Chapter Fifty-Five: The Little First Grader

The ancients once said: “Half of the righteous deeds come from butchers and commoners; most of the heartless betrayals are committed by scholars.”
This saying is both accurate and deeply saddening. It is accurate because that is simply how things are, and saddening because one must wonder: why is it that the more a person reads, the more they seem to forget the simplest truths about being a decent human? Is this truly the aim of education?

When Hong Tao was displeased, it always ended up causing trouble for his teachers, but he couldn’t do it now. This teacher had probably already discussed things with Director Bai, perhaps even at her behest. If he were to just stand up and say, “I don’t want to do it,” it would put the teacher in an impossible spot.

Aside from electing class officers, there was another important matter: rearranging the seating and reorganizing the after-school walking groups.

At that time, there were many primary school classes, and each class was crowded with students. The reason was simple: there weren’t enough schools. The year Hong Tao enrolled, there were five first-grade classes at his school, each with about forty students, packing the classrooms to the brim. This was not even the most crowded; Hong Tao had seen grades with as many as eleven classes. The school districts were divided by residential area, so if there happened to be a lot of school-aged children in one area, the school had to take them all in.

Generally, except for the space left at the front, a classroom could fit about eight rows of desks from front to back, with each row seating eight students. More than forty students meant six columns, then every two columns would be combined, placed against the walls on both sides, with a group in the center. There were about equal numbers of boys and girls in Hong Tao’s class, so the seating alternated between a row of boys and a row of girls, ordered from shortest in front to tallest at the back. Back then, it was rare for children to wear glasses or be nearsighted. If someone really couldn’t see, they could apply to the teacher to move forward.

In the end, Hong Tao ended up sitting alone. Out of 47 students, he was the tallest, so he sat in the very last seat—without a desk mate! He was rather pleased with this outcome; he didn’t want to sit with anyone, not Jin Yue, not Zhang Da Jiang. Partly because he found spending time with children tiresome, and partly because he was afraid of influencing his desk mate. He could afford to sleep or read extracurricular books during class, but if his desk mate followed his example, that would be a crime—it would be ruining another’s future.

The term “walking group” might not exist in later times. At that time, primary schools didn’t allow parents to escort their children to or from school, which Hong Tao found quite reasonable—a good tradition, sadly not maintained. To prevent children from getting lost on their way to or from school, each class would form several walking groups, organized by the direction of each student’s home.

What did this mean? Much like a bus route, children who lived in the same direction would walk home together. The child who lived farthest away would be the walking group leader, responsible for shepherding every member into their own courtyard before heading home themselves. In the morning, the leader would set out earliest, passing by each group member’s house, sometimes calling out at the door, sometimes finding them waiting outside, and together they would head to school, picking up more along the way until the whole group arrived.

Typically, the group leader was the child who lived farthest away. But the teachers seemed particularly eager to trouble Hong Tao—he lived right next to the school, yet was still made a group leader. The farthest member of his group lived at Beixin Bridge Third Alley, so he had to walk much farther every day. Still, Hong Tao didn’t mind; since he was tall and strong, protecting his younger classmates seemed only right—a small virtue, but a virtue nonetheless.

“Group Three, gather by me!” After these arrangements, the fourth lesson ended. As the bell rang, Hong Tao instinctively moved to the back door, raised his right hand, and called out for his group.

“Those who live farthest up front! Da Jiang, you’re second. Hey, I’m talking to you. You live right by the co-op, so why are you trying to stand at the front? Go to the back!” Hong Tao acted as if he had boundless authority, barking orders and herding the kids. Soon, his group was in order; even the few who protested could only yield in face of his imposing height.

“All right, let’s keep the line straight! Anyone veers off and I’ll give you a kick—if you’re not afraid of pain, go ahead and ignore me! Now, sing with me: ‘First graders, little bean buns, one hit and they jump high; second graders, little water bowls, poke a hole with a stick…’” Once his group was lined up, Hong Tao led them out like a chain gang, singing childhood rhymes he still remembered.

