From a county-level lecture hall to a nationally renowned teacher

一

Following the National Day holiday, the county's No. 1 Middle School celebrated its 50th anniversary.

It was called a celebration, but it was really just hanging up a few banners, holding a large meeting, and honoring a group of veteran teachers. But for this ordinary county middle school, fifty years is a long history. Chen Mingyuan was a member of the school anniversary preparation team, and he started working a week in advance, moving tables and chairs, putting up slogans, and rehearsing the student choir.

"Xiao Lin, can you write something for me?" Chen Mingyuan placed a stack of documents on Lin Zhiyuan's desk.

"What is it?"

"The anniversary address. The principal will read it at the ceremony."

Lin Zhiyuan was taken aback for a moment: "I'll write it?"

"You're a Chinese literature major, if you don't write it, who will?" Chen Mingyuan said matter-of-factly. "Besides, you know the principal's level. If you let him write it himself, it'll look like a work summary."

Lin Zhiyuan was both amused and exasperated, but he still took on the task. He spent an entire night reviewing the school's historical archives and learned that the school's predecessor was the "Anyuan County Junior Normal School," founded in 1951. It was later converted into a middle school and moved several times before finally settling in its current location.

He wrote a 1,500-word speech, starting from the school's history to the present, from veteran teachers to new students, and finally concluding with the four words "passing on the torch." After finishing it, he showed it to Chen Mingyuan, who read it once and nodded: "Not bad, well-written. It's just a bit too long; the principal can't read it for that long."

"Deleted down to 800 words?"

"Delete up to 500."

The weather was lovely on the day of the school anniversary. A simple platform was set up on the playground, covered with a red cloth, and decorated with several potted plants. All the teachers and students sat down by class, and each person was given a small flag, red and green, which fluttered in the wind.

The principal read the speech written by Lin Zhiyuan. He didn't read it very well; his punctuation was strange, he didn't emphasize the words where they should have, and he paused for too long where he shouldn't have. But the students still clapped along, though the applause was sparse and perfunctory.

Lin Zhiyuan sat in the teachers' formation, listening to his own words being read in a completely different way, and felt a mix of emotions.

"Don't feel bad," Chen Mingyuan whispered from the side. "Once the words are written, they belong to someone else."

"I know."

"You'll get used to it."

Lin Zhiyuan smiled. He knew Chen Mingyuan was right.

The most touching part of the school anniversary celebration was the recognition of veteran teachers who had served for thirty years. There were seven people in the whole school, the oldest of whom had already retired. He was helped onto the stage, his hair completely white, and he walked with a shaky gait.

Chen Mingyuan was one of them. When he walked onto the stage, he stood very straight and walked with a steady gait, not like a sixty-year-old. The principal gave him a red booklet, which he took, raised, and the audience erupted in applause.

Lin Zhiyuan clapped so hard his hands turned red.

After the meeting, he went to find Chen Mingyuan: "Congratulations, Teacher Chen."

"What's there to congratulate? Thirty years have passed just like that." Chen Mingyuan casually stuffed the red certificate into his bag. "Xiao Lin, do you know how many students I've taught?"

"How many?"

"More than three thousand." Chen Mingyuan held up three fingers. "I've calculated it. On average, there are sixty people per class, one class per year, so it's 1,800 over thirty years. But some years I teach two classes, so it's probably a little over three thousand."

More than three thousand students. Lin Zhiyuan silently counted the number in his mind.

"More than three thousand students, some got into university, some didn't. Some are doing well, some are not. Some earn millions a year, some are still farming." Chen Mingyuan lit a cigarette, "But when I see them, they're all the same. They're all my students."

He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled a smoke ring, and watched it slowly dissipate: "Xiao Lin, do a good job. Thirty years will pass quickly."

As Lin Zhiyuan watched Chen Mingyuan's retreating figure, he suddenly felt a stinging sensation in his eyes.

two

In late October, the school organized a home visit.

It's called a home visit, but it's really just the homeroom teacher visiting students' homes on weekends. Lin Zhiyuan made a plan for himself—to visit two or three students' homes every week, and to visit all the students' homes by the end of the semester.

His first stop was Zhou Haitao's house.

Zhou Haitao's home is in Tangcun Township, which is more than an hour's ride from the county seat by motorcycle. Lin Zhiyuan can't ride a motorcycle, so Wang Jianguo offered to take him.

"You're taking your job as a homeroom teacher way too seriously." Wang Jianguo's voice was broken by the wind as he rode his motorcycle. "I don't even want to go to Tangcun Township."

"You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"I don't want to go, but if you want to go, shouldn't I take you?" Wang Jianguo changed the subject. "Besides, I also want to see what kind of family can raise a student you praise so highly."

The mountain road winds and twists, with rice paddies on either side. The rice is already yellow and ready for harvest. Occasionally, a few houses can be seen, their brick and tile structures with grain drying in front of them.

More than an hour later, they arrived at Tangcun Township. Zhou Haitao's house was on a small hillside, a three-room mud-brick house with cracks in the walls, which were patched with mud. There was a small vegetable garden in front of the door, where cabbages and radishes were grown.

Zhou Haitao was chopping firewood at the door. When he saw Lin Zhiyuan and Wang Jianguo, he froze, almost dropping the axe.

"Teacher Lin? What brings you here?"

