Management showed those in Generation Y care most about high salaries and lots of leisure time - two apparently incompatible goals.


Researchers from Kennesaw State University in Georgia examined data from an ongoing study of high school students conducted annually since 1975 by the University of Michigan.


Both workers in Generation X, the one which came before Generation Y, and Gen- Yers want to earn a lot but the former show greater awareness a hefty salary comes through hard work.


"They want everything," said Ms Stacy Campbell, an assistant professor of management at Kennesaw. "

End of Story

                      Duh Where am I?

As I read this article I could not help thinking that the writers are overly harsh on the Gen Y folks. Surely, the Gen Y did not spring fully clothed and armed like the proverbial genie out of the brass lamp? Where did they come from? And where did they get their attitudes and outlooks?

Indeed, the outlook of the Gen Y  described by the researchers could well be applied to the behaviour, thinking and ideology of the generation of political, business and social elites of the eighties and nineties. These elites were egoistic, brash and narcissistic.

A Trek Into The Past: A Side Show

A Trek Into The Past

A Side Show

by

Yakkity Yak



“A Side-Show”


Footballing interest spawned yet another side show. We were somehow intrigued by the photographs in the newspapers, showing the great athleticism of footballers; mostly of centre-forwards scoring goals or the acrobatic feats of goalkeepers foiling goals. Unable to afford our own newspapers, we begged our richer Indian neighbours for the previous week’s papers so that we could scour through them, painstakingly cut out the pictures we wanted and meticulously pasted them on a jotter book. The jotter book costs 5 cents and we needed to justify the purchase to our mother. I told her that the entire exercise of cutting and pasting those pictures were part of a class project ordered by my stern form teacher.

We were great fans of the State team then. What with personalities like Awang Barkar, Lee Wah Chin, Quah Kim Swee, Majid Arif, Rahim Omar, Wilfred Skinner and many more? The entire galactica of stars were only on parade together in Inter- State games, then known as the Malayan Cup and the FAM (Football Association of Malaya) Cup. These were played at the Jalan Besar Stadium and they charged an entrance fee, which, without saying, was beyond our reach. Our next best course of action was to watch the local league teams selectively, whenever these players were featured, gratis, at the Geylang Stadium, not too far away from where we stayed. It was within easy walking distance. Most of these State players turned out for local clubs at the local league games. We would watch the Police team which boasted of at least 3 State players, Tan Tock Seng Hospital, also at least 3 State players, Blue Rovers, Darul Afiah and Fathul Kabrib, which together accounted the rest of the Malay State players; Chinese Athletics and the Amicable Athletic Association from which the Chinese State players were hailed from. Unknown to us, it was at Geylang Stadium or at least the mosque next to it, that gave us all a fright much later. The race riots started from this particular mosque which we were so familiar with. Frankly, we could see simmering tensions borne of racial partisanship at the foot ball games which we watched at the stadium. The teams were definitely organized on racial lines. A greater proportion of the teams were Malay-based. The only Chinese-based teams were the Chinese Athletic, the Amicable Athletic Association and Hai-kow-yu . The Indians played for the Joyful Indians and the Jolly Lads, with Kinta Indians from Perak as an occasional guest–team.

The racial riots told me another facet of the secret societies and the triads. One day I saw two or three macho men, of the type whom you would call “Ah Beng’ today, scarred with tattoos of dragons, snakes and nude maidens, escorting my father back home. I was to later learn that the various SS groups operating at the Kallang Airport Estate sunk their differences temporarily during the racial riots, to help ‘protect’ whoever they think would potentially fall prey to the racial wars. These were heroic acts, carried out with benevolent intents. Much later, in the course of my Police work, I learnt that much of their rites and ceremonies, values and behaviour were inspired by Chinese legends such as the White Lotus Society, the 128 Shao Lin Monks, the Romance of The Three Kingdoms and Water Margin. And talking about sinking differences, I thought they might as well, because as far as I can see, no one gang has managed then, to establish any kind of hegemony in Kallang Airport.

