V e r i t a s . S o p h i a . I u s t i t i a

2006 US Open Men's Singles finalists- Andy Roddick (USA) & Roger Federer (SUI)

Tomorrow, it'll be the 8th anniversary of the morning I stayed home to catch Pat Rafter diffuse Mark 'The Scud' Philippoussis in the Men's Singles final of the 1998 US Open. Nothing significant about it really, a four-set whitewash by the net-rushing Rafter, no upsets, except when the match ended, my 'A' Level GP paper was due to start in 30 minutes.

I arrived 10 minutes late, looked suitably pathetic (I don't cry easily but when necessity calls, I sure as hell can look as though I'm about to) and was allowed to take my exams. Up yours, mam

So anyhow, fast forward 8 years and tomorrow, it ain't gonna be a pony-tailed Aussie who spent a week in his career at number one taking on his unseeded compatriot in tennis' version of the Roman colosseum- Arthur Ashe stadium, prime time- nope, tomorrow, it's gonna be a Battle of the Heavyweights- that's capital 'B', capital 'H' - Fed takes on A-Rod- just a few rungs below Sampras-Agassi 2002, and pray tell, swashbuckler, where will I be?

Attending a class on how to teach grammar to secondary school kids.

DUDE! WHERE ARE YOUR PRIORITIES, MAN?!

Let us pause to reflect on the passing of youth. Tis a blissful age when all you seek in life is to give as much pain as you can to those who would impose upon you unreasonable demands. Looking back, did watching too much TV really set me back in life? Were the classes I skipped really gonna teach me anything important? All that mattered was being a pain in the ass,
there is, I tell you, nothing so interesting as to be a problem cos being a problem is all the identity you seek as a youth.

So when did I become an adult?

Trostsky. He writes in his diary, "Old age is the most unexpected thing that can happen to a man." I am not yet old (I think) but time has ebbed away like the sneaking thief it is; when I was told I looked young, it was a sure sign I'd become an adult. And when I saw my timetable tomorrow and threw up the white flag with narry a whimper, I knew I was now a Responsible Adult. FUCK.

So.

Anyway, the US Open Men's final is set for approximately 0900 hrs local time tomorrow and for those of you who loved tennis in the 70s, this is Borg vs Connors. Those of you who loved it in the 80s, this is Edberg vs Lendl. That's right, not your classic line-ups- sorry folks, Rafa couldn't make it- but still significant enough. Roger Federer is, of course, not nicknamed GOAT (Greatest Of All Time) for nothing- this is his seventh major final in a row and he's won six of them- and Andy Roddick is no couch-potato himself- he's riding an 11-match winning streak and won this title in 2003.

Before the year's final major began, only an idiot would have placed a bet against Roger Federer reaching the final. By the time Rafa found himself out of the tournament in week 2, only an idiot with a brain-eating virus would have betted against Federer taking the title. No need for rocket science here. The bane of his existence gone, the crown was his for the taking.

And yet, I don't want Roger Federer to win. The 49 year old but seemingly ageless Martina Navratilova, who played the last match of her career today in the Mixed Doubles final, fittingly winning it for her 59th major title (don't cry for her, she'll be back when she's 70), once said that great champions are never fully appreciated in their time. I am sure she is right. Twenty years from now, I will wipe tears from my eyes when Federer walks onto Centre Court for some Champions Parade. I will look at some pipsqueak upstart and scoff, "Federer would've finished him love-and-love". But for now, I really don't want Federer to win.

Doubtless, in skill, there is none among his peers to even compare him with. The guy's technique is textbook perfect, and like the best brains in the world, he's memorized the book and left it far behind. He can hit winners from any position on the court, find angles no one knew existed and invent shots when he has to. His anticipation is perfect; he never appears out of position, his movement is almost balletic- Federer doesn't run to retrieve shots, he glides into them. Did I mention, he also never has a hair out of place and doesn't appear to sweat? Oh, well, now you know.

The guy is perfect. And perfect is boring. Supermodels look perfect but people prefer Julia Roberts to Cindy Crawford. Why? Cos Julia's got a big mouth. Imperfections, or to be P.C., idiocyncracies are FUN. There's nothing enjoyable about scanning a painting so "perfectly" executed you can't see the mark of brushstrokes. You want some texture, you want to see some canvas left unpainted, even better if by accident. You want some "flaws" to look at.

