The class schedule on the wall

If you ask me whether China can achieve a reduction in the educational burden, I would say: at least not in the few years I have observed. It is not that I doubt the validity of official documents or the resolve of policymakers. Rather, I sit daily in that classroom, watching the timetable on the wall being repeatedly torn down, reattached, and covered with layer upon layer of transparent tape, while the plaster gradually peels away. I feel that the goal of reducing the educational burden remains distant. Yet none of this compares to the day of the “Double Reduction” policy inspection.

I. That Day

That day was a Thursday. The moment the last class ended the previous afternoon, the homeroom teacher entered, carrying a stack of papers. The students in the front row glimpsed them and looked worried. She tore down the old timetable and affixed a new one, pressing down each corner meticulously with transparent tape.

She then stood at the podium and delivered a lengthy speech. In essence, she stated that an inspection regarding the implementation of the “Double Reduction” policy would take place the next day. From that day until the following day, all students were required to follow the new timetable. She emphasized that everyone must memorize it thoroughly—particularly, she tapped twice on the blackboard, the third period on Thursday morning was designated for physical education.

A few students whispered in surprise; the third period on Thursday morning had always been reserved for English, a fact known to every student in the class. The homeroom teacher glanced at them and said, “It is physical education. Remember: physical education.”

That evening, she posted a photo of the new timetable in the class group chat, asking parents to take note and to “cooperate with the school.” My mother showed me the photo and asked, “Why do you have an extra art class on Wednesday afternoon?” I replied that I did not know. She remarked, “Wasn’t the aim of the policy to reduce the burden? Why are there more classes now?” I again replied that I did not know. She simply took a photo and said, “Fine, I’ll make a note of it.”

The next day, during the third period, the English teacher entered the classroom. We all stared at her. She placed her lesson plan on the podium and said, “We will not have English today; this period is designated for physical education.” No one dared to protest. After a brief pause, she instructed, “Put away your English textbooks and line up outside.”

We formed a queue in the corridor, descended the stairs, and headed to the playground. Mr. Ding, the physical education teacher, was already waiting, holding a whistle and appearing calm, as if the scenario had been rehearsed. He first had us run two laps, followed by several warm-up exercises, after which we were allowed free activity.

The weather was pleasant; the sunlight made everyone drowsy. Most students sat under the basketball hoop basking in the sun, while a few boys played soccer. My desk mate pulled a crumpled English test paper from his pocket and secretly worked on it behind the equipment room, glancing toward the playground entrance after every two lines. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “I don’t understand this grammar point; anyway, I’m just sitting here.”

Most surprisingly, the inspection team actually arrived. Comprising three or four individuals, they walked to the edge of the playground, stood there for a while, and exchanged a few words with Mr. Ding. Being close by, I heard one of them ask, “How many physical education classes do you have per week?” Mr. Ding replied, “Five.” I mentally calculated: in reality, we only had two. However, these two were never occupied, as physical education is tested in the high school entrance examination, and the school dare not interfere. Still, two classes per week is undeniably insufficient.

The inspection team then questioned several students. These students had been specifically retained by the homeroom teacher after school the day before—for approximately twenty minutes. Their answers were swift and uniform: “Five classes.” “Homework load is light.” “Sufficient sleep time.” “No extracurricular tutoring.” The inspection team nodded, made a few notes on their paperwork, and departed.

Approximately five minutes after they left the school premises, Mr. Ding blew his whistle: “Assemble and return to the classroom.” We sat down, some catching their breath, others drinking water. The English teacher entered, reopened her lesson plan, and said, “Good, let us make up for yesterday’s lesson.” She taught for a full one-and-a-half periods, extending the class until the next period’s bell rang. At the end of class, she remarked, “This unit will be tested next week; please keep up.”

The following morning, I glanced at the timetable on the wall—it had been replaced again. The old timetable was reaffixed, indicating English as the third period on Thursday. The traces of transparent tape remained on the wall; during removal, a small patch of plaster had peeled away, revealing the grayish-white concrete beneath. I do not know whether that patch was later repaired.

II. Our Daily Routine

The day of the inspection was, in fact, the most relaxed day of the entire semester. We ran two laps, basked in the sunlight for twenty minutes, and although we subsequently endured an exhausting make-up session, at least for a brief moment we were outdoors rather than confined to the classroom.

What does an ordinary day look like?

Students must arrive at school by 7:20 AM. Upon arrival, they engage in morning reading for twenty minutes, focusing on Chinese or English. Sometimes a teacher supervises; other times, the class representative leads the reading. After morning reading, the first class begins. There are four classes in the morning, five in the afternoon, and evening self-study sessions follow. The evening self-study consists of two periods: the first from 6:30 to 7:40 PM, and the second from 7:50 to 9:00 PM. School ends at 9:00 PM; by 9:20 PM, we arrive home, eat something, and begin homework, often working until 11:30 PM or even midnight. In our class, some students study until 1:00 AM, only to fall asleep during the next day’s lessons; upon being noticed by the teacher, they are called upon to stand and listen.