The Kallang Airport Hawkers Centre is today, arguably one of the better hawkers centre in Singapore. Yet, if you know anything of its history, you will recognize that it hasn’t a really very glorious past, perhaps like most hawkers centres. I think they all started as some make-shift nondescript stalls set up by residents within the estate, to eke out a living. Needless to say, they were illegal and were frequently and mercilessly mowed down by the authorities, of course, for various reasons and mostly legitimate ones, too. For one thing, they were probably not prepared in the most sanitary of conditions (in all probability in the confines of the home kitchens).

We ate from these stalls, devouring every morsel, not so much as some savoury gourmet delights but more to satisfy a basic biological need. As growing up kids, we needed more than a generous helping to satiate our insatiable appetite! We paid a dear price for this as well. Two of my siblings; an elder brother and a younger one were struck down by typhoid fever. The Middleton Quarantine Hospital where they were treated informed us that typhoid was due to food prepared in unsanitary conditions. To us, this was traceable to the stalls where we bought our breakfast. Nevertheless, up till today I still have a yearning to visit the Kallang Airport Hawkers Centre but not really for nostalgia but because it has some of the best street food in Singapore!

Today, Kallang Airport is vastly refreshed, cleaned up, and thoroughly face lifted. It has a shine and wears a veneer of a gloss that it never used to have. It is a little up-market. It is shorn of its entire previous drab and has shed all vestiges of a scruffy past. It is distinguishably-new; no longer a nest of pigeon holes where we used to come to roost. Kallang Airport! I vow to thee, I shall return yet another day to my now, unfamiliar home!

It was once scruffy!!

A Trek Into The Past: Bedroom Exploits

A Trek Into The Past

Bedroom Exploits

by

Yakkity Yak




It must be shocking that bedroom exploits figure in our early lives in ironic co-existence with all the gloom and the doom, the rough and the tumble! Like most kids during our time, we were partial to the game of football. The lack of space, however, was a major stumbling block in our desire to satiate the irresistible urge to kick the ball around. After smashing a few window-panes while knocking the ball around in the small turf-patches in the neighbourhood, we self forfeited our chance to whack it around in these patches any more. We had no money to pay for the repairs of broken window panes in the neighbourhood. Neither would our parents want to bail us out, any longer. The self forfeiture was hence, a self-imposition borne out of extreme remorse. Even if we had not made such an imposition, we could not dribble past our mother. Without saying, she imposed a ban on us kicking around in the neighbourhood. We could not leave the house at any course. Even if we should sneak out to play during any of her absence from the house, say, when she makes her routine homage to the temples, she had some means to find out. Her forensic approach to the matter was simple yet effective. Each time she returned from her sojourn to the temple, she will inspect the soles of all our feet. Since she kept the house spotlessly clean and since we could not afford to have a pair of slippers of our own, any smeared soles were to her, sure indications that we must have stepped out of the house bare-footed. Even if we could scrub off the dirt-smears, it was just too hard to scrub off the chlorophyll-stains picked up from the lawn. Faced with such a predicament, we retreated to the bedroom to hone our footballing-skills and to give expression to our bedroom exploits!

We found much to our delight that actually sleeping on bare hard floors, since the bedroom was bare of any furniture, is not a bad thing after all. The bedroom was relatively speaking, a vast expanse of empty space; eminently suited to a game of football. We rolled up paper balls from old newspapers and had a gala time kicking and diving after it to stop goals from being scored. We also had our fair share of aerial duels as we fought hard for the ball in mid air. Alas, this was to be the source of trouble in our bedroom exploits! It all stems from the fact that the entire room was illuminated only by a single light bulb. The bulb, as it was, was hanging precariously from the ceiling. Unable to take the severe knocks from the ball, so furiously fought in mid aerial-duels, it soon got detached from the ceiling and began to oscillate dangerously above us. We were never fearful of the light bulb plonking down on us. It was the more onerous ordeal of having to account for the sorry state of the bulb to our father when he returned home. It was more this that haunted us rather badly.
In a flash of brilliance, I crouched down and offered my broad shoulders to my younger brother, urging him to stand on them while I hoisted him up to see what restorative work could be undertaken to the hapless, ill-fated light bulb. I shouted copious instructions to him to make a full scale examination of what ailed the bulb so that we could render all necessary first aid to keep it firm and upright again. In a desperate but inspired moment, he triumphantly reported that he had come to grips with the problem. He reported that the screws that kept the bulb nailed to the ceiling had come loose, unable to take the severe beatings from our mid air combats. The ravages proved too much and the holes that held up the screws, were, quite explicably, overly dilated! I then conjured up a devious but ingenious scheme of action to put things right, straight away! I hoisted him up again on my shoulders and barked out further instructions to him, to tighten the holes by wrapping some paper onto the screws. The simple plan worked, like gold! The screws started to hold on snugly and flushed to the otherwise gaping holes. It was not really a rare engineering feat, but nonetheless, a no less ingenuous one. When my father returned later in the evening, he was none the wiser. We survived another day so that we could continue our bedroom exploits yet again the next day.