No one can get seriously excited at the prospect of a "battle" between two obviously mismatched opponents. Sure, it's morbidly enjoyable to see Roger bagel the world number 1023 in the first round, but when he does the same to a top 10 opponent two weeks later in the final, you know the game's got a problem. Why buy tickets when the winner's a foregone conclusion. And sure, it's fun to root for the underdog, and let's face it, anyone facing the Fed IS an underdog. But central to the pleasure of rooting for the underdog is the belief that the latter CAN somehow defy the odds and beat the favorite... Federer's only lost to two men this year. Let's not get our hopes up.

And so to Andy Roddick. Ranked one in the world at the end of 2003, the American has seen his ranking slide to 10 as of this tournament. Earlier this year, he even dropped out of the top 10 for a couple of weeks. Here was a man who three years ago had the tennis world at his feet. The heir-apparent to Sampras, he'd proved his credentials in double-quick time when he annexed the 2003 US Open, crushing all comers en-route. But that was before Federer, that talented but inconsistent player from Switzerland, began to iron out the creases in his game. When he did, the effect he had on the top players of the game was similar to what the dominant Serena Williams in 2002 did to the psyche and thereafter the games of Martina Hingis, Lindsay Davenport, jennifer Capriati, even her own sister, Venus.

He left his rivals behind. Lleyton Hewitt, Marat Safin, Juan Carlos Ferrero. They could no longer match him. And they fell apart. Remember when Hewitt was indefatiguable? Now he looks tired against Federer. But Roddick. He was touted as the one legitimate threat to the Federer dominance. And that's a helluva lot of pressure on one guy. Every loss to the Swiss was a blow to his ego, magnified a thousand times by the media. It didn't help he couldn't beat the guy. His win-loss record against Federer stands at 1-10 going into tomorrow's final. So Roddick took the same path the rest of his peers did, only where it became clear to them pretty quickly they could not match the great Swiss, Roddick, by want of the American media, was forced to hang on to the maestro's tailcoat.

His game suffered. Obsessed with beating Federer, he forgot he had to get past a few other guys first in a tournament. And the youngsters were catching up, especially one young Spaniard from Mallorca who started to do what HE couldn't-- beat Federer. Roddick soon found his number two spot usurped by the teenage Rafael Nadal. And this year, Roddick finally began to follow in the steps of Hewitt, Ferrero and Safin (none of whom are in the top 10 anymore). His spirit was broken.

When he finally hired Jimmy Connors to be his coach, it smacked of sheer desperation. The guy had been hiring and firing coaches like Naomi Campbell her assistants. But from losing early at the Australian, the French and most painfully at Wimbledon, where once he could at least claim he was the second-best grass court player behind Federer, Roddick has quickly began to evolve under the tutelage of Connors. There's something fresh about Andy Roddick at this year's US Open. Winning is mattering to him again, whether his opponent is or isn't Roger Federer. There's a little Connors about his demeanor- the angry glares, the pumped fists, the excessive showmanship.

It looks like the old Roddick, B.F. (Before Federer)- the BIG serve is back, the BIG forehand is back. But really, this is a new, improved and matured Andy Roddick, a Roddick who has accepted he's not gonna beat Federer or anyone else by drastically changing his game. He's learnt some new tricks, no doubt. His volleying and his backhand have improved. But importantly he's also learned he's not gonna win matches utilising his backhand or in the forecourt. Those were just chinks in his armor he had to cover up. His weapons have not changed. If he's gonna win, it's gotta be with a one-two strike. A massive serve and a big forehand to put away the weak return.

The difference is in the mind- where Roddick once obsessed with beating Federer, now he is focused on his own game. What does he need to improve. What are his strengths. How does he maximize them. I can relate to that to some degree. When I was in lower Secondary, all I could see in front of me was my competition. The top student in my school was scoring 70/100 for a certain subject. I aimed for 75. Just enough to beat him. But it was only when I was in my final year, the year of my GCE O Levels, that I realized he wasn't the competition. The competition wasn't even important anymore. I just realized there was a hundred marks up for grabs. Heck if the best in my school's gonna score 80. I'm gonna go for the hundred.