Examinations are generally scheduled for the evening. During evening self-study, quizzes or monthly exams may take place. Test papers are collected, and results are released the following day. Our class has a tradition: on the day results are announced, few students speak. Those who performed well breathe a sigh of relief, while those who did poorly slump over their desks. Although the teacher does not announce rankings, everyone knows their relative position.

Physical education classes occur only twice a week: one on Tuesday afternoon and one on Thursday morning. These classes are never occupied, as physical education is tested in the high school entrance examination, and the school dare not interfere. Yet two classes per week is indeed insufficient. Tuesday’s class is manageable; Thursday’s class is occasionally canceled due to various reasons—school activities, teachers’ emergencies, or inclement weather. Over the course of a semester, the number of fully completed physical education classes may amount to only twenty or so.

At least these classes remain untouched. A primary school classmate of mine attends another school; he told me that their physical education classes are frequently requisitioned by the mathematics teacher. I found this astonishing. Subjects tested in the high school entrance examination receive priority; those that are not tested are neglected. Because physical education is tested, it retains its two classes; music and art, lacking examination relevance, are simply eliminated. How does this constitute a reduction in the educational burden? It merely removes subjects that are not tested.

Music and art classes do exist, but typically unfold as follows: the music teacher enters and says, “Your homeroom teacher informed me she needs this period,” prompting us to take out our English test papers. Art classes are even more direct; the art teacher simply does not appear, and the class monitor reports back, “The art teacher is occupied today; everyone will engage in self-study.” Self-study, in this context, means completing homework or being summoned by a subject teacher to the office to correct errors.

In the upper-left corner of our classroom blackboard, the phrase “XX days until [exam]” is permanently displayed. This number is erased and rewritten daily by the duty student, decreasing by one each day. Sometimes I stare at it, perceiving it as a countdown, a ticking time bomb, or something pursuing us. While the teacher lectures at the front, that number hangs nearby, visible to all. No one mentions it, yet it remains there.

The five afternoon classes are tightly scheduled: Chinese in the first period, mathematics in the second, English in the third, physics in the fourth, and self-study in the fifth. This “self-study” is not genuine; rather, the mathematics teacher uses it to explain problems, or the English teacher conducts dictation. Sometimes the two teachers compete for the classroom, with the one who arrives first taking precedence. Once, both the mathematics and English teachers entered simultaneously; after a moment of hesitation, the mathematics teacher said, “You go ahead,” and the English teacher replied, “No, you proceed.” After much indecision, the mathematics teacher began teaching, leaving the English teacher with a displeased expression.

The two evening self-study periods typically involve homework in the first, and either exams or problem-solving sessions in the second. When the 9:00 PM dismissal bell rings, no one moves; the teacher continues lecturing until the final problem is solved before allowing us to leave. Sometimes this extends to 9:10 PM or 9:20 PM. By the time we exit the school gates, the streets are nearly deserted, illuminated only by streetlights and a few scattered parents.

III. The Weight of the Schoolbag

My mother purchased a rolling schoolbag for me because I could not carry a regular one. I weighed it once; on its heaviest day, it weighed 9.2 jin (approximately 4.6 kg).

What does it contain? Chinese textbooks, mathematics textbooks, English textbooks, physics textbooks, moral and rule-of-law materials, history, geography, and biology textbooks; each subject also includes a corresponding workbook, as well as folders for test papers, error logs, and class notes. Mathematics alone requires three books: textbook, workbook, and error log. English requires even more: textbook, vocabulary notebook, grammar notebook, workbook, and listening training booklet.

The textbooks themselves are not particularly heavy; what adds weight are the supplementary materials. The school advocates “one workbook per subject,” but which parent would dare to purchase only one? With so many options available in bookstores and recommended by teachers, parents inevitably buy them. Once purchased, the work must be completed; once done, the teacher corrects it; once corrected, it is reviewed; once reviewed, it is tested; once tested, rankings are established. Once the rankings are released, the parent group chat becomes abuzz with activity.

One day, my mother saw a message in the parent group chat from another parent: “Dear all, I heard that a certain bookstore offers a specialized book on advanced mathematics problems; it’s quite good. Would anyone like to participate in a group purchase?” The replies included “Yes,” “+1,” and “Count me in.” My mother also signed up. The book arrived the next day—a thick volume of over four hundred pages. I flipped through it and found not a single problem I could solve. My mother said, “It doesn’t matter; take your time. Everyone else is working on it.”

