Little Soldiers

by Lenora Chu

  “Watch!” Rainey exclaimed, stabbing a stem with a fork. He placed it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and met my stare triumphantly.

  “Who taught you to do that?” I asked.

  “No one,” he said, reaching for another piece. “Just me.”

  Rainey relished the moment. Sometimes a kid must do things that he dislikes but that are good for him, and he enjoyed demonstrating his grasp of this concept.

  “We’ll tell Daddy,” Rainey told me, plant matter moving down his esophagus.

  Meanwhile, as Americans were rolling through a rebellion against testing—a New York teacher had likened the latest national education standards to child abuse—the Chinese school system was already preparing Rainey for an academic life. Now nearly five years old, Rainey had begun teaching his baby brother Mandarin—Landon was born two years into our time in China—two small heads huddled over a picture book, naming animals.

  Only when I journeyed back to America did I glimpse the potential payoff of our education in China. As school had come to a close the previous year, Rainey had also begun to rejoice in his newest accomplishments in the classroom.

  “Mom, I’m writing!” he had exclaimed proudly, showing me a worksheet he’d brought home from class entitled “Using the Telephone.” Rainey had scrawled numbers in tentative, halting script. The “1” had been retraced several times, the stem of the “4” had been etched before the crook, and no line was straight, but there it was: my little boy writing numbers all the way up to 9. At the top of the paper, the teacher had drawn a fat star in bright red marker.

  This development would likely trouble most American and European child development experts. Three and four years old would be considered too early to write, and a teacher’s red star might also draw ire. Red pen is “like shouting,” wrote several academics out of a University of Colorado study, and can “upset students and weaken teacher-student relations and perhaps learning.” Western researchers suggested teachers use a pen of a neutral color. I’m certain Teacher Chen would snicker at the idea of American universities spending time and money researching the emotional effects of a teacher’s pen color; personally, I was thrilled that my child—who still wore Pampers at night—was etching out numbers and earning star marks, in flaming red.

  That’s not to say Rob and I didn’t have concerns.

  Close friends in Los Angeles had placed their toddler in a school that bills itself as “humanistic, experiential, play-based . . . while [supporting children] with the deepest respect for their dignity and self-worth.” At the school, aptly called Play Mountain Place, children design their own curriculum, and there are no grades, punishments, or rewards. Children may skip lunch if they want, or wear diapers until they’re six (no potty training required!)—the choice is theirs. Even in the primary school years, Play Mountain Place students aren’t required to learn to read or write or do arithmetic. Teachers treat children like adults capable of making their own decisions, though certainly, chaos sometimes rules. “Imagine Lord of the Flies,” our friends Jen and Kevin told us. “But the school’s philosophy is that academic success is only one way to be a human being, and that children should develop in their own skin, at their own pace.”

  It’s fair to say that when I thought about Play Mountain Place, when I wasn’t chuckling at the school’s audacity, I was paralyzed with insecurity about my decisions for Rainey. The school was an extreme choice by any measure, but still, I wondered whether it might pump out confident, natural leaders who could independently direct playdates as well as their own academic pursuits. Conversely, would the Chinese way only produce mathematics mega-nerds who would ultimately end up—gulp—working for the adult versions of those Play Mountain Place kids?

  The reality would never be so black and white, but my fears were always glaring and stark.

  So, I concocted a master plan to offset what I considered deficiencies in Rainey’s Chinese schooling, and home would be our domain. Safety was nonnegotiable, as it is for the Chinese, but for almost everything else, Rob and I encouraged our son to decide for himself. We populated his room with markers and art supplies, and infused his environment with choice. Rainey could make decisions such as what he’d wear, what books he’d read, and what sports he’d play. Musical instruments were strictly optional. On low-pollution days, we headed to the soccer field or the tennis courts and spent hours kicking a ball or rallying over the net. The Shanghai government had also put muscle behind developing a thriving cultural scene, and to expose our kids to art, we began frequenting some of the city’s museums, which were beginning to bring in international exhibitions. We also pursued activities that had no purpose other than leisure, such as fishing, which is purely inefficient from the Chinese point of view. “Why don’t you just buy fish at the market?” a Chinese acquaintance once asked me.

