Country Driving [113]
But other subjects were taught without attention to analysis or creativity. When I heard Wei Jia reciting verses from the Dao De Jing, I asked him what they meant, and he didn’t have the faintest idea. In writing class, he wasn’t encouraged to tell stories or express opinions; instead he copied set phrases and idioms that are part of the Chinese literary tradition. On weekends, he sat for hours on the kang, writing the phrases over and over: “long and thin-thin,” “thick and soft-soft,” “sweet and silky-silky.” When he finally began to work on longer compositions, a typical assignment was: “Write an essay about your lamp.” (One evening I watched Wei Jia struggle with that topic. He wrote: “My lamp is very bright”—and then he stared at the blank page for half an hour.) In geography he never drew a map. Rarely was any subject personalized or contextualized; the world devolved into statistics and numbers and facts. One weekend in third grade, Wei Jia came home after a lesson about the giant carved Buddha statue in the city of Leshan. He knew all the details: Leshan is in Sichuan, the statue is exactly seventy-one meters tall, four children can sit on the big toe. I asked Wei Jia where Sichuan is located.
“Is it in China?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Sichuan is a province. Do you know what a province is?”
He had no idea. I asked him what country Lhasa is in.
“The United States.”
“Where is San Francisco?”
“China.”
His geography text included few maps, and every one was the same: a basic diagram of China. Nothing about provinces or cities, no sections about foreign countries. History lessons were narrowly aimed at proving the greatness of the Communist Party, and the revolutionaries of the past were so exalted that they seemed immortal. When I asked Wei Jia who led today’s country, he answered, “Chairman Mao.” In second grade he joined the Party’s Young Pioneers, like everybody else. The class did everything together, and the emphasis was always on their collective identity. No divisions were made with regard to ability level; there wasn’t such a thing as a reading group or a math group. If a child excelled, he learned to wait; if he lagged, he dealt with shame. Poor performances were public, and anybody who misbehaved was forced to stand in front of the class, where other kids helped the teacher point out shortcomings. Report cards always included a negative comment from some randomly selected peer.
In second grade, Wei Jia brought home a report card with a criticism from a boy named Zhao. He had written, “Wei Jia, I hope that you can improve your handwriting.” I asked Wei Jia who he had judged, and he cocked his head, thinking.
“Wang le,” he said finally. “I can’t remember.”
“Do you remember what you wrote?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Do you remember if you criticized his behavior or his schoolwork?”
“I don’t know.”
He was so deluged with negative remarks that they spilled off his back like water off a duck. None of it seemed to bother him, and like any Chinese child he became skilled at the self-criticism. He knew the right language, the correct tone, the proper pose: head down, voice soft. Certain targets were easy—the standard self-criticism is to say that you don’t work hard enough. Each semester, in the self-evaluation section of the report card, Wei Jia drew a frown across the face of physical labor.
In third grade the teacher named him Politeness Monitor. The class was full of little cadres in training: there was also a Class Monitor, a Homework Monitor, and a Hygiene Monitor. I asked Wei Jia about his responsibilities