Literacy Narrative Final Draft (2)

THE CHRONICLES OF
A (SEEMINGLY)
LITERATE INDIVIDUAL

by Jean Ho

1

“A C-plus?! Are you kidding me?”

I stared at the marked sheet of paper in front of me,
struggling to digest the letter grade that was about to
taint my long-standing track record of As and cause my
7th Grade progress chart to take a nosedive. Literature
hasn’t always been my strong suit, but I could’ve sworn
on my own life that I was going to ace that test. I made

sure I pored over the passage repeatedly, forcing my
brain to comprehend and absorb each and every word as
though they were the Ten Commandments themselves. I made

sure I answered the literary analysis prompt as
thoroughly as possible, strategically extracting evidence

from the text to delicately craft a concrete pillar for
my well-structured thesis to lean on. I even made sure to

triple-check every detail perfectly; not a single
component of my literary jigsaw puzzle was to be fixed

out of place. The moment I placed my response on the
chipped, weathered oak desk stationed at the corner of
the classroom, I genuinely (and naively) thought I had

written the best essay of my entire academic life. 

Apparently my teacher didn’t share the same sentiment.
1

“Relax, it’s only the first test of the year,” said my
friend Brandon, who was sitting to my left, “Why are you

so hung up about this one?” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, this class alone can ruin
my overall academic record, which gives me every reason

to get hung up over a bad grade like the one right in
front of me,” I retorted, becoming slightly annoyed with
his carefree demeanor. “I just don’t get it. I thought I

crushed that test! What part of the prompt did I not
answer?” I grumbled, the gears in my mind already

beginning to turn, forming potential theories about the
reasons behind my unanticipated failure.

“I know you’re new here, but you seem pretty competent
to me,” he replied, switching out his nonchalant

attitude for a more serious one. “I don’t think reading
and writing has always been a challenge for you, right?”

Despite being mildly offended by his question at that
time, Brandon did have a point. Reading and writing in
English had been a walk in the park for me right up till

that period of my grade school experience, when it
turned into a strenuous hike up a seemingly unending

mountain.

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2

West Malaysia East Malaysia
(Where I'm from)

For context, let’s trace things back to where they all
began, starting with a little snippet about my heritage.

I was born in Malaysia, a minuscule Southeast Asian
country sandwiched between Singapore and Thailand, but am

descended from a long line of Chinese ancestry (my
maternal grandfather came to the country as an immigrant
from China for economic reasons). All in all, that makes

me ethnically Chinese but Malaysian nationality-wise,
which in turn means having to learn two distinct native
and national languages; with Mandarin being the former

and Malay the latter. However, my parents quickly
realized the widespread impact of the English language on

both our local society post-colonization and on an
international scale, along with its significance of being

a communication bridge that connected a wide range of
cultures, providing them with a common linguistic ground.

As a result, they put everything else aside and decided
that bringing me up in an environment that emphasized the

use of English was a top priority.

3

From the day I said my first words, I treated English
like it was my first language. While other kids were
learning the basic mechanics of their own mother tongues,
I was immersing myself in a smooth, crisp paperback copy
of Clifford the Big Red Dog, embarking on his adventures
by making my way through the jet-black words printed on
the pages. While other kids were trying to grasp the
fundamental concepts of writing symbols in their native
language, I began dipping my toes into the ocean of
western works, inscribing my own short stories on scrap
paper from my parents’ office that are now lost to time,
never to be found again. Although I did manage to pack in
some decent practice time to refine my Mandarin and Malay
skills, English very rapidly became second nature to me;

it became an inseparable part of my identity. 

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3

Naturally, English classes in elementary school were a
breeze. Because the public education system taught it to
students as a second language, my early exposure to the

tongue put me miles ahead of my peers. I passed my
spelling tests with flying colors, and blew through all
of the assigned readings when the rest of the class was
only halfway done. While my classmates were occupied with

building basic sentences from simple words like
“birthday” and “garden”, I was penning my own short
descriptive essays, turning the scattered ideas from the
crevasse of my mind into structured phrases on paper. The
constant dry, scratchy sounds coming from my sharpened
pencil tip made me stand out; I was a distinguishable
target for my teachers to pour endless gallons of praise
over, fuelling my own ego and a desire to continue my

streak of overachievements. 
5

An aerial view of my campus, Tenby
International School.

However, this living daydream was cut short the moment I
transferred to an upper-class private school in 7th

Grade. The institution adhered to the United Kingdom’s
education system, and I was forced to take additional
English Literature classes on top of my regular courses.
I then realized the stark contrast between the reading
and writing standards of the public and private education

sectors. Unlike my new peers, I was only trained to
understand a text, memorize its main message, and

regurgitate that information out during tests; I was
never taught how to read between the lines and critically

analyze the text’s deeper meanings in response to a
prompt. Getting that C-plus on my first ever Literature

paper only made things significantly worse. I began
doubting my own literacy abilities in comparison to my
classmates’---why was I doing so terribly in a class that

used the very language I had learnt to master since
childhood? Did the massive effort I put into my early
schooling days mean nothing after all? Could I even read

and write properly? 

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For the next four years, I struggled to comprehend the
underlying messages of the works we analyzed in class.
The Shakespearean diction used in Romeo and Juliet and
Macbeth all sounded like an ancient, forgotten language
of a lost civilization; the themes and subtexts explored
in Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge were like rocket

science, and the complex symbolism used in Chinua
Achebe’s No Longer At Ease seemed to make sense to
everyone but me. I scraped by, turning in essays that
barely made the passing grade to the dissatisfaction of
my teachers. What was once my favorite subject gradually
became my most dreaded, and the classroom that once
possessed a refreshing aroma of creativity became home to
a dull, repulsive stench containing my worst nightmares.
Like Sisyphus, I was trapped in an inescapable cycle of
constantly pushing my burdening boulder up the imposing
hill of tests and assignments only to find my own
attempts doubling back on me, kicking me back down to the

substandard state I started off with.