IV. Weekends and Holidays

Weekends? On Saturday, math tutoring is scheduled for the morning and English for the afternoon; on Sunday, physics tutoring takes place in the morning. These sessions were arranged by my mother, who argued, “Everyone else attends tutoring; if you do not, you will fall behind.” I have calculated that among the fifty students in my class, at least forty enroll in more than two tutoring programs. Some students attend as many as five programs, leaving their weekends more tightly scheduled than their school days.

Following the “Double Reduction” policy, tutoring shifted from in-person to online formats and transition from large-group classes to one-on-one sessions. These programs are now rebranded as “competency enhancement,” “cognitive development,” or “academic planning.” Although costs have doubled, attendance remains mandatory. My mother remarked, “Although tutoring is prohibited, the high school entrance examination still exists. If you do not attend, while others do secretly, you will be at a disadvantage.”

What about schools? Schools claim to have reduced students’ burdens by decreasing homework and examinations. However, the consequence of less homework is that teachers cover material more rapidly, as they expect students to practice independently afterward. The reduction in examinations means that rankings are no longer publicly announced; instead, teachers privately inform parents of their children’s positions. Whenever my mother receives such messages, her expression darkens. She does not scold me, but sighs—a gesture that is even more distressing than reprimand.

The situation during holidays is even worse. During the two-month summer vacation, tutoring occupies one and a half months. The remaining half-month is filled with an overwhelming amount of assignments: eight essays in Chinese, ten math worksheets, memorizing all English vocabulary, and five sets of physics problems.

During one winter vacation, I was doing homework on New Year’s Eve. Fireworks were being set off outside; my mother was making dumplings in the kitchen, and my father was watching the Spring Festival Gala. I sat at my desk, facing a math worksheet, wondering: what exactly is the feeling of celebrating the New Year? I do not know. I only remember finishing my tasks at 1 a.m. before going to sleep, and resuming work at 8 a.m. the next day.

During the winter vacation of my eighth grade, my mother enrolled me in a “winter training camp” that lasted from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., with a one-hour break for lunch. The camp was held in an office building, where thirty people were crammed into a single classroom, resulting in poor air circulation and headaches. The instructors taught at a rapid pace; when I fell behind, I secretly recorded the lessons on my phone to review later. However, once I returned home, school assignments awaited, leaving me no time to watch the recordings. By the end of the camp, I had taken over three hundred photos—none of which I ever opened.

V. Physical Education Classes

Physical education classes occur twice a week: one session on Tuesday afternoons and another on Thursday mornings. This schedule is strictly adhered to because the high school entrance examination includes a physical education component, which schools dare not disrupt. Yet, two sessions per week are insufficient.

The physical education exam is worth sixty points and is included in the total entrance examination score. In the context of the high school entrance examination, a difference of sixty points can result in a change of several hundred ranks. The test items include a 1,000-meter run for boys and an 800-meter run for girls, as well as standing long jump, shot put, and rope skipping—choices that students can make independently. I chose rope skipping for four minutes, as I am poor at running but capable at skipping. Although four minutes may seem simple, after two minutes my legs weaken, and after three minutes my arms ache; the final minute relies entirely on sheer determination.

Our physical education teacher, Mr. Ding, is in his forties and deeply tanned. He is kind and never scolds us, but he also never extends the class time. He says, “I only have two sessions per week; do not expect me to transform you into athletes. Run when you must run, jump when you must jump, and simply do your best during the exam.”

He is correct. In two sessions, students run two laps, perform a few warm-up exercises, and then engage in free activity. Sometimes he teaches techniques for standing long jump or shot put, but once instructed, there is no time for practice. By the next class, students have forgotten what was taught earlier.

My desk mate is poor at physical education; he takes 5.5 minutes to run 1,000 meters. Since this is part of the exam, he is extremely anxious. He asked his mother to enroll him in a physical education tutoring program, but she replied, “Do you really need tutoring for physical education? Can’t you just run daily?” He retorted, “Run daily? When would I have time?” His mother had no reply. Eventually, he did enroll in a training program that met early on weekends for two hours. After a month of training, he reduced his 1,000-meter time to under five minutes and was overjoyed, declaring, “I finally passed!”

However, many students do not enroll in such programs because their weekends are already fully occupied, leaving no time available. They can only practice during physical education classes, which consist of two sessions of forty-five minutes each, including time for warm-ups, instructor explanations, and free activity. The actual time dedicated to practice may be merely ten to fifteen minutes. Ten to fifteen minutes, twice a week—what can possibly be achieved in that time?