A Trek Into The Past: Old Kallang Airport Days

By Way of an Introduction...

This series of posts grouped together under A Trek Into The Past is contributed by Yakkity Yak with whom I have shared good times and bad, many a cup of kopi o and quite a few zi char makans including the memorial one where the stall was raided by Environment Officers and we had to scoot off without finishing our meal. Reading his accounts stir many memories within, of the days when we were young and innocent, when gangsters ruled the streets and we struggled to make ends meet. These may not be the stories you find in books and official documents but they are nonethess richly lived experiences and real for all that. These are our little, personal histories of a past without which the Singapore of today would not be complete.




 
A Trek Into The Past: Kallang Days


 “Home Was Where The Heart Was”

   by

  Yakkity Yak



It must be my masochistic streak that moved me to rake up past ambers and take a trek into the past. If anything, my past is but a painful one. It will be far better that I consign it to the dark recesses of ‘limbo- land’, much less to revisit it.

Not unlike many others of my vintage, my childhood days were nothing to relish about. Born into a poor family (and, for that matter, not just poor but crushingly poor), my entire childhood was shaped by experiences of want and deprivation. Home was an odd-shaped, smallish cubicle opposite the now defunct Kallang Gas Works. It is Spartan by the most Spartan standards. Within this not so sweet home, eight of us siblings lived in contorted-huddle for a good many years. But come to think of it, it is only now, when I reflect back, did I realize how appalling, things were then. At that time, I think we were probably too young to truly appreciate what good and bad living conditions were. Life then was nothing more than a series of ‘sleepings and wakings” We do not know enough of what transpired in between to depress us, even if they do not impress us.

                                                          The defunct Kallang Gas Works


The next picture shows the airport that gave the place its name,

                                                             The Kallang Airport

It was only when I was in my third schooling year did we moved into what seemed to be a palatial home in Old Kallang Airport. This was a three-room SIT flat where I lived till I set up my own home in the ‘70s at the mature age of 26.

A key distinguishing feature of Old Kallang Airport as a SIT-estate, the forerunner of the current term ‘HDB estate’, is that it is a hotbed of SS activities. It was the infamous relocation-centre of all the fire-victims from Geylang and Bukit Ho Swee. Both Geylang and Bukit Ho Swee were SS-infested and boasted some of the most treacherous SS groups in Singapore. So, when rival gangs from two notorious SS hot spots congregated in Kallang Airport, an immediate flash point for gangland war was created. Quite often, the quiet of the night would be broken by the sound of broken glass as glass bottles and bricks were hurled at two particular units of flats just below our block. I cannot really say for sure why these two units were the frequent targets, except to hazard at a guess. Perhaps, they were the living quarters of some rival headmen. Or were they the ‘safe-houses’ of members of one of the gangs?

