Gen Z Speaks: My ode to a primary school vice-principal who used Abba and balloons to draw me out of my shell

When I was a child, I was always in the company of adults. 
My medical condition, spinal muscular atrophy (type 2), means that I need round-the-clock care. As such, my parents or domestic helper were always around. To pass the time, they would often put on music.
I spent my childhood listening to classics such as Alan Parsons Project and Belinda Carlisle, and never really explored “modern” music from the post-2000s until I was old enough to use the Internet on my own. Sorry, Avril Lavigne and Katy Perry.
Out of the countless acts from the golden ages of music, one that always evokes special memories for me is Swedish pop supergroup Abba.
Whenever I hear a song from their greatest hits album Abba Gold, I’m instantly transported back to my primary school’s general office.
The year was 2004, and I was in Primary 1.
I was a quiet kid. I wouldn’t volunteer to answer questions during lessons, nor would I talk to the other children, whether socially or for class assignments. Teachers used to write in my report book that I was too shy and needed to speak up more.
I didn’t have a lot of friends, and there was even some speculation among adults in my life that I might have selective mutism.
It’s partly a personality thing — I’m a natural introvert, and even as a grown-up, I have to expend conscious effort to open up and connect with others.
But I think my reticence was largely due to a lack of self-confidence, because I knew I was different from other kids.
In any case, my unwillingness to talk was an issue. It could have resulted in other problems down the road — including social isolation due to an inability to interact with peers, and poor academic performance due to being unable to present my thoughts and clarify my doubts.
In the early 2000s, the Ministry of Education was still getting up to speed on the mainstreaming of children with special needs. The position of “special needs officer” hadn’t been invented yet; nowadays, nearly every school has one.
But Mrs Doris Chong, Vice-Principal at Tanjong Katong Primary School, was ahead of her time.
Mrs Chong knew that special needs kids require extra help and personalised attention to ensure we don’t get left out, or worse, left behind. And, with no prompting, she went out of her way to devote time and energy to looking out for me.
I still remember my very first encounter with Mrs Chong.
Twice a week, while my class was having physical education (PE) lessons, I would sit at the side and watch if the activity was something I couldn’t take part in — which was the case most of the time.
One day, while patrolling the school, she saw me sitting there by myself doing nothing. She came right over and engaged me in conversation — no doubt aware of my infamous reluctance to speak!
From that day on, she would check on me at almost every PE period, and if I wasn’t engaged with the class activity, she would do something else with me to keep me occupied.
She brought colourful balloons to these sessions, as she was a skilled balloon sculptor. She would deftly twist balloon after balloon into a mind-boggling array of shapes while chatting with me.
At first, I kept my guard up as I did with everyone else, giving her short and vague answers or sometimes no answers at all. But she always spoke to me with kindness and patience, never showing any frustration at my early rebuffing of her attempts to reach out.
Gradually, I realised Mrs Chong was genuine and not a threat, and warmed up to her. No doubt, the sheer novelty of having one of the most senior and respected leaders in the school twisting balloon animals for me had something to do with drawing me out of my shell too!
On the last day of school that year, we gathered in the multipurpose hall for an awards presentation. Another student came up to me and said that I was being summoned to the general office by Mrs Chong.
When I reached the office, Mrs Chong was standing by the public address (PA) system console.
“We should celebrate and give thanks to the teachers for their hard work,” she said.
Holding up a copy of Abba Gold, she continued: “I was thinking of playing some music from this album, and between songs, we could read these messages to the rest of the school.”
I looked at the slip of paper she indicated: It bore a short script containing well-wishes and appreciation for the various members in the school community – teachers, students, administrators, attendants, and so on.
“It will be nicer if these messages are read by a student,” Mrs Chong said. “Do you want to help me read them?”
Meekly, I agreed. I had developed a measure of trust in Mrs Chong through our balloon sculpting sessions and it didn’t feel right for me to refuse her request. Besides, she’d already written the script and all I had to do was read it out – it would’ve been a bridge too far if I’d had to speak off the cuff at that point, and on hindsight, I think Mrs Chong knew it.
So I held up the handset and said my first shaky words in my public speaking career, my kiddy voice echoing throughout the school.
I can’t remember what all the words were, but I do recall that it ended something like this: “Now sit back, relax, and enjoy this song, Dancing Queen.”
As the song played over the PA system, Mrs Chong told me I was doing well. When Dancing Queen ended, my voice was stronger and steadier in reading the next set of messages and introducing the next song.
We went on like this until the script was finished. I got better and better as the exercise went on, and had even begun to find a bit of fun in it. When it was over, I returned to the hall filled with a sense of accomplishment.
Sadly, Mrs Chong transferred out of the school shortly after. But what she did laid the foundation for me to begin addressing my reluctance to speak.
Nearly two decades on, I still don’t relish public speaking, but I now have the capability to do it — well enough that I’ve managed to survive the corporate world, and even hold my own on discussion panels, interviews, and podcasts!
My experience with Mrs Chong shows the importance of educators who care. Not only was she cognisant of the issues facing the special needs students in her school, she was also willing to come up with ideas to tackle them and invest her own time and energy into carrying out these ideas.
On a broader level, Mrs Chong’s example reminds us that being inclusive does sometimes mean treating different people differently. We all need different kinds of support and help to be at our best and unlock our potential — and that’s totally okay.
Mrs Chong, wherever you are, I hope you’re doing well — but most of all, thank you for the music.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jonathan Tiong, 26, works in corporate communications and employee engagement. He has Spinal Muscular Atrophy Type 2. As an advocate for disability inclusion in corporate employment, Jonathan has shared his views and advice in interviews and panel discussions. He also writes regularly on various topics and platforms.