Country Driving [111]
The single disappointment was pizza. For some reason, pizza was one of the first words covered in Wei Jia’s English class at school. His first-grade textbook featured a lesson that described children going to eat pizza with a monkey named Mocky. Why pizza? Why a monkey? Why the name Mocky? But these weren’t questions that concerned Wei Jia, and all year he had talked about trying pizza. In Beijing, we met Mimi at Pizza Hut, and the boy finally got his wish—and then he discovered another new word: cheese. In the Chinese countryside nobody eats that stuff; the boy wrinkled his face and spat it out. He scraped it off and ate the crust. Over the years, the Beijing visits became our summer ritual, and we rode endless cabs and revisited the amusement park. But we never ate pizza again—as far as Wei Jia was concerned, that was monkey food.
WEI JIA’S INITIAL EXPERIENCES with education could hardly have been less auspicious. He missed almost all of kindergarten because of illness, and the following year his first parent-teacher conference turned into an inquisition. The other targets of that meeting all continued to struggle: Li Xiaomei, the bed-wetter, flunked first grade, and the bully named Zhang Yan met his Waterloo the following year, when he was required to repeat the second grade. But Wei Jia sailed on—in fact, he did much better than that. Never again was his father shamed at a conference, and by the end of first grade the boy had the highest math scores in his class. In virtually all subjects he was near the top.
Every semester he brought home his report card, which began with a twenty-item list entitled “Elementary School Rules of Daily Behavior.” The first rule was, “Be interested in national events, respect the national flag, respect the national emblem, know how to sing the national anthem.” Rule two: “Cherish the honor of the group and be a responsible member of the group.” Rule three involved good posture. It wasn’t until five that a regulation touched briefly on academics, and then rule six instructed students to “diligently perform your eye exercises.” Rule ten echoed Polonius: “If you borrow something, return it, and if you damage something, offer to pay compensation.” Pupils were reminded to trim their nails and bathe regularly. Spitting was banned. No playing with fire. No playing on public roads or railways. Stay away from wharves and docks. Avoid electric shocks. Don’t drown. Respect the elderly. On public buses, give your seat to pregnant women. Do your part to protect cultural relics. Cherish the fruits of physical labor. Stay away from “feudal and superstitious activities.” Don’t be noisy. No dangerous games. In the entire list, only one item was directly academic. The word bu—“do not”—was used twenty-eight times.
The report cards were over thirty pages long, and evaluations ranged from academics to physical fitness to behavior. One page was entitled “Psychological Health.” (In second grade, Wei Jia was analyzed to be optimistic, in control of himself, and “capable of adapting to the environment.”) Most grades were given by the teacher, but parents and peers also contributed evaluations. Even Wei Jia was asked to self-evaluate. One part of the report featured unfinished faces where children drew mouths—smiley, straight, or frowning—depending on how they judged their own performance. By second grade, Wei Jia had figured out this part of the routine, and he gave himself straight smileys for “has an orderly life