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gifted education.

The best thing that has happened to me was when I was removed, at the age of twelve, from my mainstream government primary school to high school for the academic elite.

Now, it's not as dreamboat as it sounds. There are still crap teachers and dumb people. But the EPIC AWESOME THING is that there are actually SMART PEOPLE and GOOD TEACHERS here and there, every now and again. IT'S SO UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME.

Another really cool thing is that I've been able to 'tailor' - bullshit - my entire high school curriculum. I can do more of what I like, and what I'm good at, and less of what I HATE WITH A PASSION.

There are some people who don't like the idea of academically exclusive school. They think we don't deserve special treatment, that we're no better than the rest, that it's not an average child's fault that they're, well, average, etc. Some shit like that. But I'm all for it. And I'd say that even if I didn't get into an academic school, even if, in the future, my children don't get into an academic school. I just think it's so important.

Lets look at the emotional side of things. It is inevitable that a gifted child is going to be bullied at some point in their lives. People feel threatened and put out by smart-arses and teachers pets. Teachers hate them too, for some reason. Now, bullying may not affect everybody drastically, but to some it can cause great psychological damage, social problems, and even mental illnesses and suicide. Is it not every child's right to have a safe and secure learning environment? The theory of academic elite schools is that like minded peers don't beat the shit out of each other so much. 

Another thing is that there are specialist schools for everything: sport, music, art, languages, etc. If you have a talent, you need proper training; any fool on the street knows that. If you want to be a plumber or a chef or a carpenter, you need a proper apprenticeship. An academically elite schooling is an apprenticeship for the academic world. 

Three, we were born this way.

Four, a gifted child has the equivalent of an IQ of 130 or higher. I say this because IQ tests are neither an accurate or conclusive way of testing intelligence; nor are they particularly effective for children. I'll put it out there that my IQ is only about 120-125, because an IQ test is numbers and patterns based and, well, I'm more Shakespeare than Hawking. An 'average' IQ is 100; a 'retarded' IQ is 70 or lower. This means that the difference between an average and a gifted child is the same as the difference between an average and a retarded child. I don't know anyone who thinks it's either fair or healthy for a retarded and an average child to be educated together in the exact same environment under the exact same conditions, so why do we impose this onto the gifted and talented?

Some say that academic selection, grade skipping and enriched programs spoil a child, and alienate him from society. But the thing is, we're weirdos anyway. Nothing people do or say is going to change the fact that gifted people will always be treated differently, for better or for worse.

In the end, it's a...strange experience being a 'gifted' child. You grow up knowing you're different, but pretending you're not. It's my worst kept secret; it's my pride and joy and my greatest shame.  

born this way.

Often people tell me that my talents 'don't count' because, you know, I don't really work for them.

It's often true. I have been known to scribble my essays down on the night before, and to do all my reading on the way to school. Well, I can't really do that now that I'm in year eleven, but I did it rather prodigiously until then. I've never in my life studied for a spelling test or struggled to read a book. I've had a sound grasp of language for as long as I can remember, but I can never in my life remember working for that.

But it's still a talent, nonetheless, and I deserve all the trophies and rewards and praise I can get my hands on for it, because I was born this way.

People are born pretty - I happen not to have been born pretty. Those people don't work their pimples off, they never had pimples in the first place! They're the ones strutting down the catwalk and being cooed at by lovestruck boys, not me. People are born smart, or they're born dumb. People are born pretty, or they're born ugly. And people pick on people when they're dumb, or ugly, even though it's really not their fault. So it should work vice versa.

People are born athletic - sure, they might work for it, but there is no way in hell that I will be an Olympian or a footballer, yet there are people who seem to be born with a cricket bat in their hands. We have to understand that sometimes we have things that we don't work for, but because it is natural for us to pick on natural shortcomings, we should also strive to praise natural gifts as well. 