In short, it became about being the best i could be, not beating the person I could see in front of me. Andy Roddick's gonna step in court tomorrow, not with nothing to prove, but with himself to reckon with. At the end of the day, though the spoils will still be handed out, he will know if he gave it his all or not. I'll be in my grammar class tomorrow, wondering where that devil-may-care boy who almost missed his A Levels for a tennis match has gone, but God knows, this year I'll be rooting for an upset at the US Open final.

The IMF and World Bank will hold their annual meeting in Singapore next week. Personally, I can't recall how long the media's been prepping us up for it. Like our destiny as a country was to host these meetings or something...

In any case, as is local tradition, or perhaps lack of creativity, which incidentally IS a local tradition, we have had a looooong campaign (we do love them, don't we? Remember our courtesy campaigns? Singa the Lion?) Anyway, this time, the campaign is called GEMS, a pretty acronym for the disappointingly boring... wait for it... Going the Extra Mile for Service. Chrikey. Yes, I had the same furrowed brow when I first heard it. I suspect they came up with the acronym first....

So anyhow, we have had TV programmes, the most memorable of which was a reality show in the style of MTV's Punk'd, in which hapless service personnel got subjected to customers from hell and were then told after their ordeals (some lasting two hours! the poor travel agent...) that they'd been, well, punk'd. This is, I am wildly guessing, supposed to illustrate what Going the Extra Mile for Service means- Putting Up with Crap. PUC. Nah, not as catchy.

On top of that, we've had a running commercial featuring wildly cheerful chambermaids and elephant trainers, sataymen who actually converse with their customers while sataying (the satay's probably on the house too!) and most disturbingly, bordering on the unnatural in fact, customs officers who actually smile.... I mean, God knows I clock enough Frequent Flyer miles, and I never knew their facial muscles could work that way.

Anyway, I didn't buy into all that bull. It just smacked of a desperation to impress. Like our parents had invited the Joneses over and were pleading with us to please please behave ourselves. Smile and say hello. Don't dig your nose, don't play I'll show you mine if you show me yours, and stop tugging at your tie like you don't wear it everyday. But mum... I don't. Heck, our cabbies were "asked" to de-accessorize their cabs.

I told my mum the reason why the IMF and WB were having their bloody meetings here at all was because they couldn't have it anywhere else in the world without attracting a picket line a mile and a half long. Imagine Suntec City swarmed. Let's take a moment. Ah, warms the cockles of one's heart, doesn't it? But no, mummy won't have that, we can't play in the garden lest we get our shinny shoes dirty and what kind of impression would THAT make, and so Suntec City is out of bounds to all but those with a pass.

I wonder if they have a dress code for citizens- like, we're not allowed to wear T-shirt and bermudas? And how do we justify all this exactly? The same way we damn well justify every infringement of civil rights these days-

You can't go this way.
Why not?
There's a terrorist in there.
Where?
In there.
Really?
(pause) Yeah.

Beware the Jabberwock, my son... Of course, the threat of terrorism is real, and the clock IS ticking to 9/11. Everyone knows something's gonna happen. Osama's a romantic too. He likes Whitney. Does anyone think he's gonna have a quiet dinner and glass of champagne? The World Bank, we're talking the organization that BANKRUPTED Argentina, that placed enough trade embargos on Africa for the continent to run up debts totally some 300 billion dollars and then offers to raise 25 billion to erase those debts (it ain't even gonna cover the interest of one year!), the WORLD BANK is gonna be at Suntec City on 9/11 and you seriously think we're gonna hang around there anyway? Seriously.

Anyway, my original grouse was with the IMF and World Bank. It was then, to say the least, mildly irritating to have our local media paint a picture of the kind of charming servitude we should endeavor to in the presence of our visitors. It was, further, disappointing to see how little faith our leaders had on our manners. But it's become downright ugly, truly and deeply, with our guys on top expressly disallowing the entry to our shores of a delegation of Civil Society Organizations who had intended to debate the IMF and World Bank. I can see how the authorities wouldn't want images of protesters taking to the streets flashed all across the world's media, but to term all dissenters "undesirable" (weekend Today, Sep 8 06), to so blatantly disrespect the right of the people to peaceful assembly?