I practiced rope skipping for four minutes during physical education class. Mr. Ding taught us how to swing the rope, how to breathe, and how to manage our energy. However, once instructed, the rest depended on ourselves. Sometimes I practiced in my residential complex, but neighbors complained about the noise, so I was forced to practice at school. School offers only two physical education sessions: a brief period on Tuesday afternoon and another on Thursday morning. I performed two sets of four minutes each, totaling eight minutes per week. What can possibly be achieved in eight minutes? Nothing at all.

During one physical education class, Mr. Ding said, “Do you know why physical education is included in the high school entrance examination? Because without it, you truly would have no time to exercise.” He said this while smiling, though his smile was tinged with resignation. We also smiled, though our smiles were equally resigned.

One of my classmates is exceptionally skilled in physical education—fast running, high jumping—but his academic performance is mediocre. He expressed a desire to become an athlete through the special-talent pathway, but his mother disagreed, stating, “There is no future for athletes.” He attends physical education classes with great dedication, running faster than anyone else. Yet, after two sessions, he has nothing left to do. The remaining time, he sits on the sidelines of the playground, watching others play soccer while daydreaming.

I sometimes wonder: if there were more physical education classes, could he run longer? If he ran longer, might he come closer to realizing his dream? But there are only two sessions—just two sessions. Once the time is up, it is over.

The Thursday morning physical education class is particularly awkward. This is because the preceding class is English and the following class is math. After physical education, drenched in sweat, we return to the classroom to find the English teacher waiting at the door, holding lesson plans and urging us, “Hurry, wipe off your sweat and get ready for class.” We do not even have time to drink water before retrieving our textbooks. Sometimes, if Mr. Ding delays the class by two minutes, the English teacher stands in the corridor watching silently, her expression displeased. Upon noticing this, Mr. Ding blows his whistle and declares, “Class is over; go back quickly.”

That feeling is as if physical education class is merely borrowed time—forty-five minutes granted temporarily, which must be returned afterward, often under the watchful gaze of others.

VI. The Difficulties Faced by Teachers

In truth, teachers also face considerable challenges.

Our math teacher arrives at school earliest and leaves latest. She is an excellent instructor but also very strict. She confided to us privately, “I do not wish to extend class time, but the curriculum cannot be completed fast enough. Did you know the scope of the final exam has been expanded by two additional units?” She said this with a look of helplessness. She arrives at 7 a.m. daily and stays until 9 p.m. to supervise our self-study sessions. Her social media posts are filled with photos of students’ assignments, accompanied by the caption, “Another fulfilling day.” Even I find this exhausting.

Our English teacher, with over a decade of experience, is a veteran educator. She corrects assignments until 10 p.m. daily. Her son is also in middle school, leaving her with little time to care for him. Once, while she was on the phone in the staff room, I overheard her say, “Mom will come home late tonight; please heat up your meal yourself.” Her voice was calm, but after hanging up, she sat there in silence for a while. Has she ever occupied physical education time? No, because physical education is part of the high school entrance examination, and she dare not disrupt it. However, she has occupied music and art classes. Once she said, “I know you want music class, but the average score on this month’s exam dropped, and the principal spoke with me about it. Let us complete this class, and I will try not to occupy it next time.” Yet she did so again, as the next exam scores dropped once more.

Our homeroom teacher (the English teacher) faces an even heavier burden. She is responsible for all aspects of our lives as fifty students: academic performance, discipline, hygiene, psychological well-being, and communication with parents. During one class meeting, she said, “I know you are tired, and so am I. But right now, we are all on the same boat; if the boat sinks, no one will escape.” After saying this, the classroom fell silent for a long time.

Teachers also have performance metrics to meet: average scores, excellence rates, pass rates, and college admission rates—none of which can be neglected. Principals demand results, parents demand results, and higher authorities demand results. Caught in between, teachers can only pass the pressure on to us. It is not that they wish to do so, but rather that they have no choice.

VII. Parental Anxiety

My mother gets up at six o’clock every morning to prepare breakfast for me. When I am doing my homework at eleven o’clock at night, she sits beside me—sometimes scrolling through her phone, other times dozing off. She dare not go to bed first, claiming, “If you’re still working, how can I sleep?” I tell her to go ahead and sleep, but she refuses, fearing that I might fall asleep while writing.

She has joined several parent groups: class groups, grade-level groups, tutoring groups, and group-buying groups. Each group contains hundreds of messages, which she reads one by one. Useful information is saved via screenshots, while news of others enrolling in tutoring programs induces anxiety in her. Once, she said to me, “Did you know that so-and-so in your class is already studying ninth-grade material?” I replied that I did not know. She remarked, “How is it that you know nothing?” Subsequently, she enrolled me in the same program.