I even had a close encounter with these gangs once. It was one of my many home-duties then, to fetch my younger brother from school in Tanjong Rhu, literally a stone’s throw away from the estate. I was about 11 years or so then and in Primary 5. To reach my younger brother’s school, I had to walk through a relatively deserted area flanking a canal. I was blissfully walking along when a boy, probably not much older and in wooden clogs swaggered up towards me. He caught hold of my shirt around the front collar area and asked in Hokkien: “Tit toh tor lok” which literally means “Where do you play?” Luckily for me I was no babe in the woods and knew exactly what that meant, never mind if in the literal sense, it merely questioned the location of my playground. I knew that in gangland parlance, this really meant “What gang do you belong to?” Frankly, I momentarily froze. In that split second of frozen-fear, I made some fast mental calculations, going over in my mind and ticking off all the options that were available to me. Should I impress him by randomly throwing up some gangland numbers? I have enough local knowledge to know that the gangs that roamed Kallang Airport were known by various number-codes. Should it be 24? 08? 969? Or more appropriately, since I am a true-blue Teochew, 32 (or Sar Ji the gang-code for all Teochew Triad members)? My precocious self however, told me that discretion was always the better part of valour! I reasoned that these were no lucky numbers and none of them could save me from a bashing. Worse still, why should I pretend that I belonged to a gang when I didn’t? I then hit on the brilliant idea that I should tell him that I belonged to no gang. So I summoned up all the courage that I had and in clear, unwavering voice, told him “Sio tee boh tit toh” or “Small brother does not play at all”. I used the words ‘small brother’, consciously in deference to him. It is, after all, a stock expression of humility in the world of secret societies and triads. I supposed this only saved me from a greater disaster as I did not go away totally unscathed. He rained a few blows on me. I took the blows with the stoic of a pugilist. Nay, in fact, I managed to dodge one or two and even warded off another. Not satisfied, he dug into my pocket and relieved me of all my earthly riches. He took away my hard-earned 30 cents which I just made, helping someone in a school tuck-shop during recess-time. I was supposed to dutifully return the money to my mother. You see, another of the duties assigned to me was to help in the tuck-shop in return for what was then, a princely sum of 30 cents. Those 30 cents could buy us a small swathe of pork and perhaps a few sprigs of vegetables for the dinner table. My woes, however, did not end there. Back home, everyone felt that I had made a less than convincing account of how I was 30 cents poorer!

This is but one of the many tough lessons I learnt on the streets, imbibing from the good old ‘school of hard knocks’, as they would say. It was my first baptism of fire and I, on hindsight, am glad to have received it on the streets. From thence, I honed my street-craft so that I could survive in this rough neighbourhood. I had old scores to settle and settle them in the streets, from a young age. I am, however, not sure if that has subconsciously got myself to be voluntarily-conscripted (what an oxymoron!) into the Police Force and at fairly decent rank of Assistant Superintendent, no less! But as I ruminate over the whole matter; street fights , street justice and all, I am at once reminded of William Wordsworth’s one simple dogma which he so painlessly put in one of his better known poems, thus:

"One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man
Of moral evil and of good
Than all the sages can."

 The racial riots told me another facet of the secret societies and the triads. One day I saw two or three macho men, of the type whom you would call “Ah Beng’ today, scarred with tattoos of dragons, snakes and nude maidens and the ubiquitous Guan Yu, escorting my father back home. I was to later learn that the various SS groups operating at the Kallang Airport Estate sunk their differences temporarily during the racial riots, to help ‘protect’ whoever they think would potentially fall prey to the racial wars. These were heroic acts, carried out with benevolent intents. Much later, in the course of my Police work, I learnt that much of their rites and ceremonies, values and behaviour were inspired by Chinese legends such as the White Lotus Society, the 128 Shao Lin Monks, the Romance of The Three Kingdoms and Water Margin. One figure which most inspired all SS groups and have always been an iconic emblem of faithfulness, loyalty and brotherhood - the embodiment of the Hokkien term ‘Gee Ki’- is Guan Yu of the 3 Kingdom fame.

 Every SS member true, to his salt would burn a tattoo of him on some part of his body as a badge of honour. Otherwise, he would erect at least a statuette in the altar in constant homage of the great God of War, which Guan Yu is otherwise, known as. Like the triumvirates of Guan Yu, Zhang Fei and Liu Bei, who swore to brotherhood in the peach garden, all SS members prized loyalty and abhor treachery and betrayal. Treachery and betrayal were shown by the 7th monk in the exploits of the 128 Shao Lin Monks. Hence, anyone of suspect loyalty in the SS fraternity is branded immediately as an ‘Ah Chit” or No 7 in Hokkien.