  Plan in place, we readied ourselves for another year of Chinese school.

  On the first day of school of the new Middle Class year, Rainey bounded out our front door.

  “Let’s go, Mom!” Rainey squealed, as we rode the elevators down to street level.

  Rainey dived headfirst into the mayhem of the streets, skipping a few steps ahead of me. “Slow down!” I yelled after him.

  The street vendors were out. A weathered man from Xinjiang balanced a bamboo rod across his shoulders, a basket of cherries on one end and a platter of purplish shanya fruit on the other. If he walked straight, rod and all, he’d clear an eight-foot-wide section of sidewalk. Instead, he sidestepped gingerly, winding through the sidewalk crowd until he found a place to stop and display his wares. Bicycles and electric scooters weaved in and out of a glut of vehicles, which had slowed the pace of traffic on the street to that of a parking lot. Vehicle exhaust drifted into my nose.

  Rainey continued to bound ahead of me, past the bustling hospital and eventually into the alleyway that led to Soong Qing Ling. We passed a pigeon vendor and his squawking birds, and entered a maze of shikumen lane homes with laundry flapping from windows. Down this alley, a little vegetable market was under way, with wizened vendors unfolding canvas tarps on the pavement. The tarps cradled heads of white cabbage, green bok choy, garlic, chives, and plump orange carrots.

  “How do you sell these?” a customer asked, tapping a fat, cream-colored daikon.

  “Twelve kuai a kilogram!”

  Strolling through a Chinese neighborhood accosted all the senses.

  I was glad to be back, and so was Rainey. Yet, as we approached the familiar iron gates of the school, Rainey suddenly slowed, as if anticipating the transition from an American summer to the Chinese schoolroom would be jarring.

  “Wait, Mom, wait,” Rainey said, slowing. “I don’t want to go. The teachers are going to say that they’re going to call Mommy if I’m bad, but then they don’t call.”

  I caught up alongside him. “Honey, you have a new teacher this year, and new classmates. Let’s see how the day goes, shall we?”

  The first month at Soong Qing Ling, a new element of order emerged in the morning routine: Blaring Bullhorn at the entrance gate. Principal Two had begun standing just inside the gate, holding a loudspeaker larger than her head, and she took to screaming at parents and children as if they were cattle about to miss the closing gate.

  “Don’t be late, don’t be late,” she blared, as parents and grandparents scurried. “We will close the doors at nine a.m. If you are late you won’t be able to come into school.”

  We were called out the second morning, even though I’d tried to keep my head down as I entered the gates.

  “Rainey, it’s 9:02 a.m.,” Blaring Bullhorn pronounced, as my little boy’s name echoed across Big Green. “If you’re late tomorrow, you cannot come into school.”

  “Buhaoyisi—we are very embarrassed,” I told Principal Two’s bullhorn, since I couldn’t see her face. I nearly kowtowed. Rainey shrank against my legs, and we scampered up to the classrooms.

  From the outside, Soong Qing Ling’s discipline wa
s as fierce as ever.

  Inside, we would discover, things were changing.

  * * *

  “We are trying to adopt some Western ways.”

  Rainey’s Teacher Chen had uttered these words during our parent-teacher conference the previous year, offering her defense as I’d inquired about threat making in the classroom.

  As I stared at Rainey’s new master teacher for the Middle Class year, the context for that comment began to materialize. “Affection in education is important,” Teacher Song told a group of parents in a fourth-floor conference room.

  “Adults should learn to express their love for children, so they become loving people full of affection,” Teacher Song told us, from her perch at the front of a rectangular table carved of rosewood. Ballerina slender, she had black hair that shone sapphire-blue, and a mole on her chin that seemed to dance as she talked. Where last year’s Teacher Chen had dark teeth that seemed ominous, Song had only gleaming bright whites, which I noticed because she liked to smile. Already, this was an immediate sea change from last year.

