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墨書 Inktalez
Unknowingly, the semester of the First Year of High School came to an end. The once-popular Class Three at Third Middle School found itself on a path to conclusion.
As the Sophomore year began, we discovered that our homeroom teacher had changed, the curriculum had changed, and even the class number had changed. Our beloved Teacher Zeng Jiqing faded from view, replaced by the younger Teacher Peng Songren. After a few days of interaction, Teacher Peng blended well with everyone. Although he lacked the experience and humanistic management style of Teacher Zeng, he did not create any barriers with the students. He treated us like siblings at home, without strict rules or scolding, only calm reasoning and smiles.
The curriculum changed mainly in English and Political Science. Instead of studying the 39 pages of Political Economy, we switched to Dialectical Materialism, which was somewhat obscure and difficult to understand. Many students were puzzled, and I, who had once memorized those 39 pages as a High Achiever, felt lost as well.
In English class, our cohort became the experimental subjects of curriculum reform. In First Year of High School, we learned English from scratch with ABCD as part of the so-called "reform textbooks." By Sophomore year, perhaps feeling the pressure of college entrance exams, we returned to square one and picked up the previous years' Sophomore English textbooks. The abrupt change in textbooks left me, who had always viewed English with trepidation, feeling confused; I only knew it remained as difficult as ever. Moreover, since English was taught by our new homeroom teacher, I grumbled a bit but soon pushed those thoughts aside.
The other subjects continued along a familiar path but with increased difficulty and depth that made things uncomfortable.
The change in teachers was what we found hardest to adapt to. What concerned us most was that not only did Teacher Zeng Jiqing stop being our homeroom teacher, but he also no longer taught our Chinese language class; that responsibility fell to the newly transferred Deputy Director Zhao. We were accustomed to Teacher Zeng's rustic language and his affectionate teaching style tailored to each student. We struggled with Zhao's rote teaching method. Particularly since Zhao had taught elsewhere for many years and spoke in a rather unrefined "plastic Mandarin," his enunciation was often unclear. Sometimes after an entire class, we could barely understand two-thirds of what he said. Additionally, because of him, our dear Teacher Zeng was pushed aside, which bred more resentment among us. I, a boy filled with wildness at heart, became one of the many silent rebels.
A little over a month into the school year during Chinese language class, we reached the lesson on "Cricket." Coincidentally, within Zhao's muddled accent, the fierce and combative "Crab Shell Green" struck a nerve in me—wasn't that just a homophone for our political teacher's name? Moreover, when Zhao pronounced it with his mouth shape, it indeed carried an air of authority. Immediately, I turned my body sideways and scanned around until I found my classmates Shao Jiajian and Zeng Chuanhan from the Nickname Interest Group. I kept exchanging glances with them while mimicking Zhao's accent repeatedly without realizing he had stopped teaching and was glaring at me with a pale face. After holding back for a while, he finally shouted: "If you can speak well, then you come up here! You don’t need to attend my class anymore..."
Seeing that I had provoked the teacher's anger made my face flush red; I didn’t know what to do but silently lowered my head pretending to flip through my book while anxiously enduring that class.
Surprisingly, Zhao only scolded me loudly a couple of times before continuing with his lesson without any signs of holding a grudge later on. In fact, during subsequent classes, he consciously slowed down his speaking pace and tried to use language closer to local dialects for instruction. He even pretended not to see me flipping through extracurricular books in my desk drawer out of boredom until this brief period of study came to an end.
With the conclusion of this term in Sophomore year, Class Three at Third Middle School—once glorious—had finally reached its true end after these months filled with changes akin to flags fluttering atop city walls. Of course, at the beginning of this term, the change in class numbers might have foreshadowed this ending: initially when we enrolled in this cohort, the County Education Bureau seemed intent on reforming things—not only sending a group of outstanding students capable of reaching first-tier high school scores from Second Middle School and Third Middle School but also initiating some curriculum reforms; Third Middle School followed suit by concentrating these Top Students into Class Three while renaming us according to a new numbering system instead of following past conventions.
However, just as Sophomore year began, school leaders reverted back to old practices by renumbering our five classes from 104 to 108 for continuity’s sake; Class Three was honored with number 106 for accompanying us for five months.
What truly brought Class Three to its end wasn’t merely a change in numbers but rather decades-long divisions within China’s education system known as Arts and Sciences Division: just before Sophomore semester ended, Homeroom Teacher Peng distributed a form requiring everyone to choose their preferred subject area.
In countless years that followed—whether among childhood friends or new acquaintances—whether familiar teachers or admired editors—almost everyone would say: “You must be studying liberal arts; is it Chinese or History?”
Yet my initial choice left these later arrivals astonished: “You’re actually studying science? Engineering?”
Indeed, my choice for science stemmed from two main reasons:
Firstly, it was largely influenced by family education—especially my mother’s subtle guidance. My mother graduated high school during the Cultural Revolution as part of the "Old Three Classes." Her knowledge level was comparable even to many later scholars. However, she could only live quietly in rural areas her entire life because during her waiting period for graduation she witnessed her respected teachers being criticized publicly—especially her pregnant Chinese language teacher who stood before all students wearing heavy shackles while expressing remorse; or her gentle history teacher parading through Gaosha streets wearing an oversized paper hat while banging on gongs. She feared suffering similar fates herself; thus even when opportunities arose for substitute teaching in junior high school later on she never dared seize them fully out of fear of escaping her Farmer Class background. From her experiences she drew an absurd conclusion: one should not study liberal arts since science students might still have chances for freedom while liberal arts students were inherently conservative supporters destined for criticism.
Secondly, it was also based on my own academic evaluations and judgments: throughout elementary school up until Sophomore year most subjects within this small realm could be considered excellent—but there was always one subject—English—that eluded me entirely; achieving merely average proficiency felt miraculous. Regardless if pursuing liberal arts or sciences English remained essential; under then-existing systems liberal arts required six subjects while sciences required seven—with physics chemistry and biology already studied over three semesters during high school yet history and geography courses hadn’t been offered despite my interest over three semesters weighing options led me toward compensating one weakness with six strengths rather than five.
Thus without much hesitation or contemplation I quickly solidified my decision—science it would be.
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