The Chinese in Southeast Asia

The South Sea



The Nanyang Chinese came to Southeast Asia (known in the past as Nanyang, or the Southern Seas) from Southern China. Nowadays we recognize this as part of the Chinese diaspora, the vast movement out of China in search of a better life that have been taking place for centuries.

Map of Zheng Ho's Voyages in Southeast Asia and the Indian Ocean


The largest sea in Southeast Asia has various names. In the C16th Portuguese sailors referred to it as the China Sea (Mar da China) although the need to differentiate it from the northern waters led to the use of the South China Sea. The International Hydrographic Organization recognizes the sea as "South China Sea" or Nan Hai. there are various names. The Vietnames Government refers to it as the Bien Dong or Eastern Seas. In mainland Southeast Asia the sea was referred to as the Champs Sea after the historic kingdom of the C15th.

Prejudices and Misconceptions

The Chinese who came south face many prejudices and misconceptions not just from in their new homes but worse from their own homeland. Often these views held by what I call the Chinese cultural hegemonista nd were prevalent in the 1940s and 1950s.

In writing of these I hope to show how unthinkingly divisive and destructive these cultural hegemonists were and still are. These prejudiced voices loudly proclaim the superiority of race, culture and language with no understanding or appreciation of the actual situation.

A list some of these more blatant distortions is given below though not in order of significance. I will point out the absurdities and spell out the actualities.


1. That the Nanyang Chinese are morally and physically weak because they fled the hardships of their homeland.

I have heard this expressed many times when young. However, I was surprised when across this same view by a friend recently.

Actuality

Actually, the immigrants must have been very tough - to decide to leave their homeland for inhospitable and unknown shores, to battle their way through the horrendous hardships of sea travel (whatever it was, the voyage to Nanyang was not a five star cruise), to live in the humid, sweltering heat of the tropics, to work as indentured coolies, tin miners and farm hands in slave labour conditions, to face dangers from snakes, crocodiles and tigers. to do with very little food and home comfort, to face the dangers of diseases like malaria, tuberculosis and cholera.

Photo of Chinese coolies at work.

So in truth, only those who were really tough survive, to make it into the next generation.


2, That the Nanyang Chinese are less patriotic than their compatriots in China.

This is what I call the emotional extortion view that permanently ensnares the Nanyang Chinese in an inferior position. This assertion goes thus: those who left their homeland were not patriotic because they turn their backs on the many struggles China was going through as it sought to be rid of Manchu dominance, external aggression and feudalism.

Actuality.

The facts speak otherwise. The Nanyang Chinese raised substantial (some accounts claim the largest) amount of money for the anti-Japanese struggle in China. Indeed, the Japanese were so angry with the contibutions that they identified and carried out systematic "sook ching", genocidal executions, of the Chinese community when their troops overran Southeast Asia.

Japanese troops capturing Kuala Lumpur on their way to Singapore.

From the start was also strong support of the anti-Manchu and republican movement among the Nanyang Chinese. In fact the triads in Nanyang were often started by anti-Manchu resistance fighters that fled to the Southern Seas to avoid persecution and death.

In addition. many overseas Chinese returned to China to take part in the anti-Japanese war. My grandfather was one. He was a volunteer in the war but was, unfortunately, killed soon after returning to China.


3. That you are not a Chinese unless you are fluent in the language.

According to this view, being a Chinese means, above all, the ability to speak and write the Chinese language. It argues that language is the carrier of culture, tradition and history - all that marks out the ethnic and racial identity of a group. So without a proper command of language a person loses identity and ethnicity.

To add to the harshness, those Chinese who could not speak proper Chinese but depended on a wesrern language like English were stigmatized as "yellow bananas". Looking like Chinese but really a westerner within.