I've had my fair share of down time for my slights and faults and shortcomings. I know I'm too short, too tubby, too snappy, not great at maths, and not the hottest chick on the block. And it's no secret; people delight in telling me, berating me, scolding me, punishing me. But I can write, and I can write damn well - but people look the other way and say it 'doesn't really count'. How fair is that!?

Feeling smug.

it turns out a lot more people Know about this blog than i think.

i have been shamelesslY promoting my bLog sincE it launched a few years back, but i never thOught anyone paid attention to it. But i never knew that a lot of people who read this bloG are people i know.

my parents reaD this blog rEgularly, aNd tell me off when I swear too much.


the propaganda minister iS one of my classmates, and calls me 'young one' with the pretext that i am a year younger and a foot shorter than him. he studies politics and literature with me, and is a little bit of a history nut. actually, he's Just nUts.

belephant is, you may have gueSsed, cristy - my parTner in crime.

i Am almost sure that the boy, also kNown as rochester, reads this as well. bsc read this when it first began, and k has been knOwn To stalk tHis occasionally - rEfer to oldeR posts from a more PathetIc version of me. actually, i've long forgotten why he was ever Called bsc in The first place.

the rest of them appear to be the dUmb bums, the peRoxide blondEs, the wannabes and The queen bees Of my years of schooling. i highly douBt they Understand one iota of what's on this blog; i'm pRetty sure the majority of them caN't read. sometimes i get to school people are like 'oy! why the hell did you write that oN yOur $%$&#* blog!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!' but As i said, anonyMity is bliss. and i'm feeling a little smug about that.

what has cOnstantly bUgged me over the years is that i have giveN douchebags and hearTbreakers the right tO anonymity. there have been three i have been itching to name; but perhaps only one truly, utterly deserves it - i mean, they all do, but this one more than the rest. i wonder iF there's a way around that? ;). when you're being bullied, there is no anoyMity; there iS no privacy - it's all humiliatioN anD degredation. when you're being dUmped, the whole world knows; the whole world knows that you put your hand in the fire but he didn't want you, and you weren't good enough for hiM. when you feel alone and isolated, you're still not nameless; my name has been used and abused by the young and the heartless. i'm young and bitter, but hey, it makes my writing better. and in the end, that's all that matters to me. the only thing that matters to me in this world is what i write and what i write about.

over the years you learn a lot of things. you learn never to trust your father to wash wool. you learn that the biggest conundrum you will ever face is 'to c cuP or not to c cup, that Is the questioN'. you learn that boyfriends are a poor substitute for mummy huGs and mummy cooking. you learn that heels are painful but Going barefoot In a mosh pit full of heels is a bad idea. you learn that being five foot three isn't as bad as some people make out. you learn to neVer usE your Sisters 'drY and damaged hair' shampOo by mistake on adolescent oily hair. yoU learn that the british have the best sense of humour anD that the chaser boys are epIc. you learn that you should never paint your nails on a bloGging spree aNd that everythIng can be cured wiTh chicken soup, honeY and ginseng.

There's a little man with a tickly beard who has lit a campfire in my throat and is starting to cook sausages.

Which is a rather cute way of saying that MY THROAT IS ON FIRE.

The Things That Make Me Asian.

Recently I blogged about being a lousy Asian, but then I realized; I'm much more Asian than I think, I just don't always notice it.


THE THINGS THAT ARE UNDENIABLY, IRREVOCABLY AND AWESOMELY ASIAN ABOUT ME:


1. I feel intensely uncomfortable wearing shoes around the house, or anyone else's house.

I have never in my life been allowed to wear shoes inside the house; it is a very Asian tradition. I have fond memories of crawling on my hands and knees whenever I forgot something but was too lazy to take my shoes off. When I was in Korea my uncle's apartment had a small room at the door dedicated to taking shoes on and off, and when entering more traditional restaurants or public rooms within restaurants you were expected to abandon your shoes at the door. Special shoes are worn in the toilet and are left at the doorway after using to prevent germs from the toilet floor spreading around the house. I always feel very strange walking around people's houses with my shoes on.