“First graders, little bean buns, one hit and they jump high; second graders, little water bowls…” Before they even reached the school gate, everyone was singing, especially Zhang Da Jiang, who sang with gusto. He’d had a wonderful day—no one bullied him, he’d played ping pong, eaten milk candies. For a child’s first day at school, this was as perfect as it could get. Who knows if his mind would remember it for a lifetime.

Walking groups weren’t just for first graders; every grade from one to six had them. When the older students saw the neat lines of first graders, singing their taunting rhymes that insulted every grade up to sixth, each group began to retaliate, belting out their own songs and children’s ditties, competing to see who could sing the loudest.

“Director Bai, being head teacher of this class won’t be easy. The kids in Class One are fine, but this Hong Tao—when I announced he’d be study and sports monitor, the look he gave me was pure hostility. And his organizational skills—you saw his walking group, so quick and orderly. A smart, independent-minded kid like this is hard to manage. You’ve handed me a real challenge.” In the high school faculty room, Director Bai stood by the window, watching groups of children file out to the gate, listening to their raucous songs with an air of enjoyment. The middle-aged male teacher beside her, Hong Tao’s homeroom teacher, wore a wry smile.

“This child, honestly, I can’t handle him either. You know his background. He’s already been auditing classes here for two years, and though he’s only been to third grade classes at most, he’s certainly above that level. Even that Jin Yue from your class, who’s been self-studying with him, has already memorized the multiplication tables and keeps a diary. He’s even done math homework for his little uncle before—when Teacher Gao found out, his uncle denied it, but the notebook ended up on my desk. One look and I knew who’d written it. So, where could I put a kid like this? You’re the best homeroom teacher in the elementary division—if not in your class, then whose?”

Director Bai, afraid the teacher didn’t know all of Hong Tao’s history, recounted his exploits once more.

“Then maybe let him skip a grade… though, come to think of it, skipping to second grade wouldn’t help much. Just now, during the break, Teacher Liu came to see me about him. Look at this—your star pupil slept through half an art lesson and handed this in.” The teacher pulled a sheet of paper from his satchel: a green apple with a bite taken out of it, drawn by Hong Tao.

“Sigh… In all my years of teaching, this is the first time I’ve been troubled by a student being too advanced. Teacher Wang, let’s wait and see. It’s not that I won’t let him skip grades—it’s that he doesn’t want to. He says his size would put him at a disadvantage in higher grades. Don’t treat him like a child—he’s got an adult’s mind, sometimes more thorough in his thinking than we are, and full of odd arguments. Plus, you can’t believe everything he says—he can lie as well as the high schoolers. Anyway, go home and eat.”

Director Bai glanced at the apple drawing—remarkably lifelike.

Hong Tao had no idea his homeroom teacher had already gone to Director Bai to file a report. Not that he cared about such things; he just took each day as it came. At lunch, he turned on the six-tube, three-band radio he’d saved up for and tuned to the news. For now, he paid close attention to national policy, since it would shape much of his life ahead. During elementary and middle school, there was little he could do directly, so he had to rely on others to pave the way. He’d already picked two candidates: his uncle-in-law and his younger aunt.

According to his own plans, the 1980s would be a time of great opportunity—not to be missed. It was like laying the foundation for a house: the deeper and sturdier the foundation, the taller the building could rise. And time was irreversible—miss this chance, and there’d be no going back. The one up in the sky who liked to strike him with lightning wasn’t his father; he couldn’t just make it happen at will, and when it did, who knew where he’d end up after?

The problem now was that he hadn’t yet heard news permitting private entrepreneurship. His younger aunt’s tailoring skills already surpassed his own. She was meticulous, enjoyed the work, and could crochet and knit sweaters—if she didn’t go into the garment business, it would be a waste of talent.

As for the bicycle project with his uncle-in-law, it had already netted him over two thousand yuan, not counting his daily expenses, and his grandfather had deposited it all in the bank. The old man doted on him to the extreme, guarding this secret tightly, telling no one—a true underground operator, like those heroes in the movies who infiltrate enemy ranks and never reveal their identity, even after liberation.