You're undesirable when you disagree. So much for encouraging dialogue.

God knows I love my country.

But all she wants, for the next two weeks, is not to be the stage on which meaningful debate and fruitful decision making will take place. No. All she wants, like a starlet with a cameo in a big budget movie, is to preen and pose in front of the world's cameras at the movie's premiere. Look pretty, be charming, say the right lines. Maybe she's just smart enough to see the movie's a sham and she's just in for the publicity.

Anyway, that is our culture now. We hosted the 2012 Olympics Bid. We hosted the World bank meetings. Whatever it takes to be in the limelight for a few precious seconds.

Well, have your fifteen minutes of fame, Singapore, and please, stuff your GEMS where the sun don't shine.

Good news, all ye citizens of mine face! Thy friend, The Right Honourable Upper Lip, hath reduced itself from its prior bulbous state, and now bears the appearance more of lip than rotten Bratwurst sausage. Tis reason to rejoice, but nay, nay, hold thy celebrations till The Right Honourable Lip hath fully expelled its gangrene hue and regained its puckered shape and natural colour.

Oh Mirror, my Mirror, break break break mine Heart no more. Soon, I shall look upon thee and see mine self again in all mine comely resplendence! Thou hath bourne exemplary counsel, good Mirror, though thou breaketh mine heart, for thou showed me first what I loathed and could not bear, hated, and made me learn, that Great Truths, Mirror!, begin as Blasphemies! With thee, I hath seen whither I be properly attired; with thee as history, I hath come to know mine limitations; with thee as friend, I have knoweth if I be right or wrong. I hath no soul if there be no Mirror, my Friend!

Thee who would be Artists, seek nothing but the Truth. That is to say, thou must, at least once in thy life Doubt, as far as possible, all things, for Truth is the cry of Many but the game of Few. Seek not Beauty, my friends, for the Truth is not beautiful, it stands on cloven hooves, it is covered in coagulated blood, but it is Truth.

Beauty, if thou must have It, must be truth, merciless and unforgiving. Keats. He writes, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on Earth and all ye need to know." Let that accuteness be thine principle. Above all, see with thine own eyes where thou placest thy mirror. Put it not in flattering darkness, for it takes not the intellect of a moderate-sized rabbit to know the day is not lit by candlelight.

What is truth, said Pilate, but would not stay for answer.

The misery began properly on Sunday morning when I noticed a tiny pimple close to my upper lip. By Tuesday morn, it had extended its perimeters and moved onto the lip itself. As I was travelling home at the end of yesterday, I couldn't help feeling that my lip seemed to be growing more bulbous by the minute. I swear I could FEEL it filling with pus. Anyway, I woke up this morning at seven to get ready for another meaningless day at school. Went to the bathroom, opened my mouth to brush my teeth and then I realized my lip was in the way. I looked in the mirror and remembered Bruce Springsteen.

.....I was bruised and battered,
Couldn't see my own face...
Saw my reflection in the mirror,
didn't know my own face,
I was unrecognizable to myself.....

So, I am exaggerating, obviously, but the "pimple" had annexed my entire upper lip in the night (raping and pillaging as it conquered) and I looked like I'd been involved in some late-night bar brawl. But that was only the beginning of what would unfurl itself slowly (painfully slowly) into one of the most wretched days of my life. Naturally, I decided not to go to school. First of all, the lip hurt. Second of all, I looked like a hippo.

So I called an old friend, a teacher who was having a week-long break, and asked if she would accompany me to the polyclinic. She agreed, but by noon she'd wriggled herself out of it, and I was left to make my own way to the doctor's. Mumbled as best I could "doctor" to the lady at the reception, to which her reply was "IC". Handed it over, got a number, and waited. For an hour. Read chapters 3 and 4 of David Lendes' The Wealth and Poverty of Nations.

Finally, in 1492, just as Columbus was recommending that native Americans should have their noses cut off for stealing, I finally got to see the doctor. He was young and short and his diagnosis was swift.

"You have an abscess."

