This blog assignment gave me more than what I ever expected.
Besides the usual “learning points” which undoubtedly included an elevated interest in current affairs as well as an ever-growing newspaper cuttings stack, I have seen the world in more ways than one.
It was so much more, so very much more than referring to the rubrics and constructing a post that fulfilled the criteria – in fact come to think of it, I lost my rubrics sheet since term 1 – it was about looking at issues – all of them controversial – and why they caused such disparity in opinion.
What I felt I was able to do was to re-examine both sides of the story. This, I felt, was paramount to a “personal reflection” – no matter how personal, you always feel from the other side – from being an elite to not being one, from being a techno-klutz to a blogger, from being the victim of “formaldehyde poisoning” from tainted products to empathising with the slave-abusers – why did they do it? (In case you haven’t read, I managed to trace it to the disempowerment of the poorest of the poor.)
This was an empowering experience. (FYI, this post shouldn’t be graded in any way, so I don’t see the need for unnecessary flattery nor idiotic rhetoric.) Much of it was dominated by thinking and learning from the 6 events that impact you and me – the common man. One should be able to notice that I refused to select posts not relevant to you or me.
I end on a sombre tone, and I want to thank the teachers who created this “Personal Response” assignment, especially to Ms Kuang. I can never thank you enough.
Because you have made me learn, not by dictating terms and conditions, but by giving me a microphone.
You have given me a voice in the blogosphere, albeit a tiny one.
One that’s changed for the better.
Pub Date: 14/07/2007 Pub: ST Page: S16 Column: LETTER FROM KYOTO Day: Saturday Edition: FIRST Headline: When closed doors set us free By: JANICE TAY Page Heading: REVIEW Source: SPH
CREATIVITY AND LANGUAGE LETTER FROM KYOTO BY JANICE TAY FOR THE STRAITS TIMES THERE is an old Hawaiian story about how the world began. Wakea, sometimes called Sky Father, met Papa (Earth Mother) and from that came all life. The G-rated version of the story calls this meeting a marriage though you could also think of it as a different kind of Big Bang. But there is yet another way to interpret the tale. From this point of view, Wakea is not Sky Father but Chaos, and Papa is Order. This theory sees creation as a process of change possible only when chaos and order come together. In a state of total chaos, no distinct experience can emerge because there’s just random movement. However, a state of total order is equally sterile because there is no movement, no change and so, no experience. In other words, to have an experience, you need motion and resistance to the motion – which creates a pattern. We live in a world powered by this process. Even without going into the finer points of physics or biology, you can see it in the games we play, such as football. I don’t know much about soccer, but the point of the game seems to be to get the ball into the opposing team’s goal as many times as you can. Rising to meet the movement towards the goal is all manner of resistance – the other side doing its best to stop you, that offside thing and the rule that you can move the ball only with your feet, head and torso. Of course, there’s physically nothing to stop you from picking up the ball and running with it screaming into goal. But if you used your hands, you wouldn’t be playing football any more. By accepting limits, the players experience soccer. And when they work to overcome those limits, they show us the creativity of soccer. Years and an ocean away from this old Hawaiian view is an award-winning Japanese architect with a philosophy that looks very similar. Mr Kengo Kuma talked about his belief in “creative concessions” when he was interviewed for the television programme, The Professionals. Interviewer Kenichiro Mogi, who as a brain scientist and writer probably has more than a passing interest in creativity, later blogged about what the architect had to say. Steel and concrete may have opened up a world of possibilities but Mr Kuma criticises approaches which rely on these materials because of the very freedom that they offer: “When you use alternative building materials, such as wood, there are numerous restrictions to which you are obliged to make concessions...True creativity arises from these restrictions and concessions.” He was then asked how he would build if freed of the limits set by materials, the environment and the bud- get. And he “answered after some moments of pondering that he would discover a restriction somehow”. Still, most of the time you don’t have to go looking for limits because you can hardly take a step without crashing into one, whether it comes from your surroundings, character, body or bank balance. And sometimes it seems that every time I open my mouth to speak in Japanese, I’m confronted with restrictions. The way the language is set up, politeness is not simply a matter of refraining from swearing or telling off-colour jokes; it determines the verbs you use and how you use them. If I wanted to tell someone that I was going somewhere and we weren’t close, I’d use “ikimasu” (I go). On the other hand, if I were talking to a friend or family member, I’d say “iku”. But it gets more complicated. If I were in front of a superior, for example, my teacher, I would use the humbler “mairimasu”. And if I were speaking of my teacher to a third party, I would opt for “irasshaimasu” to show respect. That’s just one verb but four ways to say it. And there are more. Before starting a conversation, you have to do a quick calculation factoring in age, experience, seniority and length of acquaintance, then decide which level of politeness to go for. Pitch it too low and you’ll look rude. Pitch it too high and the other person will wonder why you’re talking like a total stranger, because politeness is also a way to distance yourself from people. Entering a conversation is like going into a traditional Japanese house where doors are slid back and forth to create rooms of different sizes. The doors are never static. I step into a conversation and, thinking I know the shape of the room, begin to talk. But then the other person suddenly switches to another level of formality, the doors swish across as if moved by an unseen hand and a wall appears between us. I can’t answer the questions that come: Why did our relationship change in an instant? Did I do something wrong? Say something offensive? Do I need a bath? Unable to understand when and why the doors closed into a wall, I began to chafe at the confines of Japanese where, in reaching out to another person, you seemed only to end up locked in a dance of distance. But after months of watching Japanese shows, something is shifting. With my ears tuned to the dialogue and my eyes on the subtitles, I can’t help but feel that something is lost when one is turned into the other. It doesn’t matter what the characters were saying; just from how they say it, you can tell what kind of relationship the speakers have: who is considered superior and how close they are. They don’t always stick to the same level of formality either. Just a minute change in verbs and the mood switches in a split second – to embarrassment, to threat, to tenderness. Almost none of this survives the translation into English; the space the characters inhabit becomes nothing more than a room with four fixed walls, plain and still. And I realise that playing by the rules of the Japanese language doesn’t have to mean being fenced in; by playing off them, communication can become a constant act of creation. It is precisely because of the restrictions dictating what you cannot say that the language allows you to say more than I ever thought possible. Knowing so little, I can move the sliding doors with only a clumsy hand, but I do it in the hope that I will one day be able to make them dance with another person. I do it looking forward to the space that, between us, we will make. To build, you need walls. But a wall is just a door you haven’t opened and, if you ever want a different experience, if you get tired of football and want to play Pick Up The Ball And Run With It Screaming Into Goal, all you have to do is slide the walls into a new form. And play again.
Vivian“It has taken a lot of persuasion to get three doctors – Ng Eng Hen, Balakrishnan and Balaji Sadasivan – to leave their
lucrative practices to enter politics… even with the benchmarks in place, the decision meant huge pay cuts for two of them.”
