Murky Clarity

é·lit·ism

é·lit·ism
n.

...the belief or attitude that some individuals, who form an elite — a select group of people with a certain ancestry, intrinsic quality or worth, higher intellect, wealth, specialized training or experience, or other distinctive attributes — are those whose influence or authority is greater than that of others; whose views on a matter are to be taken the most seriously or carry the most weight; whose views or actions are most likely to be constructive to society as a whole; or whose extraordinary skills, abilities, or wisdom render them especially fit to govern.

- Wikipedia

 

I can quote the American Heritage Dictionary or the Oxford dictionary for more concise definitions, but the definition Wikipedia provides resonates with what I feel, with what I have to write about.

Several days ago I read an article by Miss Fay Khoo in Esquire Malaysia.¹ It's about food blogging and the rotten apples that ruin the niche. The content of the rant--I won't call it an article--isn't about people giving false information on food and restaurants; rather, it's about how people who have poor command over the English language and poor photography SHOULD NOT have a go at it unless they learn the skills to do so.

Quoting her:

Because gastronomic qualifications or even a cogent grasp of English are not, sadly, necessary prerequisites to setting up a blog, it seems that anyone with an over-inflated sense of self-worth, an alimentary canal and a camera can now become a blogger.

Elitism, anyone? It's a full-page rant, which comes with a personal commandment to blogging. Heh. I love the image, however. It haz the funneh.

Look. Let's make it simple. Setting up a blog is freaking easy. There are even templates for anything food-related. People are empowered by the knowledge that they can say and do whatever they want on the net because the internet persona lives in a different dimension from reality.

Some people love food so much that they want to blog about their experience(s). Hey, I'm not judging. I write product reviews, sometimes. Not everyone can get an A1 for their SPM/GCE-O Level English 1119.

[They (re)introduced the double grading during my batch, and I was one of the 2 students who got an A1. So I get to gloat, dammit!]

Who are we to tell people, "Dude, your English is so bad you shouldn't be using it in the first place." Or, "Dude, is that a photo of a char koay teow or your vomit? Don't post pictures unless you learn to snap better pictures." Unless they write for a test, and we are the examiners, we are NOTHING. So shut up already.

English--or any language, for that matter--does not belong to the select few who can use it well. The more people use a language, the better they get. Provided they are actively learning as they go along, that is. I can't say much about photography, because you either have an eye for it or you don't, but it's still a learned skill.

To be honest, unknown food bloggers are the ones to be trusted because they honestly love what they just ate--or vice versa. They aren't given incentives, they aren't given the best food the chef has to offer so that the restaurant will get rave reviews.

Fine. I do admit that sometimes it gets painful reading stuff some people write. Sometimes my inner grammar nazi takes charge while I try my best not to laugh. Sometimes I LoLed. But I don't tell people, "Unless you write like me, don't even try."

Who are these people hurting, anyway? Whose name are they blemishing? At most you can do is click "back" and then click on another link Google has provided.

Actually, do you want to know the real truth behind my rage over the rant? Here in Malaysia, unless you are a journalist, unless you have published a novel that garners international acclaim, unless you know Somebody, unless you ARE Somebody, you are nothing. You are zilch. You are scum. In the literary world, anyway.

In a way, I am lucky to have earned a patron (Amir Muhammad) and a matron (Sharon Bakar). Is it enough to get exposure? Maybe, maybe not. I am not looking for praise or newspaper articles, so I'm all right with it.

Fine, I'm not above praise and a newspaper article or two. Stop snickering, you. Yes, you.

What about aspiring writers? What about people with potential? We don't have that many outlets here, and efforts to promote new Malaysian literature aren't met with encouraging responses. It's always the same people, until they get falsely accused of elitism. Take "Readings From Readings 2" for example. Sharon Bakar has started a crowd-funding project for it, and she doesn't require much; RM6000 is not that great an amount if 600 people sponsor RM10 each. 600 people isn't even a full house at GSC Mid Valley. I don't know. I may be exaggerating. I am. Get over it.

Disclaimer: I am part of the anthology, so I am personally invested. Deal with it.

Back to my original issue. Instead of telling people they shouldn't do something unless they're good at it, why not spend some time instructing them? Instead of writing a full-page rant on the abysmal quality of blog-writing, why not dedicate half-a-page to help encourage people to write better?