He looked suitably disgusted, like I'd obviously gotten it from inappropriate relations with morally dubious women and that he'd found me out. I half expected him to threaten to call my wife and tell her. Fortunately I am not married.

So anyway, he wrote me a referral hastily, then I waited half an hour for a clerk to put an official stamp on it, before finally making my way to the National University Hospital. I arrived at three in the afternoon. I left at seven (thankfully on the same day). In between, I waited. Waited to register. Read a chapter of my book. Then waited to see a doctor. Two chapters. Saw a doctor. Then got referred to Dental. Waited for the dentist. Another chapter. Trainee-dentist appeared, took a look at the bulbous lip and promptly disappeared for what seemed the length of a bible. An hour to be exact. I didn't dare read for fear of appearing bored... bearing in mind she could cause me severe pain.

When she finally re-emerged from the Twilight Zone, she told me, without hint of apology that she had to consult her advisor before making any decision and unfortunately, as it was already seven, her advisor had retired for the day. All of which made me wonder why SHE had been paged at six and not her damn advisor.

Let us re-evaluate. I arrived at Accident & Emergency at 3, was seen at 6, and waited till 7 to be told to come back tomorrow. If I'd been, say, shot, or maybe had a collapsed lung, by the time they got to me, I might as well have gone to the morgue in the first place and put a tag on my own toe.

So anyway, for today's 'consultation', I had to fork out 70 dollars. SEVENTY BLOODY DOLLARS for walking in, telling the doctor in residence I had an abscess (mind, she didn't even have to diagnose me), waiting while some trainee dentist looked for her M-I-A advisor... and then being told to come back at nine the next day? What exactly was I paying for? Rental of space to read my book?

It's almost nine now. At the start of the day, I had a puffed up lip. At the end of it, I still have a puffed up lip, only now I know it's called an abscess, not a pimple, it hurts more and I am short by 70 bucks. Brilliant day. Truly.

Now. Excuse me while I shoot myself.

New York- When Andre Agassi, age 36, played the world number 8 Marcos Baghdatis, a fiery Cypriot 15 years his junior, it was widely regarded by many as a farewell party on one of tennis' biggest stages for the elder statesman of tennis. Looking across the net at Arthur Ashe stadium, Agassi might have thought he was staring into a time-warp and looking at himself some 21 years ago when he first entered the sport he hated first and learned to love. Baghdatis, like the young Agassi had been, was flamboyant, animated and had a pony-tail in tow; what's more, he was armed with the kind of explosive baseline game that Agassi had pioneered in the early 1990s. It was meant to be a symbolic passing of the torch.

No one was betting against Baghdatis. He was, after all, younger, faster and stronger. Many felt the veteran American should have hung up his rackets for good after the US Open last year when he became the oldest finalist at the tournament since Ken Rosewall some 20 years ago. His quarterfinal win over James Blake was hailed as an instant classic, and there was certainly no shame in losing in a Grand Slam final to Roger Federer, a man many regard as the greatest player to have ever wielded a tennis racket. Hell, he even took a set off the great Swiss maestro.

But Agassi did not retire at the end of last year. Many wondered why, myself included. The man had nothing left to prove. He'd won every major title there was to win; indeed he's only the fifth man ever to do so, and that party does not include his greatest rival Pete Sampras. He holds the record for the most Masters titles won. He'd lived two lifetimes in tennis and reached the number one ranking in both. He'd played every role there was to play in the sport- and invented a few of his own- the precocious teenager, the attention-seeking underachiever, the self-loathing rock star, the fallen angel, the comeback king, the zen master, the veteran, the institution. You name it, he'd played it.

He had climbed every mountain in his path and the ones ahead were clearly beyond him. He was still a fixture in the world's top 10, even reclaiming the top spot briefly in 2003, becoming the oldest man to do so, but he was clearly no longer the man to beat. That man was Federer. He wasn't even the top American anymore- that was Andy Roddick and is now James Blake. He could still bring sparks of vintage Agassi onto the court from time to time, he still made the latter stages of the tournaments he played in, but it was clear he could no longer beat the players who mattered. So after his improbable run to the final of the US Open, it seemed an opportune moment for the great man to blow his last kisses.