In truth, she does not wish for this situation. Once, noticing my exhaustion, she suggested, “Why don’t you stop writing and go to bed early?” I objected, stating that the assignment was due the next day. She asked, “Shall I speak to your teacher on your behalf?” I declined, fearing the teacher’s reproach. She said nothing further and went to the kitchen to warm a glass of milk for me.

I know she cares for me, but she also fears I might fall behind. Neither she nor I can resolve this contradiction.

Once, I saw a search history on her phone: “What to do if a child is overly tired.” Below it read, “What to do if a child’s grades decline.” Further down: “What if a child fails to enter high school?” Seeing these entries filled me with sadness. I realize she is seeking solutions, yet she has none.

My mother has a friend whose son is one year older than me and completed the high school entrance examination last year. When the friend visited our home, my mother asked about her son’s results. The friend replied that he had been admitted, but his score barely met the cutoff by one point. My mother commented that this was still good. The friend retorted, “Good? He is at the bottom of his class now and is constantly reprimanded by teachers; the pressure is immense, and he cannot sleep at night.” My mother said nothing and glanced at me. I knew what she was thinking: she wondered whether I, too, might face such a situation if I barely met the cutoff—or perhaps worse, fail to meet it entirely.

VIII. The High School Entrance Examination

Ultimately, all matters revolve around the high school entrance examination.

Our school’s general high school enrollment rate is 70%. This figure appears respectable, indicating that over half of the students can attend general high schools. However, within this 70%, distinctions exist between key high schools and ordinary high schools. Key high schools account for only 20% of places, while the remaining 50% go to ordinary high schools. Even within ordinary high schools, hierarchical differences are pronounced; the gap between superior and inferior institutions is comparable to that between humans and animals.

Thus, despite the 70% enrollment rate, competition remains fierce, as no one wishes to attend the so-called “safety-net” ordinary high schools. My mother said, “You must strive to enter a key high school; if that fails, aim for a decent ordinary high school. Under no circumstances should you fall behind.” She did not elaborate on the consequences of falling behind, but I understood her fears.

What does the high school entrance examination cover? Chinese, mathematics, English, physics, chemistry, morality and rule of law, history, and physical education. The total score and cutoff scores are critical; every point matters. How much does one point affect one’s ranking? In our region, a single point can shift a student’s rank by over a hundred places. This difference often determines admission to a key versus an ordinary high school.

Physical education accounts for 60 points toward the total score. A 60-point difference can alter a student’s rank by several hundred places. Although physical education classes are limited to two periods per week, no student dares to skip them, as absence results in loss of points, which in turn lowers one’s ranking and jeopardizes admission to a good school. This logic is universally understood.

I chose the four-minute jump rope event; the required number of jumps for a perfect score escapes my memory, but it is considerable. Currently, I become breathless after three minutes and cannot sustain four minutes. Teacher Ding advised me to train gradually, but I lack the time for such a approach. With only two physical education periods per week—comprising two sets of four-minute sessions, totaling eight minutes—how much progress can be made? Virtually none.

Sometimes I wonder: if physical education classes were more frequent, could I train longer? If I trained longer, might I achieve a perfect score? If I earned extra points, could I attend a better school? However, with only two periods of physical education, wishing for more is futile.

What is a vocational high school? Teachers do not discuss it explicitly, but everyone knows. Parents often say, “If you fail to enter a general high school, your life is ruined.” When I suggested, “Vocational high schools also teach practical skills,” my mother replied, “What do you know? What can one do after graduating from a vocational high school?” I do not know what opportunities exist after vocational school, but I recognize that everyone fears it. Due to this fear, students strive desperately; because of this striving, efforts to reduce the burden remain ineffective.

One classmate with below-average academic performance received a daily phone call from his mother, the first question being, “How many points did you score today?” Once, after scoring 70 points, his mother wept over the phone. He hung up, lay prostrate on his desk, and said nothing. After a long silence, he raised his head and asked, “Am I particularly useless?” No one knew how to respond.

Another student, who excelled academically, still faced pressure from his father, who enrolled him in three tutoring programs. After regular classes, he attended online courses and then completed tutoring assignments. Once, he fell asleep in class; when the teacher asked him to stand, he did so while his eyes remained closed. The teacher sighed and permitted him to sit down.

Last year, a senior at our school scored over 600 points on the high school entrance examination and was admitted to a key high school. During a sharing session at school, he stated, “There is no secret technique; it’s simply about solving practice problems.” He displayed his notebooks—stacks of them, densely filled with annotations. He claimed to have completed over 300 test papers during his ninth grade. Someone whispered, “He’s crazy,” to which he smiled and replied, “You’ll understand once you reach ninth grade.”

IX. Us

Our class consists of fifty students, each enduring a grueling process.