2. Alternative therapy for the win. 

Our cupboard is full of strange potions that smell like chicken marinade for insect bites, bruises, tight muscles, colic and stomache ache - Asian babies never have colic. My maternal grandmother in particular is a big fan of alternative therapy, and my paternal grandmother swears by the traditional Korean remedies of honey and ginseng for, essentially, everything; whenever we go there we bring lots of premium Australian honey and in turn we are given 20 years supply of ginseng tablets. Being Asian, we are also introduced to the faithful worship of the mystical powers of chicken soup, in which are hidden all sorts of lovely stuff including, but not limited to fish maw (stomachs), grubs that look like maggots, starfish, shark fin and sea coconut. I have never had an illness that could not be fixed by a big batch of steaming chicken or beef bone soup. Whenever I'm sick, I always amuse myself by making a big pot of congee; or the lazy-girl version, which is essentially rice drowned with boiled water and eaten with canned fish. Like most kids, I hate pharmacy cough medicines that smell like vodka and strawberries and taste like RAW HYDROCHLORIC ACID BEING TIPPED DOWN YOUR THROAT - but unlike most kids, I have an alternative; a thick syrup made of loquat and honey extract which is strangely addictive. I know most people think that this is hokum and yes, I have shown up at school smelling like a chicken wing; but I don't care. This shit works.

3. I eat chicken feet.

Every Chinese mother dreams of fighting with her children for the last chicken foot; I hope I can share with my children the intrinsic joy that is wrestling a foot and spitting out the bones. Chicken feet are a delicacy from the Guandong/Canton province of China, and is an essential part of any dim sum/yum cha experience. As I understand it, the chicken feet are deep fried and steamed to make them puffy, then slowly stewed and simmered in a sauce of black beans, soybean paste and sugar. I suppose it's like haggis or snails; if you don't think about what it is it doesn't bother you; it never bothered me that I eat feet on a regular basis. Chicken feet do not have a lot of meat, but are very gelatinous; think of it as anti aging, because chicken gelatin contains lots of collagen. I have been eating chicken feet for as long as I can remember, but to be honest, the best part is watching the look of SHEER HORROR on people's faces when the see them.

4. Fueled by Ramen.

To be honest, two minute Maggi used to taste like salt and now, 'new and improved', it tastes like celery. Our cupboard is stuffed with noodles in various sinus-clearing flavours such as Tom Yum, 'rich and tasty soup', beef and - get this - one of them is just called SPICY. Proper Korean ramen is cooked for five minutes, with an egg cracked in with 2.5 minutes to go, and eaten with chopsticks and kimchi. Bowl and washing up optional.

5. Rice. Ooh-Rah. 

We eat rice at least once a day. Even the dogs eat rice. When we're not eating rice we're eating rice congee, rice noodles, rice cakes...


6. The wok is my mother's best friend.


For as long as I can remember my mother has had an enormous iron wok that was used and abused on a daily basis. It is used for absolutely everything. I'm pretty sure it has a mindreading function, too.

7. I am bogan in a very un-bogan way.

I love bargains. I cannot contemplate spending more than $20 per head at a family dinner. Food is good, life is good, but both must be cheap, lah.

Oh, I must add something else:


8. Don't be silly. There no God lah.

Now this might sound slightly strange, given the ridiculous SPIKE in Christianity across Asia, but it is true; only Asian parents like mine could be so hardened and jaded towards the idea of God. There are no greater skeptics than a pair of Asian parents in a philosophical debate in their second language with their lit-freak daughter. I worship more sentient things, like food. And food. And food.  

MetroDad.

I read about four blogs regularly. They are, in no particular order: Mama Natural, Passionate Homemaking, Karen Cheng's Fashion and Life, and more recently, MetroDad.

