By Freda Dao-inesTIMES are definitely changing. Several decades ago, the primary purpose of getting educated is for the cultivation of the intellect. At this age, our parents and those who have seen better days do not fail in hammering into our consciousness the fact that education is a means in itself to achieve the necessities life requires.
"It's strange how people come to build their houses these days," he said, smiling in a way only men who've greeted the sun for 80 years or so can smile. He sipped from his mug. "Then, it takes a day, a week at most. You get up at dawn, gather sticks and grass-lay them on the bamboo frame by midday, and sleep on it that night.
He chuckles, "Now, still fresh from your mother's womb, you start building a house. Before you can jump your first rope and say 'boo!' to your hide-and-seek pal, mother comes, thrusts a pencil into your chubby fist, makes you sit down, and starts drawing strange things: A-B-C. Follow, she says, and you follow, not having the slightest idea you'll be making ABCs in the long years ahead. By the time you can tie shoelaces, you can count one through twenty backwards so you'll be promoted?
Foundation, they call it. Subtractions, long divisions, frustrating fractions, confusing grammar, voice-exhausting phonetics -- punctuated by tales of men, kingdoms, beasts and gods; mad dash for glory at the playgrounds; fistfights, and Barbie dolls. You'd think six years of that qualifies you to erect a post. But Father says, No, it will take four years to have beams and posts.
"The next four years you lose nights trying to digest numbers, unpalatable subject-verb agreements, and a host of other 'reinforcement materials' -- music, dissecting toads, electric circuit, sewing machine, and QWERTY. You wonder how monstrous ships float while a number as low as 75 -- your chemistry grade -- is sinking you down.
"The four years eventually end and you can almost picture the trimmings on your windows. But grandfather shakes his head and tells you, "You need four years more to have steady walls and planks." Four more years you crunch algebra, spew out conjunctions and interjections, wrestle with Sartre and Descartes, explore the human body and mind, plot specifications, write volumes of ABCs -- all for that house you dream of.
Finally, you stand draped in a dark robe onstage, shake hands and receive a rolled up paper from sober-looking men -- saying that's your permission to buy all the cement and nails for your little house.
"You go to the hardware, and the hardware man shakes his head; that paper with its fancy penmanship is not enough, young man. Why don't you go buy a ticket to Saudi, US, or Europe even? No son, you won't go there and drink piña colada under a palm shade. You go there and wash dishes, an hour of it for a nail, an inch-square lumber; an hour building skyscraper is a GI sheet for you; a week on your feet for a bag of cement, a steel bar, and a cubic meter each of sand and gravel. And yes, that fancy paper will be your entrance pass."
"Yes, strange indeed. But those houses built over the years stand the rain and wind more than our grass-roofed huts," he said softly and stood up. I nod, that's what they tell us everyday, that we're going to school so we can have a house someday.
"It's strange how people come to build their houses these days," he said, smiling in a way only men who've greeted the sun for 80 years or so can smile. He sipped from his mug. "Then, it takes a day, a week at most. You get up at dawn, gather sticks and grass-lay them on the bamboo frame by midday, and sleep on it that night.
He chuckles, "Now, still fresh from your mother's womb, you start building a house. Before you can jump your first rope and say 'boo!' to your hide-and-seek pal, mother comes, thrusts a pencil into your chubby fist, makes you sit down, and starts drawing strange things: A-B-C. Follow, she says, and you follow, not having the slightest idea you'll be making ABCs in the long years ahead. By the time you can tie shoelaces, you can count one through twenty backwards so you'll be promoted?
Foundation, they call it. Subtractions, long divisions, frustrating fractions, confusing grammar, voice-exhausting phonetics -- punctuated by tales of men, kingdoms, beasts and gods; mad dash for glory at the playgrounds; fistfights, and Barbie dolls. You'd think six years of that qualifies you to erect a post. But Father says, No, it will take four years to have beams and posts.
"The next four years you lose nights trying to digest numbers, unpalatable subject-verb agreements, and a host of other 'reinforcement materials' -- music, dissecting toads, electric circuit, sewing machine, and QWERTY. You wonder how monstrous ships float while a number as low as 75 -- your chemistry grade -- is sinking you down.
"The four years eventually end and you can almost picture the trimmings on your windows. But grandfather shakes his head and tells you, "You need four years more to have steady walls and planks." Four more years you crunch algebra, spew out conjunctions and interjections, wrestle with Sartre and Descartes, explore the human body and mind, plot specifications, write volumes of ABCs -- all for that house you dream of.
Finally, you stand draped in a dark robe onstage, shake hands and receive a rolled up paper from sober-looking men -- saying that's your permission to buy all the cement and nails for your little house.
"You go to the hardware, and the hardware man shakes his head; that paper with its fancy penmanship is not enough, young man. Why don't you go buy a ticket to Saudi, US, or Europe even? No son, you won't go there and drink piña colada under a palm shade. You go there and wash dishes, an hour of it for a nail, an inch-square lumber; an hour building skyscraper is a GI sheet for you; a week on your feet for a bag of cement, a steel bar, and a cubic meter each of sand and gravel. And yes, that fancy paper will be your entrance pass."
"Yes, strange indeed. But those houses built over the years stand the rain and wind more than our grass-roofed huts," he said softly and stood up. I nod, that's what they tell us everyday, that we're going to school so we can have a house someday.
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