We endure until the high school entrance examination, then the college entrance examination, university, and ultimately employment. Even after overcoming one hurdle, another awaits. Reducing the burden? That concerns others, not us. Our task is to succeed and avoid falling behind.

One classmate, who ranked among the top twenty in the grade, carried two lunchboxes daily—one for lunch, the other containing coffee. He claimed to sleep only five hours per night and drank coffee when drowsy. I warned him that his body would not withstand this, but he replied, “I must endure; failing to enter a key high school would be catastrophic.”

Another classmate excelled at drawing. However, her mother confiscated all her art supplies, stating, “You may draw after the high school entrance examination.” She secretly sketched on scratch paper and tore the drawings up afterward, fearing discovery by teachers. Once, I saw her drawing a bird with outstretched wings, as if ready to fly away. Noticing my gaze, she quickly crumpled the paper. I complimented her on her talent; she smiled but said nothing.

Our class has a tradition: before major examinations, a phrase is written on the blackboard. Once, someone wrote “Just stay alive,” which the teacher erased. Later, “Do your best” was also erased. The final phrase, “Charge toward the high school entrance examination,” remained for a week. Yet I knew that many secretly harbored the first sentiment in their hearts.

Evening self-study consists of two periods; the first is manageable, but the second is torturous—due to drowsiness, fatigue, and the desire to go home. Sometimes, the pen stops, and the eyes close. The teacher approaches and taps the desk; upon waking, the student resumes writing. At other times, exhaustion necessitates a five-minute nap at the desk, with a deskmate keeping watch for the teacher. The deskmate, though equally fatigued, obliges—this is our unspoken understanding.

When the 9:00 PM dismissal bell rings, everyone wishes to leave. Yet the teacher continues teaching until the final problem is solved, often extending until 9:10 or 9:20 PM. Upon exiting the school gates, the streets are deserted, illuminated only by streetlights and a few waiting parents. My mother typically awaits me at the entrance—sometimes under a streetlight, other times seated on her electric scooter. Upon seeing me, she waves and asks, “Are you hungry?” I reply no, and she says, “Then let’s go.” I sit behind her on the scooter, hugging her waist and closing my eyes.

The ride from school to home takes about ten minutes—the most relaxing time of my day. No homework, no lectures, no problems to solve. The wind brushes my face—cool yet soothing. Sometimes my mother asks, “How was your day?” I answer, “Fine.” She asks no further; she understands what “fine” signifies.

X. Inspections of Educational Policies

Returning to inspections:

That day’s inspection was merely one of many conducted each semester. Sometimes they focus on the “Double Reduction” policy, other times on the “Five Management Measures” or “after-school services.” Prior to each inspection, the school enters a period of frenzied activity: timetables on walls are updated, blackboard posters at the back of classrooms are redrawn, libraries are stocked with books, counseling rooms are opened, and vocational training plots are planted with crops. Doors normally locked are opened; classes rarely taught are conducted; and students who rarely participate in discussions suddenly become exceptionally articulate.

I recall one inspection visit when the inspectors asked us, “How many hours do you sleep each day?” A classmate replied, “Nine hours,” and the inspectors nodded in approval. In reality, however, he went to bed at midnight and woke up at 6:30 AM—yielding a total of only six and a half hours of sleep. However, the teacher had instructed us in advance to answer “nine hours” when questioned about sleep, “one hour” regarding homework, and “none” regarding supplementary classes. We memorized these answers verbatim, as if reciting a text.

After the inspection, the homeroom teacher summarized in class, stating, “Everyone performed well; the inspection team was satisfied.” She paused briefly before adding, “Nevertheless, the required make-up lessons must still be completed, and the scheduled exams must still be taken. You should be aware of this.”

We were indeed aware.

During another inspection, the visiting team asked a student, “What do you do during after-school programs?” The student replied, “We do homework, read books, and participate in club activities.” In truth, after-school programs merely involved sitting in the classroom to complete assignments, occasionally with a teacher providing guidance. As for club activities, while they existed, they met only once per semester—solely for the purpose of taking photographs. Once the photos were taken, the club disbanded.

On another occasion, the inspection team requested to see the “labor practice base.” The school designated a small plot of land in a corner of the playground and planted a few cabbage plants there. On the day of inspection, the homeroom teacher instructed us to weed and water the plants and asked one student to stand nearby pretending to observe the vegetation. The inspection team arrived, took photographs, and left. The next day, no one tended to the plot; the cabbages were eventually eaten by insects, and the weeds grew taller than the plants themselves.

