In late 1980, the verdict of my Secondary 4 Preliminary exams seemed to seal my fate. I scored 18 points, a result that shut the doors to all seven Junior Colleges and both Polytechnics in Singapore at that time. Accepting my reality, I spent the first three months of 1981 doing what was expected of me: waking up every day to help out at our Chinatown clothing stalls and shoe shop.
I looked at my older brothers and sisters, none of whom had proceeded to tertiary education, and thought, “This is my path too.” And honestly, I was content with it. I was happy to stay in Chinatown, listening to the best-selling songs played by the cassette stalls, matching the rhythm of the streets I knew so well.
Then came March 1981.
The official 'O' Level results were released, and I stared at the paper in utter disbelief. My score had plummeted from a failing 18 points to a brilliant 10 points. Overnight, the impossible became possible: I qualified for every single one of the seven Junior Colleges in the country. Without hesitation, I set my sights on the apex: National Junior College (NJC) became my first choice.
But the most moving part of that milestone wasn't the score itself. It was what happened next at the shoe shop.
My father, the man who rarely spoke, the man who stayed in the background, suddenly transformed. He didn't understand the complex mechanics of the 'O' Level grading system, but he understood one thing: his boy had made it.
Like a town crier, he took that piece of news to the entire world, or at least, to our entire world in Chinatown. He told the neighboring hawkers, the suppliers, the regular customers, and anyone who would listen.
"My son got into National Junior College, the same school as Lee Kuan Yew's son," was his message. (Note: Lee Kuan Yew was Singapore's Prime Minister from 1959 to 1990, and all his 3 children studied at NJC.)
For a man who usually took the blows of life in absolute silence, his voice carried a roaring pride that day. He wanted everyone to know that a child from a humble Chinatown stall was going to National Junior College.
In Love Intelligence (LQ), we talk about Connection through the language of validation. My father spent his life feeling like an invisible pillar, often judged by the family as not doing enough. He bore his own unfulfilled potential in silence.
When I scored those 12 points, it wasn't just my victory; it was his validation. By shouting my success to the world, he was anchoring his own purpose.
High LQ reminds us that our achievements never belong to us alone, our achievements are built on the silent, grueling routines of our parents who stood watch in the dark so we could shine in the light.
This is the 11th in a series of articles dedicated to honoring my late father and applying the principles of Love Intelligence to the relationships that matter most.
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