A Limping Woman

I was waiting for the bus the other day when I saw this woman limping towards the bus stop. She appeared to be bow-legged and I remember her wearing Crocs. I figured that it would be rude if I continued to look at her, so I minded my own business. My bus pulled into the stop, and people started moving towards the door. The woman was amongst the many people approaching the bus.

The doors opened, people shuffled in. Because the woman had difficulty taking normal steps, she ended up stepping onto the road, then taking up all the width of the door to pull herself up onto the bus. She probably does it everytime she gets on the bus, but she still looks unsteady while doing so. The man standing beside me reached forward, intending to help her up by placing his hand under her armpit and lifting her into the bus. However, once his hand brushed against her arm, she turned around and gave a lopsided scowl. Perhaps it wasn't a scowl. Perhaps she really has difficulty controlling her facial expressions, ending up with an expression that looks less than friendly. Perhaps she really meant to thank the gentleman.

Whatever the case was, the man recoiled and proceeded to board the bus, leaving some room behind her. He turned to his companion and joked, "Heh. Better not help out after how she looked at me. Later kena charged for sexual harrassment. Molest!"

It was good that the man didn't take offence to the scowl and could even joke about his predicament. But the episode got me thinking. Why did she scowl? Was she trying to tell the others that she was self-sufficient?

Whose fault is it really? Was it the man's fault that he poked his nose? Was it the woman's fault for being snobbish, thinking that she doesn't require the help? Or is it society's fault?

I do not think that the man's intentions were wrong. In fact, what he did would make all our Moral Education teachers happy. However, as what I've learnt, there is a chance that the intent and impact differ. He had good intentions, just that he might have delivered his act differently by first asking if the woman needed his help.

Was it the woman's fault? I mean, she's slightly disabled, and along comes this man who spontaneously helps her. Shouldn't she be more thankful?

Maybe it's society's fault then. Maybe the woman has gotten used to getting strange looks from the people on the street. Maybe she's had enough of people thinking that a disabled person is weird. She wants to prove that she can be independent. She can get up the bus on her own. Anyone who even attempts to help her with that task is only making fun of her disability. Perhaps we just aren't helping out the disabled enough; that any help from us deserves a confused look from them.

Or maybe I just think too much. -Jimmy

Guns and Thoughts

It was another one of those nights. When your MP3s seem to create more racket than music, when there's no one on MSN, when you're bored of all the games in the computer, when there's no satisfaction in coming up with a new thought-provoking blog entry and when it's too late to start on the work piling up. I decided that all the above were cues to tuck myself into bed. I mean, what's the point in staying awake, right? Might as well sleep and better utilise the time tomorrow, I told myself.

As I lay in bed, I had a sudden urge to hold a SAR21. I have no idea why. Thinking that I could probably bore myself to sleep, I began thinking of issues related to this relationship between boys and guns.

Boys and girls are wired differently. A particular strip from the Baby Blues series shows this succinctly: Dad brings home 2 identical teddy bears for his two kids. The girl holds the teddy bear up in her arms like a baby and proclaims, "I shall call her Princess of the Fairies, Sugar Cupcake, everything Sweet and Nice." The boy holds his up and proclaims, "Twuck." He then places it against the floor and pushes it along as though it were a toy truck. Candid, yet so funny.

Similarly, a boy loves playing with toy guns from a young age. Squirt guns, Infrared pistols used in wargames, spring-loaded launchers... the industry has no end to the number of toys in the shape of a gun. Perhaps it was some old childhood memory that yearned to hold a gun while I lay in bed that night.

Perhaps I was subconciously thinking of my army days, when my rifle was my wife. Even though I didn't really go outfield much, we were taught in BMT that you should never leave your rifle out of reach even when you're sleeping. Somehow, metal and plastic makes good bolster material. Hard and unyeilding, yet comfortably so.

Perhaps it was the times I went for my ATP firings. When I'd just sit there staring at my rifle, feeling the rough plastic covering that makes it look like a toy gun, holding the pistol grip, feeling the sheer bulkiness of the 3.8kg gun, wondering why Singapore designed such an unweildy rifle which (IMO) doesn't handle as well as the M16. Then I'd look through the scope, make out the fine lines that form the crosshair, look for the little black dot that marks the centre and feel reassured that that is where the bullet will land.

There is a certain sense of satisfaction during ATP. You're confident that it's just you and the rifle. If you know your fundamentals of shooting, there's nothing stopping you from a perfect score. If you can't get a marksman badge, it's because you haven't worked hard enough towards it. There's no external factors like backstabbing collegues, unreasonable superiors, directives which don't know what they're talking about. Perhaps that's what I wanted then: a chance to be in control of my life, just me and the rifle and that tiny speck of a target so far away. No external variables which throw all your plans into the wind. Any disappointment would be your own fault.

Playing Battlefield 2 doesn't give as much satisfaction as a real shoot. Sure, the medic's L85A1 bears a large resemblance to the SAR21. Sure, it tries to emulate what it feels like to be in a battlefield with your squad covering your corners and artillery streaking down on the target. But you don't feel the rifle jerk against your shoulder. You don't have the smell of gunpowder. You don't have your spectacles fogging up because you're concentrating so hard on getting the shots right that you're sweating profusely.

I dozed off not long after. I still can't figure out why I had a sudden yearning to hold a rifle. With the ongoing Middle East crisis, perhaps I shouldn't be thinking of the marvels of weapons. Or perhaps not. Guns don't kill people, people do. -Jimmy