In my composition class at Sichuan University, in the southwestern assignment was a personal essay. I gave some prompts in case students had trouble coming up with topics. One suggestion was to describe an incident in which the writer had felt excluded from a group. Another was to tell how he or she had responded when some endeavor went unexpectedly wrong. For the third prompt, I wrote: Have you ever been involved in a situation that was extremely threatening, or dangerous, or somehow dramatic? Tell the story, along with what you learned.
It was September, 2019, and the class consisted of engineering majors who were in their first month at university. Like virtually all Chinese undergraduates, they had been admitted solely on the basis of scores on the gaokao, the national college-entrance examination. The gaokao is notorious for pressure, and most of my students chose to write about some aspect of their highschool experience. One girl described a cruel math instructor: "He is the person whose office you enter happily and exit with pain and inferiority." Edith, a student from northern Sichuan Province, wrote about feeling excluded from her graduation banquet, because her father and his male work colleagues hijacked the event by giving long-winded speeches that praised one another. "That's what I hate, being hypocritical as some adults," she wrote.
Few students chose the third prompt. Some remarked that nothing dangerous or dramatic had ever happened, because they had spent so much of their short lives studying. But one boy, whom I'll call Vincent, submitted an essay titled "A Day Trip to the Police Station."
This story is from the April 08, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
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This story is from the April 08, 2024 edition of The New Yorker.
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