Little did I know then that something momentous was about
to alter my tarnished notion of literary art. 

7

4

In preparation for the UK-based International General
Certificate of Secondary Education (IGCSE) examination in

11th Grade, we were given an extensive list of poems to
analyze for the standardized paper. Deep down I knew that
there was no room for failure; all the hard work I put in
over the course of those four years amounted to this one
crucial assessment. Like a video game, it was in essence

the final boss fight, the ultimate trial that would
determine my fate---if the examination board members
decided that my responses were not up to par with their
expected caliber, I would be failed on the spot. They

were the gatekeepers of the high school graduation
checkpoint, and they served as the entities that

eventually dictated who got to advance to the next level
of education and who didn’t. As per usual, I begrudgingly

slumped my way through the List of Literary Works I
Didn’t Care About, until a name on the sheet caught my

eye. Amongst the sea of influential Caucasian poets
featuring the likes of Robert Browning’s Meeting At Night,

Wilfred Owen’s Anthem For Doomed Youth, and Philip
Larkin’s The Trees, my attention was drawn to one

particular man by the name of Boey Kim Cheng, a
Singapore-born Australian poet of Chinese descent who
wrote a poem called Reservist. Compelled by our similar
ancestry and the fact that he was considered a minority
race within the list, I shoved away my pre-established

negative assumptions and skimmed through the piece.

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Boey Kim Cheng

What occurred next was remarkable. The poem mocked
Singapore’s attempt at militarization by having citizens

participate in annual military training as reserve
forces, and compared the monotonous nature of such
practices to those endured by knights in the middle ages.
Having been captivated by stories of warriors since
childhood, I was blown away by the astounding imagery

used to vividly portray the experiences of these
reservists, and how creatively combined words like
“annual joust” and “active cavalier days” added a
glamorized, fairytale-like tone to the overall poem, as
though the reservists themselves were cast under a
delusional spell to always serve their country regardless
of the toll it took on them. In retrospect, one of the
main reasons why I was able to understand this poem so
easily was because of its inspiring yet relatable ending.
If there was even a slight chance that something good
could come out of the reservists’ seemingly pointless
endeavors, perhaps I too could achieve something if I put
in the same effort. Taking that message to heart, I set
out to destroy the wretched cycle I had been stuck in for
years. This time, I was determined to prove that Sisyphus
was indeed a myth; the results of laboriously pushing the
boulder up that mountain would eventually come to

fruition.

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5

From that point on, I spent the next two months in a
crash course-like state, vigorously training myself to
learn the ways of interpreting the messages and ideas
hidden beneath the written works we analyzed. There were
times where I struggled to keep up with the progress made
by the rest of the class, but that only drove me to push
beyond my boundaries and work on the pieces with every
spare second I had. Slowly but surely, I grew to have a
newfound appreciation for the very same poems, plays, and
novels I used to disregard. The books that used to smell
like stale, worthless artifacts now carried a sweet and
biblichor scent. Like the substance that flowed in the
veins of ancient Greek gods, my own body had been taken

over by the years, decades, and centuries of wisdom
concealed within those pages, provoking an irresistible

urge to read on and immerse myself in realms built by
writers I have never even met. These works became a time

machine that transported me back to my younger days,
turning me into that same young bookworm who wanted to

join Clifford on his adventures.
10

I then took the bold step of attempting to write full-
length literary analyses with set time limits to simulate

exam conditions, becoming absorbed in navigating my way
through the labyrinth of words until the shrill, piercing
calls of my alarm pulled me back into reality, signalling

the end of yet another test practice. Come 11th Grade
finals, I was no longer doubting my capabilities. I
responded to the prompts with ease and confidence,

putting all the new knowledge I had cultivated over those
two months to good use. 

“So, how was it for you?” asked Brandon as we exited the
exam hall.

“I think I did a decent job,” was my only response.

11

I did more than just “a decent job.” I scored an A-plus
for that paper and needless to say, I was over the moon.
Looking back, I connected with the poem so easily because

I could link it to my own experiences. Similar to how
reservists are forced to endure the same tiresome
regimen, I viewed my Literature assignments as “an

oncoming rush of tedious rituals, masked threats and
monsters armed with the same roar.” Taking on each one
felt like a mind-numbing endeavor, and waves of burden
washed over me every time I attempted to complete a task.
Even though these tasks were different, they were all

equally challenging, and I found myself constantly
battling the inner demons that taunted me for my
inability to comprehend the class readings.

12

However, the lines “We will march the same paths till they
break onto new trails, our lives stumbling onto the open

sea, into the daybreak” really resonated with me, because
I realized that I could reap the benefits of my efforts

if I worked with a goal in mind. Monotonous as the
process may seem, reservists who train with determination

and purpose, be it to maintain physique or to defend
their nation, will eventually enjoy the fruits of their
labor. Likewise, my conceptual understanding of the texts

given to us significantly improved because I took the
initiative to consistently work towards improving my

performance in class, regardless of the repetitive
exercises I had to complete.

13

I still find myself returning to these lines because the
sentiment behind them remains true to this day; hard work
will always get you somewhere, no matter how laborious it
is. If it hadn’t been for Boey Kim Cheng’s masterpiece, I

wouldn’t have rediscovered my passion for reading and
writing. Now, whenever I question my literacy abilities,
I’ll recall the time I got that C-plus and reflect on how

far I have come since then.

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