  “We don’t force young children to do exercises,” Song continued. “Rather, we incorporate learning naturally into our daily activities. We learn the basics gradually.”

  Was I hearing correctly? Who was this person, and how long would she last at Soong Qing Ling with such radical ideas?

  “Painting is not about strictly following the teacher’s example,” Song continued. “We expect the children to find a way to express themselves through signs, lines, and shapes. We teach basic painting methods, and leave a lot of latitude for them to explore.”’

  I found myself nodding, but Song offered counsel for parents who might find this kind of exploration unruly or even offensive. “We shouldn’t judge a picture by whether it looks similar to a model,” she told us. “Don’t tell your children ‘Your painting is so ugly.’ Just encourage and compliment the kids—they will perform better when they have confidence.”

  It was a classic argument for self-esteem.

  Song even had decidedly un-Chinese advice about prepping for an academic career. “Don’t jam knowledge down your children’s throats,” she said. “Middle Class children need a little bit of pressure but not too much.”

  I glanced around the table. Some parents nodded, while others wore faces of doubt. I took a closer look at the skeptics. Sitting at this rosewood shrine to education was a mom who’d worked with her child to memorize one thousand Chinese characters over the summer. Others had commenced piano and flute lessons for their kids. One parent had snapped a picture of his son’s cram school math exercises and sent out proof of the boy’s diligence over the WeChat parent group.

  Song had words for this kind of parenting. “My daughter is in the fourth grade now, and I never taught her anything when she was in kindergarten,” she said. “Let your children enjoy their childhood.” She made sure to scorn the top-scoring child in her daughter’s class as an over-tutored and highly scheduled kid. “A kid like this will burn out before he enters the workforce,” Song told us.

  Frankly, Song sounded a bit like a teacher from Brooklyn or Los Angeles, pushing a progressive education and urging us to opt out of the toddler rat race. I was encouraged by her words, but wondered whether her philosophy would translate to action in the classroom. Time would tell.

  Song concluded our meeting with some distinctly Chinese goals, which had to do with eating.

  Children would train their “chopstick muscles” in class this year, she said. They’d learn to debone butterfish and peel the shells off shrimp without assistance. And, as always, the pace of eating is important, Sun said, because “winter is coming.”

  “Food cools very fast in winter, so we’ve started training. Lunch must be finished in thirty minutes or less; otherwise it gets too cold,” Song explained. At this, I laughed. The Chinese have strict rules about the temperature of anything they swallow, and they felt strongly enough to incorporate guidelines into the educational curriculum. Food must be eaten hot to maximize digestion and absorption, water is never to be drunk cold, and stir-fry foods are to be chased by hot tea or warm water to melt the oils in the tummy. (Order a beer at a restaurant in China, and the waitress will ask you whether you want it warm.)

  Overall, much of Song’s approach sounded like second nature to me, things I might do as a matter of instinct: Talk with kids about topics that interest them. Listen patiently. Read books together. Encourage children to work independently, and enhance their self-esteem and confidence.

  This was entirely contrary to what I’d experienced so far in Chinese education.

  * * *

  What explained Teacher Song?

  A Shanghai kindergarten principal offered a clue one morning. I’d requested an interview to talk about trends in education, and in response she handed me an official-looking booklet. Issued in the 2000s by the Ministry of Education, it was titled Guideline of Children’s Learning and Development for 3- to 6-Year-Old Children.

  I glanced down at the book, with its white cover and orange-and-black print. I gave it the nickname White Bible, a fitting moniker, I thought, for the government’s attempt at steering early education in a kinder, gentler direction.

  “This is a very important book,” the woman had told me, patting White Bible’s cover. “All kindergartens in China must abide by this. It says that everything should be based on children’s natural rate of development.” Intrigued, I flipped through the booklet to find dozens of proclamations, all designed to protect the sanctity and individuality of the Chinese child.

  “Every child will progress at different rates,” White Bible proclaimed. “Individual differences should be respected.” “Do not use ‘one ruler’ to measure all children.”