Those were the days when globalization was still a far world away. Today, multiculturalism and the ability to move between cultures and languages are regarded as valuable qualities. In those days in the 40s and 50s when nationalism in China was often virulently inward looking and xenophobic, those who had broader views were often targets for attacks by cultural activists.

Actuality

Well if it is the case that language equals identity, then no one can call himself a Christian unless he or she is fluent in Hebrew or Greek because these are the languages of the Old and New Testaments respectively. Similarly a person would not be a Buddhist unless he or she is fluent in Maghadi or, at the very least, Pali.

Besides, while there is a Chinese written and spoken language, China has many different dialects. Would one say that a Shanghai inhabitant who felt more at home with the dialect is less of a Chinese? Or that a Henan peasant who is unable speak or write Chinese but spoke his dialect is not a Chinese. Indeed, Mr Yang, the farmer who is credited with the discovery of Qin Shih Huang's terracotta warriors could not write his name in Chinese until he was taught late in life. Is he not then a Chinese?

Today being Chinese comes into recognition and being on a more accommodating and larger platform.

From China to Singapore

First Sight of Singapore


In the 1920s and 1930s visitors and immigrants to Singapore would arrive by boat usually from the southern ports of China like Xiamen, Guangzhou and to a lesser extent Hainan island. Quite a number of these arrivals would pass through Hong Kong which even then was a bustling port which seafront was in the night brightly lit up with imposing buildings. Even in the day, the seafront along Hong Kong harbour was packed with junks and people on the bund hurrying about their businesses.

A junk in Hong Kong Harbour.


For many of these arrivals the first sight of Singapore was often disappointing. An old lady in the 80s told me, "The city was dull. The buildings looked uniform and dusty - brownish, gray. When you see the city from the sea as your ship was coming into the harbour, the whole seafront was drab; it lacked the hustle and bustle of the Hong Kong waterfront and the frenzied rushing of the junks as they criss crossed the harbour."

"What if you reach Singapore in the night?" I asked.

"It was even more disappointing," was the reply, "Remember we were coming in search of a better life. The city was not inviting. The buildings along the waterfront were not lit up in the night and even the waterfront was dimly lit when compared with the bright signboards and advertisements of Hong Kong. Believe me, our hearts sank and it was a while before we got back our optimism and belief about the good living we would see in Singapore."

Hong Kong Harbour

Well, appearances may be deceptive but first impressions count and this first sight was often where the myth was born, of a humid, inhospitable, jungle filled landscape with its strange customs, sights and smells that constituted "Nanyang", the South Seas where the Malayan peninsula, Singapore and the Southern archipelago were strewn across the steaming, wet equator.

In the next few posts I will write about the land these immigrants came from and try to correct a few popular misconceptions about them.

Yesteryears by Richard Ho

Photo of Redhill Flats



A Common Past

The following post is by Richard Ho who grew up in and witnessed these tumultuous and eventful years. His piece opens up a window to that common past, we all share. Redhill or Ang Suah as it was then called was side by side with Bukit Ho Swee (Ho Swee Suah) and Or Kuay Tau, Henderson Road. These were gang infested and notorious areas but bursting with a life and spirit of their own.

Yesteryears by Richard Ho



Growing up in the years of the 1950’s and 60’s cast indelibly fond, not necessarily comfortable, memories of our boyhood and teenage years. Those times of relative poverty, under development and lack of technology curiously forced a curious mix of simplicity and innovation into most of our lives.
Cleaning up after arising usually to cock crows where I lived in true blue heartland of Redhill, where gangsters strolled with as much casualness as chickens, cows and pigs, was done with a shallow metal container of water, a small towel and a wee bit of toothpaste on a toothbrush. Rushing to the nearby primary school on foot, after a standard breakfast of bread with kaya and Milo or Ovaltine, was par everyday as no digital alarm clocks and maids were in existence then.

School was easy as the study load and competition from classmates were lackadaisical at best. Instead of projects, tuition, extra-curricular activities or any activity that taxed the mind, afternoons were spent doing corrections on schoolwork and napping. Lunch and dinner were always home-cooked as austerity was an enforced part of most housewives with working class husbands. On occasions when we managed to save a dime or two, we “splurged” on fish ball noodles, sold then at only 10 cents with soup or 20 cents for the “dry” version. That old man of a hawker would push his cart with wheels to the same spot everyday from about noon to the late afternoon.