Mama Natural is a blog run by Genevieve Damascus, with her partners in crime Mike and GriffyD (her husband and son). She uploads videos twice weekly about natural living and bringing up her adorable son, and she's very, very, cool.

I honestly have no idea why I read Passionate Homemaking. It's written by a bunch of give-it-all-up-for-the-LORD women, and is mostly managed by Lindsay Edmonds, who is 'first a lover of Jesus, wife, mother of three, homemaker, writer and doula'. Exactly my cup of tea.  I think the real reason why I read it is to open my mind up to new things, to new people; to learn from others and to learn to accept them, the way they are, even if I don't agree.

Karen Cheng's Fashion and Life is perhaps the most famous and well-known blogs from Perth. Karen Cheng is a graphic designer/artist/illustrator/SAHM who blogs regularly about fashion and her life with her husband Andrew and her three ADORABLE Scottish/Chinese boys Callum, Sean and Liam.

MetroDad is written by Pierre Kim, an American-Korean living in Manhattan who blogs about life as a single father to his adorable daughter The Peanut and his ex-wife BossLady.

Originally, I thought I could relate a lot to Karen Cheng. And in ways, I do - but she's more a projection of the future. I enjoy reading about her life because I can see myself in it, one day. But not yet.

Actually, the blogger I can relate to the most is MetroDad. He is a kick-ass writer, and he's given me faith. He's given me faith that no matter how weird, alien, bizarre strange and sometimes downright shitty it is to grow up as a foreigner, an outsider, a pariah; life goes on, and life is pretty good, too. But he's much stronger than I am. He's recognised that he didn't have the most idyllic childhood, or the most perfect parents; he's open about it, but more than that, he accepts it. He's resolved to be a more understanding, conventional, openly loving parent than his Korean father was. From one ABK to another.   

Flyin' Solo

Cristy celebrated our Year Eleven Dinner Dance with a toast: SINGLE LIFE SUCKS!!!

However, mosh pits really are for flying solo, because when you're in the middle of a mosh pit you are simultaneously That Idiot Trying To Dance, That Sweaty Chick and TEH SEX. If you're with someone, you are only allowed to be the latter.

We singletons ate like there was no tomorrow, drank about fifty litres of Sprite, and danced the night away in the arms of about fifty different boys. Okay, maybe not fifty. But the poor 'taken' girls hardly dared to look at their guyfriends, lest Mr Boyfriend sees.

Really loud music allows you to do all that you want to do as a bitter spinster that you're not normally allowed to do around people with unimpaired hearing: 'obliviously' playing the third wheel, bitching about various couples, etc. 

The missuses stood, with their boyfriends, shoes on, hair up, awkwardly bobbing to the music.

They also miss out on the beautiful moments: sharing food with your girlfriends, taking pictures with your girlfriends, dancing with your girlfriends, singing 'Firework' with your girlfriends, bitching with your girlfriends.

Boyfriends can't do that.

And that's why I am flyin' solo.

My back hurts.

My legs hurt.

My feet hurt.

I've got the most alarming sore throat; I think from the lungs up I am RED PUFFY AND SWOLLEN.

I am regressing back to Year Nine Slobbery - pjs, blogs and YouTube.

I am on a steady diet of honeyed water, heavily sweetened tea and cough syrup.

I was stepped on about twenty times with killer stilettos, I had a massive foot cramp right in the middle of the dance floor and I have a disturbing cut on my leg accompanied by a strangely green bruise.

But it was all worth it.

I love parties.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

A mother gives her child medicine and tells him to suck it up. This is the harsh mother.

A mother gives her child sugar and waits 'until he grows up' for the medicine. This is the spoiling mother.

A mother coaxes, begs, threatens, bribes her child to take medicine, to no avail. This is the weak mother.

A mother gives her child neither sugar nor medicine. This is the bad mother.

A mother gives her child a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. This is the good mother.