Ten, twenty years from now, if the sport is still played, and I hope it is, people will say Agassi should have stopped in 2005. And I am sure he would agree as well. Athletes often stay on for too long. Perhaps he thought he could last another year, maybe make another run for one more major title, take another stab at glory. Afterall, Sampras himself had suffered two barren years between his 13th major and his 14th and last. But it wasn't to be. His was a bruised and battered body, bearing scars 21 years old. That's older than some of his opponents have lived. He hardly stepped onto a tennis court this year due to a chronic back injury and in his sporadic appearances at tournaments, he never lasted more than two rounds. Finally, he announced at Wimbledon, where he'd won his first major in 1992, that he would retire after the US Open.

The American hardcourt swing between Wimbledon and the US Open was supposed to be his farewell tour. But he crashed out early in Toronto and was then forced out of Washington and Cincinnati because of his back. He hobbled into the US Open a shadow of his former self, ranked 39th in the world, his lowest ranking in 9 years and unseeded for the first time since 1998. He survived a tough five-setter in the opening round- his reward was a meeting with Baghdatis. ESPN was already writing his orbituary. But Andre Agassi is a worker of miracles on a tennis court- witness his come from behind wins at the French Open in 1999, his 3 Australian Open titles after he turned 30, his win over Blake last year, and on Friday 1st September 2006, he worked what would be his last miracle on court.

In a fierce battle from the baseline, the 36 year old traded blows with his 21 year old opponent, went two sets up, then lost the next two. In the final set, Baghdatis appeared to have finally conquered the American, leading 4-0. But Agassi stubbornly refused to bow, clawing his way back to 5-5, and then it was the Cypriot who broke. Suffering cramps in his thighs, the youngster patted the old lion on the heart as they shook hands at the net.

It seemed the hardest part was over. Everyone was looking forward to a potential 4th round clash against Andy Roddick. The question seemed less to be whether Agassi would make it there than whether Roddick, whose form has been topsy-turvy all year, would. Agassi was the clear favorite against his 3rd round opponent, Benjamin Becker (no relation to Boris), an unknown qualifier from Germany ranked 112th in the world. Roddick kept his end of the bargain, struggling past Spaniard Fernando Verdasco in 5. Agassi then took to the court last evening to face Becker, who was clearly pumped to be facing his childhood idol. He cracked 27 aces against Agassi and hit 82 winners. The only thing Agassi was pumped with was pain-killers.

After pulling off a major upset in the previous round, the veteran American now found himself the victim of another, and after 1144 pro matches, 60 titles and 21 consecutive US Opens, the curtains finally fell on Andre Agassi's tennis career, 7-5 6-7 6-4 7-5. Last year, he had managed to wrest a set off the world number one while losing at the US Open. This year, he managed one off the world number 112. The last of the Golden Americans wiped away tears as he sat in his courtside chair and then he walked, for the final time, to the center of the court to blow kisses to the four corners of the stadium, a personal ritual after every match, win or lose.

From L to R: Agassi on his way to his first Miami Masters title in 1990 and to his sixth in 2003. (bbc.co.uk)

Since I spent the greater part of today writing my dumbass English assignment and a "short paragraph" on meritocracy for my Art Education module (actually, in truth, I spent the greater part of today in bed...), I shall be lazy and post the shorter of the two pieces as today's post...

E-hmmm. Ladies and gents, meritocracy in Singapore.... (read and forget. don't sabo and get me sued by Lee and co...)

In a speech delivered in 1999 at the Chinese High School, then Minister of Education RADM (NS) Teo Chee Hean analogizes the implementation in 1980 of streaming into local schools to an introduction of “three set menus” in a restaurant that allowed students to decide “what they wanted to eat, how much to eat, and how fast they took to finish their meal”. He announced that the next logical step for the government was to develop an “a la carte menu”, where students could “choose freely the food they like and the quantity they want”. It is his following line, however, that is telling- “but they can only choose from the menu”, he says, making one wonder immediately who would decide what would be in that menu, as significantly what would not, and what kind of restaurant the minister was talking about- continental? Western? Fast food?