In the evenings, it was a luxury to catch a movie at the open-air cinema that was made up a pre-determined area surrounded by canvas. Many clutching wooden, rattan or canvas stools would pay 10 cents to catch perennial favourites like Superman or Chinese gongfu master Wong Fei Hoong. Some cheated by sneaking in through some poorly tied up bottom parts of the canvas. A hopeless scrounger, I tried it once, was caught red handed and never attempted it again. The only tidbit available in those days was kachang puteh, a variety of fried nuts sold by the Indian man. Sold only at 5 cents per rolled up paper packing, it was savoured only very occasionally.

On most other nights, time was spent listening to Lei Tai Sor, the iconic Cantonese story teller over Redifussion, who commanded armies of listeners made up of housewives, some of their husbands and most of their children. On top of his legendary story telling skills, he chose exciting ancient Chinese martial arts stories that listeners then found compelling and easy to follow. Listening to pop songs in programmes anchored by famous DJs like Larry Lai was also a must, especially for “Top Tunes of the Week” and those that allowed listeners to request songs to be played for their friends and relatives.

Redhill then and now. Behind the old flats can be seen the new skyline.

The teenage growing up years were more active on account of more friends, a tad more money and arguably, higher maturity. After contributions from a group of neighbours, we bought a football which was highly usable on the medium sized field lying in the middle of three adjacent blocks of one-storey flats. I remembered once playing goalkeeper for a team that was literally camping in our opponent’s half, I caught a woman neighbor only in a black bra and panties combing her hair in the living room with the wooden windows wide open. On the slightest excuse, I had myself put on the bench after that sighting.
To the cinemas we went. It was only 50 cents at cinemas at the now defunct Great World and only a dollar on downtown cinemas such as Capitol. It was not just the movies that made some of us go to the cinemas. Cheap cigarettes at 5 cents each made puffing in darkness an adventure of sorts.

Technology slowly dawned on us. My more technically inclined elder brother self made an amplifier with very cheap parts bought from Sungei Road and together with a cheap record player, bombarded the neighbourhood with the latest pop songs by Cliff Richard, Elvis Presley and local pop group The Quests, amongst many others. Records came in singles or LPs (long playing records). A black and white television drew a fifth of the neighbourhood to our flat each evening. Then there was the rotary dial telephone which came with a circular dial that required numbers from 1 to 0 to be turned one after another. It would take a longer time to get through a number if it contained more of the 6 to 9 digits. So memorable was the phone that up to now I still the number of our first phone – 648140. Only six digits then.

All said, those carefree, careless and mostly rein-free days shaped our characters today in less definite ways than those of the following generation. School was deemed just a must-do, not a passport to a fabulous job and a highly secure future. Being from Raffles Institution, it was a shoo-in for me when I blindly applied to be a teacher. I was just asked the names of my school and myself during the 15-second interview. I got the job, of course, but just after some two weeks, I felt it was not for me. But my Mother told neighbours, “What a crazy boy! He got a job immediately after putting down his school bag and he doesn’t it.” And those six or seven others who reported to the school in Pasir Panjang also urged me to stay on. Very naively, I did and gave up my pre-university education which I regret to some extent now.

Growing up from boyhood and as a teenager during the relative poverty and under development in the 1950’s and 60’s cast indelible memories in the mind. Those of the following generation had theirs filed in a variety of technologically assisted banks. Indeed, economic progress over the years has afforded Singaporeans with the use of technology to reshape their lives in ways that were untenable to those who grew up in the leaner years.

Despite the absence of computers, cellphones and digital cameras, amongst many others, those years cast very fond memories of experiences and lifestyles that bonded familial ties, neighbourliness and friendship in stronger ways. The simple lifestyle that ran through my entire estate in the true heartland area of Redhill bonded people together naturally.

Except on rainy days, waking up in the morning was initiated by the crowing of cocks with the absence of digital clocks or maids.