Farewell

Dear ex-students,

As the season to give thanks and engorge on food, friendship and familial warmth approaches, as the next year with its promises and perditions peeps over the fence, I wonder what to say to you people, adventurous, brilliant, capable, diligent, the best and brightest of a generation, the hopes of a better age. Some of you, I don’t even quite remember your full-frontal profiles, having only seen you slopping to the side, slumping over the table, oozing on the chair.

A few years ago, when I was your age, I thought of being a writer – an essayist perhaps, if not a poet, maybe a starving artist street-begging for change. I was also that kid in class who raised his hand when his teachers asked if anyone would like to be a teacher. Because of you, I’ve often regretted that decision.

And because of you, I’ve felt privileged more often than regrets. Just two years ago, some of you dressed up in oversized adult office wear for Dramafeste. Now look, how much you’ve grown, representing the school and country in sports, presenting literature papers, evolving from being wriggly microbes who cannot bear an adjacent rubbish piece to tired behemoths comfortable in paper dumps, publicly and privately mocking your teacher for his poor teaching thereby resulting in your decision not to take H2 Chemistry.

With apologies & gratitude to Mr C.

‘Random passive-aggressive comments assure you we don’t enjoy mole concept.’
‘Great (mis)fortune to have been taught by you.’
‘Nope to meet again someday.’
Am I a #victimofschoolbullying, #victimofageism, #victimoffatshaming?

It has been the greatest privilege to have journeyed together for four years, two years, one. I wish we had more lessons together – how can we part when we had not yet discussed aromatic amides and dextrorotatory enantiomers? – but the tide of time waits for no one and I, am no longer.

Please continue to be kind to one another and keep in mind that life is always worth experiencing. One day, you’ll be astounded by perpetual rainbows at Iceland’s waterfalls, towering Michelangelo sculptures with life-like veins carved from marble, carnivorous pitcher plants lining the wooden walkways at McRitchie.

As fledgling teachers, we had to attend courses from morning until evening. The instructor would ask what we teach. Chemistry, one would say. Primary school math. English. The instructor would sign and feign disappointment, I’m surprised no one said students, you teach students. The first time, such an icebreaker was brilliant. After a while, it got boring. Too many instructors started their workshops this way.

It is, of course, also true that students teach teachers so thank you very much (and have a nice day). Thank you for demonstrating what it is like to have a thirst for knowledge, a courage to grow, an appreciation for the present, a somewhat lame sense of humour. It’s because of your collective desire for growth that I am pushing myself into unfamiliar territories. Thank you for teaching me how to set up a website. Thank you for hibernating in the toilet such that I had to run over thereby fulfilling my daily step counts. You, such inspiring paragons of perfection who request for more time to complete work then didn’t submit any and end up accusing me of losing your work before finding that very piece in your files.

While we may never speak again – highly likely that we will even forget one another’s names – if you ever see me hobbling about on the streets – bent and shrivelled, a peeling twig – do consider saying hi. If you are a father or a teacher then, do look after the young ones and inspire them to be as kind as – or even kinder than – you are. If you’re a doctor/dentist by then, elderly discounts please. If you’re performing cardiothoracic surgery and crack open my chest to discover that I’m heartless for not giving you that extra 1m you requested for the 2025 year-end exam, I accept whatever consequences you inflict on the hapless me.

Take pride in your growth, take pride in how you tried regardless of results. Sometimes, people expect successes and forget to celebrate efforts. Sometimes, success can be as significant as trying a little harder. We teachers chat and a mother-teacher often expressed her hopes that her sons would grow up to be as driven and talented as you are. I conveyed her sentiments to a student leader (retired) who immediately fished for more compliments.

Some of you would know that I had partial facial paralysis seven years ago. Half my face sagged. I had to manually push my right eyelid down to prevent my eye from drying, had to dig food debris from a corner of my mouth, had to avoid mirrors. Three years ago, I had vertigo. Walking to class caused my Fitbit to beep – violent exercise! – and remind me to take it easy. I was perspiring so badly then, standing in front of classes – in front of some of you – barely standing, tottering actually. My point is, take care of your health – physical, mental, spiritual. Take care, really.

As new vistas unfold beneath your feet, as the world offers an abundance of opportunities, I wish you the courage to grow and the kindness to communicate, the wisdom to self-care. A more experienced colleague advised that I must say goodbye to everyone – model the way for departures – even though my inclination is to avoid the mess of farewells. Forgive me, this shapeless word shamble. It’s so six seven of me to write something so six seven that all of you sigma six-seveners will so not read. Once again, it had been a pleasure and a privilege.

All the best,
Mr Tan
your teacher no longer