  In other words, I thought, don’t measure children’s height, weight, and recorder prowess and post rankings in a public corridor?

  “Maintain positive, happy emotions for children,” proclaimed White Bible.

  Meaning, don’t threaten children with police capture, as Rainey’s teachers had last year?

  “Encourage children to develop, with the courage to explore and imagine,” White Bible proclaimed.

  In other words, Little Pumpkin should be allowed to draw rain in any color he wishes?

  “Guide children through experience and hands-on learning rather than indoctrination and pursuit of knowledge,” White Bible stated.

  Meaning, don’t cram children’s heads full of facts and Chinese characters during summer test prep?

  Then this: “Allow young children to make mistakes. Do not beat them—they will be so afraid of punishment they will tell a lie.”

  I blinked and looked again. Clearly, the Chinese government felt it needed to spell this one out.

  Much of White Bible, I learned, was borrowed straight from the West, and it was required reading for kindergarten educators throughout China. With the help of UNICEF (United Nations Children’s Fund), Chinese researchers had consulted early childhood development guides from thirteen countries, including the United States, United Kingdom, Germany, and France, to help educators better encourage the physical, mental, and moral health of young children.

  I’d heard vaguely of attempts at system-wide reform, and when I finally delved into its specifics, I was surprised to find that China was looking to the West for lessons about nurturing the whole child, just as we’d been looking with envy at their academic achievers. In fact, China has been trying to make its school system friendlier and more welcoming for children of all ages, from the youngest toddlers all the way up to college students, and this effort had begun decades ago.

  White Bible was just the latest aimed at kindergarten reform. Clearly, some educators took to its directives like second nature, while others—like Pumpkin’s teachers—were battling long-held attitudes and behaviors, which kept their classrooms traditional and their approach authoritarian. I could name violations I’d seen or heard about, which infringed upon nearly every one of the book’s te
nets. Yet this booklet was evidence that, at least philosophically, China was trying to move in a friendlier direction in educating its children.

  “There is nothing that should remain unchanged when it comes to reform of our educational institutions,” Ministry of Education official Wang Feng told me during an education conference in Beijing.

  What had instigated this kind of effort?

  * * *

  In 2004, Ma Jiajue got very angry, and what happened next made him famous.

  Ma was a scholarship student at Yunnan University, described by his family as studious and shy. He’d run away from home once during high school because he was afraid he’d fail the gaokao, but soon enough he came back around. These were fears familiar to any Chinese grade-schooler, and for the most part, Ma Jiajue was unremarkable in nearly every way.

  Until the day a handful of college classmates accused him of cheating in a card game.

  At that, Ma took a knife and promptly killed his accusers—four students, including his roommate—and stuffed their bodies into dormitory closets. Then he went on the run. “Student Killer an Introvert Who Finally Cracks,” proclaimed China Daily. A nationwide manhunt ensued, and Ma was finally arrested in Sanya after twenty-one days.

  Another famous case of social malfeasance came when a Tsinghua University student tossed sulfuric acid in the faces of several bears at the Beijing Zoo. One bear was blinded, the others injured. More recently, a handful of universities have documented cases of students poisoning classmates, sometimes resulting in death or paralysis. One incident involved the 2013 death of a student named Huang Yang, after his roommate laced the dormitory water cooler with toxins.

  These events typically prompted a national soul-searching about education in China. Why would Ma Jiajue kill his classmates for a mere insult? What about his life had turned him a sociopath? Why would a student at one of China’s top universities treat bears at a zoo so inhumanely? Why would a student poison his roommate?

  These were extreme incidents, yes, but state bureaucrats and educators seized on them to continue an impassioned plea for change. “These events are a shortcoming of our education. It is our wake-up call—we can’t focus only on students’ academic development—we must also cultivate healthy personalities and good emotional competence,” said Wei Yu, vice minister of education for nearly a decade. “Our education lays emphasis on competition and individual success. Chinese students are clever and hardworking but lack the spirit of sharing and cooperation,” said a professor during an interview for People’s Daily online.