On the day the inspection team visited, our class’s “psychological counseling room” was also opened. Normally, that room was locked and stored with mops and brooms. The day before the inspection, the homeroom teacher asked several students to clean it, move out the mops and brooms, and arrange sofas, coffee tables, and potted plants. The words “Mental Health Center” were posted on the wall. When the inspection team arrived, they entered, toured the room, and remarked, “Not bad.” Once they left, the sofas and coffee tables were removed, and the mops and brooms were put back.

On yet another occasion, the inspection team requested to observe a “randomly selected class.” All teachers were nervous, as it was uncertain which class would be inspected. Ultimately, our class was chosen—during a mathematics lesson. The mathematics teacher taught exceptionally well, though she normally taught in the same manner. The inspection team listened for ten minutes before leaving. The mathematics teacher continued teaching but visibly exhaled in relief. At the end of class, she said, “You cooperated well today.” We had no idea what we had cooperated on.

XI. The Peeling Wall

Returning to the day the inspection concluded:

During morning self-study the next day, I glanced at the timetable on the wall—it had been reverted to its original version. The old timetable was reaffixed, indicating English class as the third period on Thursday. Residue from the transparent tape remained on the wall; when removed, it had peeled off a small patch of plaster, revealing the grayish-white concrete beneath.

I do not know whether that patch of wall was repaired afterward. But I am certain that even if it was, the next inspection would prompt further peeling, reattachment, and further damage. Over time, that wall became covered with marks, tape residue, and signs of patchwork. Timetables change; wall plaster peels; but the English class remains unchanged. Physical education class is always listed on the timetable—just two periods per week, pitifully few, yet at least it is not displaced.

I no longer harbor expectations regarding the reduction of academic burden. I do not expect fewer assignments, more physical education classes, or an end to weekend supplementary lessons. I merely hope that when I grow up and my children begin school, the timetable on the wall will no longer need to be continuously altered. But this, too, is likely mere wishful thinking.

For as long as the high school entrance examination persists, as long as admission to prestigious high schools remains exceedingly difficult, and as long as test scores remain the sole measure of success, any attempt to reduce the academic burden will remain futile—merely a piece of paper. It is affixed during inspections and removed afterward. Those twenty minutes we spent basking in the sunlight on the playground felt like stolen time. Stolen time must eventually be returned.

That day after school, I passed by the academic affairs office and saw a stack of papers inside—newly printed timetables awaiting distribution. I glanced at the top sheet: the third period on Thursday was listed as—physical education.

I smiled and walked away.

As I stepped out of the school gate, the sunset glowed orange across the sky. The entrance was crowded with parents—some scrolling on their phones, others chatting, and a few stretching their necks to peer inside. My mother was among them; upon seeing me, she waved. I approached, and she took my backpack, asking, “Were you tired today?” I replied, “Not really.” She asked, “What would you like for dinner?” I said, “Whatever.” She replied, “I’ll make you pork ribs—to nourish you.”

I sat on the rear seat of her electric scooter; the wind was slightly cool. Streetlights flickered on one by one, and the streets were filled with students in uniforms, backpacks slung over their shoulders, heads down, walking swiftly. They were heading to tutoring classes or home to complete homework—just like me.

Yet at that moment, my thoughts were not on assignments, exams, or rankings. I thought instead of that patch of wall—the grayish-white, uneven concrete exposed beneath the transparent tape. Was it still there? Or had it been repaired?

I do not know. But I hope it remains. For at least it proves that certain events did indeed occur.

XII. The Matter of Physical Education

Returning to physical education:

There are merely two periods per week—Tuesday afternoon and Thursday morning. This is indeed very few. The Tuesday session is tolerable; the Thursday session is frequently canceled. Sometimes due to school activities, sometimes due to a teacher’s sudden absence, and sometimes due to inclement weather. Over the course of a semester, fully completed physical education classes may total only around twenty.

Teacher Ding genuinely wished to teach us more. However, with only two periods available, he could teach limited content. He said, “Do not expect me to turn you into athletes. Run when you must run, jump when you must jump, and simply do your best during exams.” His words were truthful, yet somewhat disheartening.

The physical education component of the high school entrance examination is worth sixty points; no one can afford to lose those points. I chose the four-minute jump rope test—seemingly simple, yet exceptionally exhausting. Teacher Ding instructed us that jumping rope requires wrist movement rather than arm motion, and breathing must be steady without interruption. I understood the principles, but once jumping, I forgot them all. By the two-minute mark, my legs weakened; by three minutes, my arms could no longer lift. The fourth minute relied entirely on willpower.

One classmate excelled at jump rope, achieving a perfect score within four minutes. He said he practiced nightly on his balcony; his neighbors had knocked on his door twice due to the noise. Later, he switched to practicing in the hallway, where the echo allowed the entire building to hear him. But he had no choice; without practice, he could not meet the required standard.

