The New Paper Column: NS

I was trying to explain the concept of National Service to my roommate. “Twelve or more guys share a bunk, each has his own small space, and they all try not to kill each other,” I said, to begin with.

“So it’s like us,” my roommate replied. “Except with more space.”

Despite the disturbing news that my roommate had been trying not to kill me, I realized that he was right. Living in a New York University dorm is remarkably like being back in Singapore and serving National Service all over again. As weird as that might sound, the lessons of both are actually quite similar.

For example: Your fellow third sergeants won’t turn off the television because they’ve decided to watch pirated DVDs until four in the morning the night before an exercise. You try not to kill them. Your floor-mates decide that four in the morning before an exam is the best time to relieve stress by belting out rock songs on their guitars. You try not to kill them. See? That’s tolerance right there.

In fact, living here in New York has taught me some lessons that even National Service could not teach.

Take area cleaning, for instance. During National Service, servicemen are forced to clean their sleeping and company areas, in an effort to instill in them the virtues of housekeeping. I have two elder brothers, and I can safely tell you that I don’t think a week of fear-induced cleaning has ever encouraged anyone to clean some more when he gets home. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But after a semester at Columbia University, my elder brother immediately started volunteering to help my mother mop the floor twice a week. I used to wonder why. I don’t anymore. I’m guessing he probably found week-old pizza slices under the couch. Or he just got tired of stepping on wasabi peas constantly. Or maybe he stepped on a fork that was bizarrely on the bathroom floor. These are only guesses, you understand, but for some reason I’m pretty sure one of them is right.

And then of course there’s the fact that National Service is supposed to teach you discipline, through the inculcation of routines, timetables, and all that fun stuff. I don’t know. I don’t really find myself obsessing over whether my toothbrush is placed exactly correctly, or whether my shoes are placed in a certain order. I do know, however, that the one hour I spent trying not to stuff a drunk sorority girl’s head into a microwave probably taught me enough discipline to last a whole life’s worth of drunk people.

Why am I so sure? Well, if I didn’t do it when she said this: “Am I hot? No. Really? I’m hot? No. I’m not hot. My boyfriend tells me I’m hot. Did I say I was hot? I’m not hot. I’m hot. I’m hot, right? This is a nice microwave. Can I borrow your microwave? You have a very nice microwave. Am I hot? Hot? Not hot? Don’t lie to me. I’m hot. I’m so hot. My boyfriend tells me I’m hot. Wow. Like, awesome microwave. I’m not usually like this. I’m so totally usually not like this. I’m awesome when I’m not drunk. Really! I’m so hot.” And so forth… and forth… and forth.

I could go on some more, about many other things, but I think you get the idea.
Which is why, if I make it back to Singapore in one piece, without any homicides, or drug raps, or alcoholism problems on my record, I’d have become a pretty good person, right? And if I were also to bring fame to Singapore? Like say if I were to become… a world-class pianist?