A day at a halfway home for the intellectually disabled
Section: Saturday Special Report
April 12, 2008
By Radha Basu
At this hostel, students work towards graduating with social and domestic skills for the outside world
By Radha Basu
BROWS knit, Mr Phillip Wong, 29, paces up and down, deftly mopping white-tiled floors.
He tries to ignore his audience - a dozen residents of the disabled people’s home he lives in - who scrutinise his every move.
‘Hey, watch what you’re doing. There is a big black spot right there,’ someone hollers in Hokkien, laughing. ‘There, there, one more.’
Mr Wong stops, leans on the mop and implores job coach Lee Guek Meng in crisp English: ‘Can you ask them to zip their mouths? I’m working here.’
Work is a worshipped four-letter word - and viewed as the ultimate salvation - at the Touch Ubi Hostel, a transitional home for intellectually disabled adults.
Unlike most other facilities for the disabled here where residents do little more than watch TV and go through an orderly timetable of games and activities, the Ubi home is a crucible of innovation.
Its final aim is to help residents live on their own and lead productive work lives. The residents get to go home on weekends.
At the hostel in Ubi Avenue 1, the 25 residents learn to look after themselves and others, learn social graces and polish up their domestic skills, before stepping out into the wider world of employment.
When they first arrived, many were unable to do even simple chores like mopping the floor. Now, six in 10 of the home’s residents work outside - many as cleaners.
Once they have held a job for about a year, they are considered ‘graduates’ and can go back to living with their families, says the hostel’s manager Danny Loke.
But for now, this is a safe sanctuary offering help and hope.
Mr Wong’s mother, Lorna, 56, for one, is glad he is here. ‘In some other homes, people wait to die. Here, they learn how to live - and live well,’ she says.
Morning
THE hostel is run by Touch Community Services (TCS) and much of the day is structured around work and wellness.
The living quarters are designed like an HDB flat, rather than a dormitory. Residents sleep in bunk beds, four to a room.
After a quick breakfast of thick slices of buttered bread and Milo at 7.30am, the morning cleaning chores begin.
As Mr Wong sweats it out cleaning the ground-floor community room, the residents are joined by six men and women from a nearby day-activity centre run by TCS for their daily aerobics session.
At 9am, the motley crew gyrate and bob their heads as they imitate the leotard-clad blondes on an exercise video. As the tempo picks up, they jump harder, higher, faster. ‘It’s fun,’ pants Mr Suresh Reavy, 27, as he gamely tries to outjump others.
Mid-morning
AMONG the day-activity centre visitors today is Mr Wilson Tan. The 21-year-old, who has a low IQ, has wheeled a trolley laden with heavy crockery all the way from his Bedok flat, a 15-minute walk away.
‘My mother sent this for the shop,’ he says, sweating profusely.
By mid-morning, the community hall transforms into an in-house thrift mart, selling items donated by the public.
The residents lay out tables and arrange computers, TV sets, blenders, furniture, crockery, clothes, toys, books, CDs, jewellery and household ornaments.
The goods, priced from 10 cents for stationery to about $80 for a second-hand fridge, spill onto the street outside.
By noon, the aisles are clogged with shoppers, mostly foreign workers and maids, sifting for bargains.
Construction worker Nadi Mutthu (above), 23, picks up seven pieces of clothing - including jeans and a maroon shirt - for a grand total of $10.
‘Even cheaper than Chennai,’ he marvels, referring to his hometown in India.
In a back room, a group of Filipino maids preen and prattle before a full-length mirror. Oblivious to it all, Mr Wong squats on the floor, his head bowed, neatly folding clothes.
The shop floor is ideal training ground for those who hope to land jobs in the retail sector. Mr Wong is still a long way from open employment, but he has already made strides in his journey towards self-reliance.
When he arrived at the home in 2006, he was 27 but behaved like a surly, recalcitrant child. To get his mother’s attention at home, he would cut his clothes, fling household items out the window, and switch on the washing machine in the dead of night.
All that has stopped. ‘There has been a huge change - the staff are very caring and it works like a charm,’ says his property consultant mother, beaming.
Midday
AT AROUND 12.30pm, residents sit down to a lunch of rice, soup, stir-fried cabbage and eggs.
It has been cooked under supervision by a resident of over four years, Ms Tan Huiming. It is the 26-year-old’s maiden foray as chef.
But no one cuts her any slack. ‘The rice is very hard. Cannot get this down my throat,’ grumbles a plump 38-year-old resident in a faded grey T-shirt.
Ms Tan silently lifts a chunk of rice from her plate, dips it into the soup and swallows. She motions for the rest to do the same. She suffers from ‘selective mutism’, a psychological condition which means she speaks only to those she trusts.
Meal over, they get up to wash their plates as another batch arrives at the dining table. Like a rerun, the complaints begin. ‘No salt in soup,’ declares Mr Suresh.
Jumping in, Grey T-Shirt makes them back off: ‘It’s her first day, just excuse her, lah.’ Quite inexplicably, tormentor has turned protector.
Ms Tan’s nose is still buried in her half-eaten plate of rice - but a small, barely discernible smile tugs at the corners of her lips.
Mid-afternoon
AT AROUND 3 pm, special-needs teacher Wong Jim Buay arrives for her bi-weekly one-on-one sessions to help residents ‘stretch their brains’.
Today, it's Mr Suresh’s turn to play in her cerebral gymnasium. Born with a low IQ, the genial son of an odd-job worker and carpark attendant has difficulty understanding the consequences of his actions.
He went to work as a hawker centre cleaner last year, but was fired after he ran away whenever he was stressed or scolded.
Ms Wong shows him a series of flash cards and asks him to arrange them in sequence. They depict a woman filling a vase with flowers, a cat crashing into the vase and the broken vase being repaired with tape.
After arranging the cards in order, Ms Wong asks him why the vase broke. ‘The cat hit it,’ he says, chewing on his nails.
She brings up his last job, from which he frequently played truant.
‘Do you know why you were asked to leave your job?’ she asks.
‘The fat-fat lady scolded me. I would run away and shop, ’ he answers.
‘Is that the right thing to do?’ she persists.
Pause.
Finally, a soft single syllable: ‘No.’
Evening
BY 7.30PM, they all settle down with job coach Ms Lee for their weekly career guidance session. She starts by waving a newspaper clipping of the ‘growth dividends’ to be distributed later this month.
The Government is distributing Budget surpluses and all citizens will receive a piece of the pie. ‘Let me know if you get the letter and don’t understand anything,’ she says.
Gradually, the focus shifts to life at work. Mr How Hon Fai, 29, who works as an office cleaner, complains that his new boss makes him clean the lift every day.
Under the old regime, he did so only thrice a week. ‘I get tired, lah,’ he whines.
Ms Lee counters: ‘But your new boss is also giving you more money. You want that, right?’
Mr How and others in the group nod eagerly.
As evening lengthens to night, it is time for a celebration.
It is Mr Wong’s birthday (above) and his mum has sent over a coffee-flavoured cake. The residents gather around the table for a raucous rendition of Happy Birthday.
As the reticent birthday boy blows out the candles, Mr Loke shouts from the rear: ‘Phillip, quick, make a wish.‘
Mr Wong looks up and replies without a moment's hesitation: ‘I wish for a job soon.’
‘In some other homes, people wait to die. Here they learn how to live - and live well.’
MRS LORNA WONG, 56, whose son, Phillip, is learning simple tasks, such as cleaning, in order to get a job
