“You will have three hours to complete the exam!” the mediator thundered. “No cheating, or you will get a zero,” His stern voice echoed throughout the filled room. The man, bald with faint marks of red hair, walked down between the rows, dropping a large packet on each desk, the sound amplifying as it reached Michael, at the back end of the room, next to the window.


The rain pittered and pattered onto the foggy, condensation filled window. Michael saw a single drop land at the top of the window. He witnessed as it slid down, before splitting into two separate drops, each curving further and further from each other, until they reached the bottom, where they disappeared completely. “Eyes down!” The mediator shouted. Dropping the last packet on top of Michael’s outstretched arms. Michael cupped the pages, clearly photocopied, he ran his fingers over the big, grey letters: SAT. The mediator slapped away his hand. “No touching the documents until I say so.”


The mediator looked left, right, and then straight down the aisle. “That didn’t take so long,” He whispered under his breath. “You have a five-minute break until the start of the exam. Go to the bathroom or get a drink of water.” Michael hesitated, he was wary of being the only one standing. After 30 seconds or so, he rose in accordance with his test mates. Michael didn’t know these people. He walked to the back end of the room, and sifted through the crowd to reach the water fountain. He placed his right hand on the faucet, directing it towards his mouth and pushed the button: cool, jets of water spurted into his mouth and onto his chin. He relaxed.


“Why am I so nervous? I have taken tests hundreds of times!” Suddenly, he felt a vibrating sensation down his left leg. He reached into his navy blue, cargo three-quarter lengths, and pulled out a white, Samsung Galaxy S5. He looked at the dark screen and pushed the home button, located at the bottom of the phone. The screen illuminated with a picture of his Ma, upset as usual: he wondered why he made such a terrible photo her contact photo. He slid his finger across the plastic surface and held the large, quadrilateral towards his ear. “Hello?”


“Where are you lah?”


“Ma, I’m in Woodlands,”


“Wah? Why you in Woodlands? It’s Saturday… Yo’ Dad needs help, he has a lot of customers today lah”


“Ma, I’m taking the SATs. I can help in like three hours, okay?”


“AY Yiohhhh! Why you taking SATs lah? Yo’ Polytechnic GPA is good lah. You can get into NUS,”


“I don’t want to go to NUS , Ma. I want to go to the US. If I get 2000 on this exam Ma, I can get a scholarship!”


“WHAT! You are not going to the US!”


“It’s okay, I can stay with Uncle Qing and his family. Go to New York University! Great right?” His mother’s frustrated tone turned to an angry one.
“You come home right now mister! Or else!” His mother hung up. Michael picked his head up and noticed the other students moving back inside the classroom. What a lovely school.


Michael scurried over to his desk and sat down, hoping not to draw any attention. “Open the test booklet to page one,” The mediator said looking around the room. “And fill out the personal information,” Michael filled in the basics:


Name: Michael Li Xi’an Zhou


Date Of Birth: 06/06/1995


Gender: M
Michael thought he was done, but after turning the page he saw a whole list of questions. The first: Nationality.


Michael wrote down Singaporean. Erased it, and wrote down American. And erased it. He tried to fit Singaporean-American in, but he only had 12 letters to play with. Michael thought.


“I’ve lived in Singapore my whole life,” He said quietly. A shush startled Michael. He looked out the window. He saw the bright red track field. He saw the large, white cafeteria, imposing itself over the track, and then he looked higher, and saw the pure-blue sky. He smiled. But quickly retracted it. He wasn’t supposed to be happy. He had to be serious.


He remembered the words his father told him years ago: “Eat the wind, swallow the bitterness, and then can your breath be feared in Heaven”. Michael removed these thoughts from his head and stared directly down.


The word had seemed to have gotten bigger. How am I American?. I have some distant relative. I’m Singaporean.
He looked at the boy sitting next to him. He was furiously scribbling away. A large, eagle printed on his left breast, right where his heart was, classic patriotic school. SINGAPORE AMERICAN SCHOOL, printed in blue, arched over the white eagle. Clearly not afraid to be proud of whom they were. I’m American.


He looked up, at the metal sea of desks around him. Everyone dressed in the same, white polo shirt and navy blue three quarter-lengths. Everyone’s back hunched over their desks. I’m Singaporean.


He heard the scratching of pencils, and smelt freshly cooked burgers: the PTA must be preparing a surprise for us. He looked up at the clock. A few minutes had passed, and his second page was blank.


“Time’s up!” The mediator paced back to the front of the room. “Turn to the next page, and follow along while I read the directions. You have 25 minutes…”


Michael tuned out the mediator. Took one look outside. And scribbled in:








American.