There are, however, some things even I cannot encourage with a clear conscience. They involve the lives of others. My friends (HKL peeps) know what--or whom, to be exact--I'm talking about.

[shiver]

So. Less elitism, more encouragement. Savvy?

So. So. Please support local literature.

So. So. So. Please support the crowd-funding project.

You people are awesome!

 

 

__________________________________________________________

1. Fay Khoo. Now Everyone Can Blog? Esquire Malaysia, 09.12; p: 62

The Downsides to Beauty

 

Beauty fades, they say
Beauty, like the velvety red rose by the window,
wilts and withers
waiting to be replaced by a flower that still blooms.

Beauty beguiles, they say
Beauty, like the King Cobra swaying to the charmer’s tune,
waits for you to falter
and strikes you dead before you could raise a hand in defense.

Beauty invites jealousy, they say
Beauty, like a cheerleader queen at every high school,
cannot afford to let her guard down
as every person she calls friend is always ready to pounce at her.

Beauty fades, beauty beguiles, beauty invites jealousy
Beauty has it downsides, you say
I know that, Momma, I know.
(you don’t have to tell me twice)
I know, but there are times like this
that I wish someone would call me
beautiful.

Dear Teen Self

 

 

Dearest Falie,

Assalamualaikum. I write this letter from the future, in the year 2012. Yep, this means we made it to 31. And no, the world hasn't ended. Yet.

I know you're still trying to get over the fact that I'm 31. It's so...old, isn't it? You think that people over 30 are boring uncles and aunties. You're right. You're also wrong. I'm an uncle of two and I'm loving it. You guessed it. Kasha finally met Mr Right, and he's a good guy. He makes her whole (and she's now a whole lot of woman). Oh. And Faiz is married. I know, right? Faiz having a best friend is one thing, but married to her? He's a lucky kid, but we've always known that, haven't we?

Me? Let's get comfortable and I'll tell you about it in time. I have lots to tell you, and I hope it will not change the course of our future. First: you will not stay the smallest kid on the block. Granted, you'll be the shortest among the male cousins, but you'll reach average height. And once you hit the gym (that will not be until 2010, sadly), you will be more than skin and bones. You will reach average height and build, and even though your face will remain average, you will be able to afford a personal hair stylist, top range skincare products, and designer clothes. Look forward to all those.

On your side, the year is 1997 and you just turned 16. I remember there was nothing sweet about it, other than your birthday dinner. Nothing bitter, either, so be thankful for that. God. 16. Was I that young? (I know you're still thinking, "God. 31. That old?") At 16, I remember being most impressed with myself for writing a short story for Garudamas. The Fantasy about silver wolves, right? You're the Malay kid who published English stories using impeccable grammar and bombastic words. Let me be blunt: dude, you suck. Get over yourself. Your stories have no depth other than what dramas like "Felicity" and "Jack & Jill" inspire you to write. Granted, those are awesome shows, but honest to God the stories you'll produce for the next 5 years or so are atrocious (see "purple prose").

Worry not. You will get better. You will become a published author, so the endless squiggles that took up whole books that you did when you were 5 will eventually pay off. I think by now you have received the best advice you will ever get on writing, by both Mrs Brahma and Datin Matilda: in exams, do not write stories. Choose descriptive writing instead. Our forte is in description and in the ties of relationships.

Speaking of, you are comfortable being a loner, aren't you? Faiz told us once that he had many friends, and we stuck to the few that we had. And our reply was that while our friends were few, they could be trusted.

Fuck that. They will all betray you. You will lose every single friend you ever made at school, and you will start over again. But you have that instinct, haven't you? That's why you never fully trust anyone. That's why you keep pushing people away, testing the limits of friendship. That's why you always keep part of yourself hidden away. I still do that. I push and pull, letting people in but always at a distance, and even though the distance gives me perspective on human relations, which in turn makes my writing all the more powerful, but reality will never match the standard I have set.

Like you, I am most comfortable when I'm alone. I still play computer games. They're mostly online now, and the speed is 20MBPS, not 56KBPS, and it's always connected, and you don't have to connect the modem and hear the funny dialing sound, and you won't have to hear Papa or Kasha screaming to get off the net so they could use the phone--I know, right?. I still read comics, though not as much. Best of all, however, is that I can afford to buy at least ten storybooks A MONTH. That's T-E-N. At least. Isn't that awesomesauce or what?

