School

I was born in a small town near city Wen Zhou, China. Opportunity was limited. People were expected to work in the fields or seek minimum payment jobs in the city. My mother was the exception. She, dropped out of middle school in order to support her family, started a successful door knob manufacturing business when I was three years old. By the time I reach eight years old I was rebellious. I was fascinated with the city life and envied those that who attended elementary school in the city —their parents would bring them to KFC. I begged my mother to let me go to school in the city and promised her I would behave. She finally succumbed, “promise me you will study hard.” It was my mother’s determination to provide the best learning environment for me that I entered the most prestigious elementary school in the city at the age of eight.

Public school was not established in China and attending private elementary school was only for the kids from the city. Families in towns could not live with the financial burden of registration fees for the school and buying an apartment near the school in order to be considered a resident in the city. Nevertheless, my mother registered me for the school, proving herself that she could give me the best education possible.

I was lucky; my mother bribed the teacher in charge of registration so that I would be picked to be in the honor class. Everyone else from the class came from either wealthy family or parents with important government jobs. I didn’t feel I was different from others in the class once school started. I spoke fluent Mandarin and just like others I was Chinese. That sense of confidence evaporated on the first Chinese language writing quiz. I got the worst grade possible.

My mother always used to pick me up at school every Friday, and that day will always be a part of my memory in China. “Your son is not good enough for this class. I don’t know how he can survive,” the teacher told my mother in a contemptible manner. I immediately captured the embarrassment on my mother’s face. I felt ashamed.

My mother didn’t blame me for my incompetence in writing. “Just do better next time,” she said to me. I thought to myself that I would never let any teacher to have a reason to look down on my mother because of me. It was that day that I began to take learning seriously. I saw academic success not as personal achievement, rather a way to make my mother proud of me.