Parent-Teacher Meetings today aren’t anything like the ones I had growing up.
I recently attended the end-of-semester PTM for my youngest daughter. The process began a week before the actual day, when parents had to log in to reserve their time slots with the various subject teachers– on a “first come, first served” basis. It felt eerily similar to logging into Shopee at midnight during the 11.11 sale, desperately trying to snag that elusive RM1 microfiber screen cleaner.
As luck would have it, the booking window opened right in the middle of one of my work meetings. Since I wasn’t presenting, I casually pulled up the school’s reservation portal while nodding along like a bobblehead. Meanwhile, my brain went into full Tetris mode, trying to squeeze over a dozen 5- to 10-minute appointments into a tight schedule before the good slots were snapped up– thanks to other equally competitive parents doing their best virtual elbowing.
Back in my day (cue nostalgic 80s synth music), I was part of the national school system. We had to bring home report cards for our parents’ signatures — though that’s a bit of a misnomer, because they were more like little booklets chronicling your entire academic life. For some, they were a source of pride. For others, a horror anthology.
I still remember the format: the class teacher would painstakingly handwrite each subject, the monthly test scores, the mid-year and year-end exam marks, your position in class and your overall ranking in the entire school.
Also, on every other page, there was a tiny photo box in the top-right corner showcasing your most awkward teenage self– acne, bad haircut and all– preserved forever in low-resolution, passport-sized glory.
But the real horror? Failed subjects were highlighted in red. Bright, unforgiving red. Some kids’ report cards looked like a bloody crime scene.
Once a year– usually after final exams– the teacher would summon your parents to collect your report card personally. It was like Christmas, where the teacher would inform them whether you’d been naughty or nice… except instead of gifts, you got judgment, death stares and possibly a very quiet walk home.
These days, PTMs are more civilized. Less about shame, more about “growth mindsets,” “values-centered learning,” and “partnering in education”– all those idealistic things that make you feel warm and fuzzy inside while also slightly guilty for not doing more.
I like to optimize my PTM schedule for maximum efficiency. Naturally, I booked the earliest slots and stacked subsequent meetings every 5 to 10 minutes apart.
When the clock struck 7:40am, it was off to the races.
As we entered the hall, I saw the teachers mentally bracing themselves like gladiators walking into an arena filled with concerned, highly excitable parents. I could feel their pain.
First up: Mandarin. The teacher gently suggested strategies to get our daughter to speak something– anything– besides English at home. I nodded enthusiastically while silently acknowledging that my own off-tune Mandarin vocabulary consists mostly of food items and basic apologetic phrases.
Next: Math. We dove into why she couldn’t calculate a bearing with her protractor– a skill I pretended to remember while mentally Googling “what is a bearing in math?”
Then came English. The teacher praised her writing skills but noted that she was still very quiet in class– which, I suppose, is the academic equivalent of complimenting a stage-frightened person on their potential singing career.
By 9:45am, we had speed-run through Bahasa Malaysia, Industrial Design, Humanities, Science and Computer Studies. I was running on two paper cups of Kopiko 3-in-1 instant coffee and vibrating at a frequency high enough to charge a mobile phone.
Finally, after wrapping up with Physical Ed. 2, I was completely wiped out. I glanced over at my daughter, who was happily chatting with her friends in the hall, utterly relaxed.
It hit me then: PTMs used to be stressful for students. Now, they’re stressful for the parents and teachers.