“Every Singaporean matters”, said the Minister in his speech. He was of course echoing the first of the well-known 5 pillars of Singapore 21, which as he notes, is the “collective vision of Singaporeans” as they charge headlong into the new century. And yet the sentence, as a sentence, begs the response, “to whom”? This is the question we are looking at when we consider what meritocracy is and how it is practiced in Singapore. In theory, a meritocracy is a society in which people are valued on the basis of their ability. It does not matter if you come from a rich family or a poor one, if you were educated at an Ivy League university or in a local polytechnic. What matters are your personal and professional ability, and your drive to succeed.

It seems reasonable and generally agreeable that no one should be advantaged or disadvantaged by natural fortune or social circumstances. We are free then to advance our interests without fear of prejudice because of our race, religion or place in society. One might question the phrase “place in society”. How can one speak of that when meritocracy presupposes that we are all playing on the same level field? Make no mistake. There are still quarterbacks and reserves in this game. A meritocracy, one must bear in mind, equates not to a “classless society”. If anything, it perpetuates and one could argue even accentuates the same type of class system that has been in place since one man discovered he had a dollar more than his neighbor. Only now, the classes are not divided into “rich” and “poor”, but “able” and “unable”. The ladder has not been removed. Only more rungs have been added to help the short climbers.

We may be free to advance our interests in a meritocracy, but it is imperative to bear in mind, we can still “only choose from the menu”. We are thus allowed to practice our freedom of choice within a selection of choices. Likewise, your place in society may lie truly in your ability, but even before that, you must be sure your ability has a place in the society’s menu. And if it has, is it a main course, or a side dish? This problem, which lies at the heart of meritocracy, is a classically utilitarian one. “The major institutions of society”, writes John Stuart Mill famously, “are rightly ordered and therefore just, when its major institutions are arranged so as to achieve the greatest net balance of satisfaction summed over all the individuals belonging to it”.

A person may act then to achieve his own greatest good, to advance his rational ends as far as possible, utilizing what skills he has or can acquire. The utilitarian asks, why should not then a society act on precisely the same principle, advance itself with the tools it has at hand- its citizenry? Thus, that which is rational for one man, he believes, must be right for an association of men. My problem with this theory, and it is one that is shared by others, is that in a Utilitarian system, what is good is defined independently from what is right, and what is right is then defined as that which maximizes what is good. At no point is it ever suggested that what may be good for one person might not be so to another. Meritocracy, likewise, utilitarian at its heart, factors judgment into two classes- the good of all (characterized by necessity from changing socio-economic needs) and the right of each (which must maximize the former).

How are we to decide to decide what is good for all, then? The two basic truths of the matter are that first of all, we don’t decide- our governments do, and if we are lucky, they do so on our behalf, and second of all, what is good is based only on broad general agreements, principles chosen and accepted under existing social-economic circumstances. As circumstances change, or are simply presented in different ways, correspondingly, different principles are accepted. “Fixed” points are liable to revision by examination of the conditions (needs) and therefore the equilibrium on the menu is never wholly stable.

In his speech, RADM Teo speaks of implementing a process of mass-customization in our education system. The individual is thus free within constraints. We seek to create in our meritocracy the perfectly rational individual who identifies with the desires of the greater population as if those desires were his own. In this way, he ascertains the intensity of these desires and assigns them the appropriate weight in one single system of desire and satisfaction. And of course, if we all desire the same thing, which we do because our individuality is lost when we are conflated into one person, give and take a little room for maneuver, we work within the menu we have been given (for the advancement of our good) to better ourselves within that system of desires as though no other existed, not because we are told they do not exist (our government does not lie), but because we are not told they do.

It is not necessarily a pleasant picture I have drawn, but meritocracy, noble at first sight, is at its core, an efficient, and one must admit, a ruthless method for a society to advance itself. The nature of the decisions made by our government is not materially different from that of an entrepreneur deciding how to maximize his profit by producing this or that commodity over another. The danger for the individual is that though his ability in his field may never be in question, the position of his field and thus of himself in society, in the network of commodities- as Heidi Klum puts it best- one day you’re in, the next you’re out- is a highly volatile one, and his lesser losses may easily be sacrificed for the greater gain of many.

And if you suffered through all that, some gentle relief for the eyes now....