Author: Shengbo E
A silent yard is always strange for one to behold in an elementary school. I felt as silent as that sports field. Amid the earth-shattering music and hot air encroaching, you still feel the silence because it is a sensation that can never be denied. It was a regular weekly flag-raising ceremony. A man dragged a student by her collar for having forgotten to wear a tie for the third time. He was an average man of moderate height and a civil look. We saw his arms groping in the air near her. Overall, he kept a stern face throughout with a tinge of cruelty embedded in it. To look like a tiger executing his prey, he swore every time the girl managed to escape his reign. I deemed him more of a cat who aspires to reincarnate into a tiger, not for the prey he would thus capture, but simply for the ferocity. He was my teacher, Mr. Wu.
However, this instance is neither a shock to us nor the culmination of his action, for dragging(if the student fights) or jerking students is his fetish. I’ve had the honor of being hauled by him when he didn’t even know me. My charge was deliberately roaming the corridor while being late. Nevertheless, I was urging my companion to rush and stop the frolic. Unconsciously I was forced to utter the address of my class. He threw me nonchalantly onto the dais and reminded my teacher to educate me properly. Among the taunting laughter, my confusion gradually transformed into bitterness and poignancy. The seed of animosity was thus planted.
In 6th grade, he was enthroned to be in charge of my class. Knowing his manner, I dreaded him. He threw boxes of chalks at one of us he claimed was “ill-natured” I said he was launching missiles, for the chalks broke and traveled far. Students sitting near hid like Londoners from the bombs. He rested on the table and tore a stack of exercise books, leaving the remnants on the ground to be cleaned up by us. He interrogated someone and kicked her out of the door. He threw someone in grade one and told him to begin again. Many wept, many fought, and many just grasped the floor with toes, lest they be uprooted.
As mighty as he was, every tyrant is followed by an even mightier parliament to hold him in check. How could the middle-class patriarchs and homemakers, after hearing the affliction of their dear children, not throw an impeachment upon the oppressor? One night, the WeChat group of parents was bombarded by accusations wrapped in euphemism. Chinese people, especially middle-aged Chinese, attach so much importance to manners. They worship decency to such an extent that you can but dimly discern the reproach buried in soft, satin language. A man speaking in this tongue is honored as “rotund” because he abrases his edges and never displays acridity.
If he were a president, this would be on the news. A president who can’t even fulfill a one-year-long tenure of office. In this situation, we have but one candidate whose power exceeds that of a president. There is no constitution whatsoever to limit his decisions. He told us that we all have a file where records of our grades and punishments all go in. If we screw up, that document will be shown to our future employers. God knows how many intense confrontations this fantasized dire result spared him, how many angers digested by silent grudges and teeth-gritting! A simple lie dealt with children as strongly as a saber against the neck of a foe. In face of these vulnerable creatures, he laughed.
The gentle stricture from the parents functioned; At least Mr.Wu was thus limited to self-boasting. Knowing the boundary, he resorted to vaunting himself, which rendered him ever more abominable to me. He displayed his eminent score in the National College Entrance
Examination, 126 out of 150 in Chinese language and literature. If we should ever get a mark that remarkable, we can show it off to him, that’s what he told us. His passion being Maths, teaching us Chinese was a pure coincidence and a reluctant compromise, or, according to his joke, an act of benevolence to balance the educational resources in Shenzhen. Under his teaching methodology, my class did rank 1st in Chinese; yet of what use is the grade in elementary school? His contriving was all the repulsive for me and served no more than evoking a profound disdain.
Witnessing his withered power, I grew all the more daring. I grew into a little Robespierre. To shred his autarchy, I started with the teacher's pets—his loyal upholders, his odious apparatuses, his means of propaganda! It’s no wonder there were only three of them—they were the only ones exempt from punishments in every aspect. A couple of long texts in my blog were yet not enough to shake their foundation. Before I knew it, I was on the day leaving elementary school, with ambition and scheme suspended. I still recall, crystal clear, how I got 4th place in my class and how he deliberately mentioned the three students ahead of me. They were all teacher’s pets I failed to subvert. Perhaps at that moment, I longed for his compliments too.
I pretended to have triumphed over him and left with an insidious bitterness. My revolution seems to have come to fruition once we were out. I heard him allegedly beating his wife. His once intimidating missile launching and book tearing then evolved into mimics and caricatures. The fierce monarch lost his crown and ended up a clown.
After his contour washed away in my mind, seeing him again was reminiscent of that age soaked in sweat and innocence. As he approached, I found nowhere to hide and feigned a smile. He smiled as if recognizing me, of which I’m not sure, for he bade us never speak to him after leaving. In high school, I discovered that Shenzhen was rife with overbearing teachers. An acquaintance of mine had encountered more than 3 of those. Collar grasping, hauling, and scolding, their tools were pretty much the same. With a brief history of almost 50 years, economical take-off and stubbornness are woven together in Shenzhen. People from all the places kept their stubbornness, among them the notion a teacher is to be revered. In many households whose children are left entirely to school, this is especially true, for teachers are the only instrument they can rely on.
Shenzhen is a city for immigrants. My friend’s teacher, my classmates’ parents, and he all came here aspiring changes to the status quo. However, as the neon light grows slowly, so does their desire, so does their stature, so does their will to impose on others, and in the end, so do their silent grieves and sorrows. Until one good midnight, the unfulfilledness and vacancy seize upon their heart, and they start to regret every deal they made, every part of their soul exchanged for superiority in vain. This is what I call a hollow offer. To rule over others like others did him in this city of concrete and iron is a pleasure for which he will not mind living in bitterness that consumes him. He cracked that joke mocking our laidback town that has nothing to do with the glory of Shenzhen. For he was once our town himself. In search of a harbor where his frail psyche may be protected, he fled from his mediocre hometown and birth. In the meanwhile, he rejected that wretched self.
In retrospect, he shaped me in his likeliness. When I wished for the destruction of him and yearned slyly for his praise, hollow offers harnessed me. Till today I still dig deeply down my mind to search for the footprints produced by them. It is time for us to stand unfetteredly amid urban torrents.