I sometimes wonder: if there were more physical education periods, could everyone practice longer? If they practiced longer, might they score higher on the physical education exam? If they scored higher, might they gain admission to a better school? But with only two periods, such wishes are futile.

Another classmate was exceptionally skilled in sports but performed averagely academically. He said he wished to become a student-athlete. However, his mother disapproved, stating, “There is no future in being an athlete.” He attended every physical education class with great diligence, running faster than anyone else. Yet after those two periods, he had nothing left to do. The rest of the time, he sat on the sidelines of the playground, watching others play soccer while daydreaming.

I sometimes wonder: if there were more physical education periods, might he run longer? If he ran longer, might he come closer to realizing his dream? But with only two periods—that’s all there is. Once the class ends, it’s over.

When the inspection team visited, they asked Teacher Ding how many physical education periods were scheduled per week. He replied, “Five.” The inspectors nodded and made a note. After they left, Teacher Ding blew the whistle to assemble us, and we returned to the classroom. The next day, the timetable reverted to its original version—physical education remained at two periods.

The difference between five and two periods is not merely three classes; it is a matter of trust.

XIII. Epilogue

On the blackboard at the back of our classroom, there is a line of text written last semester that has not been erased: “Just endure the present, and it will be fine.”

I do not know when “it will be fine” will come—perhaps after the high school entrance exam, perhaps after the college entrance exam, perhaps after starting work. But I know that we have not yet endured through it; we are still enduring.

During the inspection day, we basked in the sunlight on the playground. I sat beneath a basketball hoop, eyes closed, listening to my classmates chatting nearby. They talked about video games, anime, and which celebrity had released a new song. They laughed loudly, as if at that moment, assignments, exams, and rankings did not exist.

I opened my eyes and glanced at the playground. The sunlight was pleasant, the sky blue. The inspection team stood at the edge of the playground, conversing with Teacher Ding, who held his whistle in hand, looking calm. In the distant teaching building, some classroom windows were open, revealing people writing inside.

At that moment, I suddenly realized that the playground and the teaching building belonged to two different worlds. The playground had sunlight, wind, and laughter; the teaching building had timetables, test papers, and countdowns. We ran back and forth between these two worlds, breathless. Yet most of the time, we remained in the teaching building; the playground was merely a passing place.

After the inspection team left, we returned to the teaching building. The English teacher entered and said, “Make up for yesterday’s lesson.” At that moment, I felt the world of the playground vanish—the sunlight, the wind, the laughter. All that remained were timetables, test papers, and countdowns.

The next day, the timetable reverted to its original version; a patch of wall plaster had peeled off, and no one repaired it.

I sat in the classroom, watching the English teacher lecture. The numbers in the upper-left corner of the blackboard grew smaller by another day. I lowered my head, opened my English textbook, and began taking notes.

The sunlight outside was pleasant, but I had no time to watch.

Only on Tuesday afternoons and Thursday mornings could I go to the playground—run two laps, perform a few exercises, and then return to the classroom. Forty-five minutes passed swiftly, as if they had never occurred at all.

At least those two physical education classes were real; no one occupied or usurped them. This was because they were part of the high school entrance examination, and achieving a score of sixty points was crucial. Although these two classes were few in number, they still existed.

During the physical education class on Thursday morning, when we returned to the classroom, the English teacher was already waiting at the door. She held her lesson plan in hand, with a neutral expression on her face. Teacher Ding, who was behind us, blew the whistle and announced, “Class is over.” We rushed back to the classroom, took out our textbooks, and flipped to the page covered in the previous lesson. The English teacher stepped onto the podium and said, “Let’s continue.”

At that moment, it felt as though the physical education class had never occurred. Yet my legs were sore, and sweat still clung to my back—these were undeniable realities.

Sometimes I wonder whether I could achieve a perfect score in the four-minute skipping rope test. Teacher Ding claimed it was possible, provided I persisted in training. However, I only had two physical education classes per week, each lasting forty-five minutes; how much time could I actually devote to practice? Eight minutes per week. Calculating ahead to the high school entrance examination, I found that there were over fifty weeks left, amounting to just over four hundred minutes—less than seven hours in total. Could seven hours of training really lead to a perfect score? I was uncertain.

Nevertheless, I knew I would train, for there was no other option. With only two physical education classes available, failing to train would mean losing points, which in turn would result in a lower ranking and, ultimately, exclusion from a good school. This logic was understood by everyone.

Perhaps this represents the limit of reducing academic burden: eliminating subjects that are not tested while retaining those that are. Music and art were removed, leaving only two physical education classes. Two classes are certainly better than none.

I do not know whether this is a positive development. However, I do know that this is our current reality.