People don't get that. Not even Mama. Everyone thinks that to be happy, you have to find a spouse. You have to procreate. Only then you are considered successful and happy. Fuck that. Fuck them all to ashes. Remember our pact? We don't plan to live longer than 40 years, so what's the point of it all? Yeah, I still think 40 is ANCIENT. Let me assure you, I love being alone. Sure, sometimes I do get that pang of loneliness, but only sometimes, mind.

Oh. Since last December, I am living on loaned time. Not borrowed, since I do not have cancer (touch wood). Loaned. Because life after last December comes at a steep price. I won't get into the details because you may plan to avoid the life-changing event and irrevocably alter the course of the future. I don't think I'll ever be able to repay the debt, and I'm doing my best to make ends meet. I was forced into adulthood, and even though I'm clinging hard to the child in me, I'm slipping away.

Sorry. It's a bleak future I'm painting, isn't it?

What I can safely tell you is that you will lead a blessed life. There will be hardships. There will be instances when you think you can't go any further, but despite your small frame, you have strength that may surprise even yourself. Your roads will be paved with opportunities, both scientifically and artistically, that not many people can afford (and I'm not talking about money. I'm not a millionaire, mind).

The reason why I'm telling you only the bad stuff and not much of the good: I want you prepared without revealing too much, and I don't want to spoil the fun of discovering new things. I hope that even at 40, we will never lose that sense of wonder that makes us an eternal child.

I can't remember how the day was back in 1997, but today it's beautiful. Blue sky with a dash of cotton candy clouds, loving family and friends wishing me a wonderful birthday, pavlova that I baked (yeah, I'm surprised at myself too), and most of all, the wealth of health.

I hope this letter will somehow enter the miracle that is cyberspace, through the loophole of time-space-continuum, and reach you, even if it's just to tell you that I love you. That I am proud of you. Even if it's just to tell you that eventually, thing will get better, and that you will find happiness--this one is a message for myself too, as I am still searching for that happiness. Believe.

 

Always,

Fadzlishah Johanabas
October 20, 2012

How do you measure success?

I had a patient last Saturday night. He was involved in a road traffic accident, didn't lose consciousness but had this massive headache, went to a clinic, and was discharged with analgesia. It wasn't until a few hours later that he lost consciousness.

Textbook description of an epidural hematoma. In layman term, he bled between his skull and the outermost covering of his brain. When he was brought to us, one of his pupils (the eye, not a student) had already dilated, his blood pressure was lowish, and he had to be intubated for artificial ventilation support. To be honest, I only received the patient at the airlock of the operating theater; another colleague had managed the primary survey and care of the patient.

And since I'm being honest, the surgery was exhilarating. It was challenging, and I always love a good challenge. I had to be extra careful not to injure a major vessel, and as the bleed was over the cerebellum (just above the back of the neck), inserting a drain wasn't an option. I had to make sure the bleeding was fully secured.

Alhamdulillah, the surgery went without complications. There was no change in the patient's condition, but he was stable. The dilated pupil had shrunk to normal. He went for a post-operative CT scan in the morning, but his condition deteriorated a few hours later. Both his pupils were dilated, and he lost his brain stem function, which is the most primitive of the brain's functions.

Groggy from lack of sleep for over 32 hours, I reviewed the patient. I was disheartened when the nurse informed me about the patient's condition. Then I reviewed the CT. The clot had been fully evacuated, and there was no residual bleed. Judging from the scan, the surgery was a success.

Was it?

The worst part was that the patient's family is in another country. I had to break the news to his friends, I had to gently inform them that there was nothing else we could do, that they had to call the patient's family to tell them that he would not make it. He was in God's hands, now.

I know that when the patient came to us, it was already too late. I know that I did my best. But I wonder. I wonder if there was something more I could have done. A more aggressive surgery. A more aggressive post-operative management. Something. Anything.

I also wonder if what I had done had amounted to anything. Not for me, but for the patient and his family members who are oceans away.

Sometimes I just want to roll the windows down, close my eyes and feel the wind whipping against my face, and let God take the wheel. Because I don't know how to measure my success; not in this field.