"A home visit." Lin Zhiyuan smiled. "Not welcome?"

"Welcome...welcome." Zhou Haitao quickly put down the axe, wiped his hands on his clothes, and said, "My parents are home. I'll go get them."

Zhou Haitao's mother came out of the house. She was a thin woman with dark skin and calloused hands. When she saw Lin Zhiyuan, she seemed a little nervous and repeatedly wiped her hands on her apron.

"Are you Haitao's teacher?"

"Yes, my surname is Lin, and I am Haitao's homeroom teacher."

"Hello, Teacher Lin, hello, Teacher Lin..." she said several times in a row, then called into the house, "Dad! The teacher is here!"

Zhou Haitao's father came out of the house, limping. His leg was injured, making it difficult for him to walk. He was wearing a faded old military uniform, and his face was deeply wrinkled.

"Teacher Lin, please come in and have a seat." His voice was loud and clear, full of energy.

The room was dark, with only one incandescent light bulb. The furniture was simple—a square table, a few benches, and an old-fashioned cabinet. Several certificates of merit, all belonging to Zhou Haitao, were pasted on the wall.

Zhou Haitao's mother poured tea in an enamel mug, the tea leaves of which were picked from their own mountain. She also brought out a plate of peanuts and a plate of dried sweet potatoes, urging Lin Zhiyuan and Wang Jianguo to eat.

"Teacher Lin, how is Haitao doing at school?" Zhou Haitao's father asked.

"Very good. Your grades are in the top ten in the class, especially in Chinese. In the last monthly exam, you ranked third in the grade in Chinese."

Zhou Haitao's father's eyes lit up for a moment, but quickly dimmed again: "Can he get into university?"

"As long as this momentum is maintained, there will be no problem."

"How much does it cost to get into university?" he asked.

Lin Zhiyuan knew this was his biggest concern. He thought for a moment and said, "Tuition and living expenses will be about five or six thousand a year. You can apply for student loans, and the school also offers scholarships. You don't need to worry."

Zhou Haitao's father was silent for a moment, then nodded. He turned to look at Zhou Haitao, his gaze filled with expectation, worry, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

It was almost dark when Wang Jianguo left Zhou Haitao's house. He started his motorcycle, glanced back at the three mud-brick houses, and sighed.

"This child has had a tough time."

"Um."

"Help as much as you can."

"I know."

The motorcycle sped through the night, the shadows of the trees lining the mountain road flashing by like ghosts. Lin Zhiyuan sat on the back, the wind blowing into his collar, making him feel a little chilly. He recalled a line from Zhou Haitao's essay—"I want to leave with my head held high."

He thought to himself: Yes, you will. You will leave.

three

Mid-term exams are in mid-November.

The average score of Class 5 in Grade 11 ranked first among the liberal arts classes.

On the day the results came out, Lin Zhiyuan announced the news in class, and the students cheered; several boys even stood up and applauded. Liu Qiang slammed his fist on the desk so loudly that a teacher from the next class came and knocked on the door.

"Don't be too happy yet." Lin Zhiyuan waited for them to quiet down. "One midterm exam doesn't mean anything. Maintaining your performance in the final exam is what really matters."

But after school, he secretly laughed for a long time in his office.

Chen Mingyuan passed by, saw him smiling, and asked, "Did you find some money?"

"I'm happier than if I found money."

"Did you do well on the midterms?"

"Yes. First in the grade."

Chen Mingyuan nodded without saying anything more, but he had a smile on his face when he left.

That evening, Lin Zhiyuan called Su Wanqing to tell her the good news. Su Wanqing laughed on the other end of the phone: "Look at you, you're as happy as a child."

"I'm not old to begin with."

"Twenty-three is certainly not old," she said, "but since you became a homeroom teacher, your tone of voice has changed. You sound like an old man."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Last time you told me 'You need to take care of yourself,' the tone was exactly like my dad's."

Lin Zhiyuan smiled. He recalled Zhao Xiaoman saying something similar—"You speak just like my grandfather."

Does being a teacher really make you age faster? Not in terms of physical age, but in terms of mindset. He starts worrying about things he never used to worry about, and he starts saying things he never used to say. He starts acting like an elder, worrying that this student isn't eating enough, that student's grades are slipping, that someone is having a relationship that will affect their studies, and that someone is depressed or contemplating suicide.

These worries made him become verbose.

"Su Wanqing".

"Um?"

Do you think I'm old?

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone, then Su Wanqing said, "Not old. Just... more mature."

Is maturity a good thing or a bad thing?

"Okay. I like mature women."

Lin Zhiyuan held his phone, unable to suppress a smile. The moon outside the window was round and bright, like a giant light bulb hanging in the sky. The autumn night breeze slipped in through the cracks in the window, cool and refreshing, but his heart was warm.

four

One evening in late November, Lin Zhiyuan was grading papers in his office when Liu Qiang suddenly rushed in, panting.

"Teacher Lin! Something terrible has happened! Zhou Haitao is in a fight!"

Lin Zhiyuan jumped to his feet and followed Liu Qiang to the open space behind the playground. A crowd had gathered there, and Zhou Haitao and a boy from the next class were fighting, both with bruises. Zhou Haitao had a cut on his lip, and the boy's nose was bleeding.

"Stop!" Lin Zhiyuan rushed over and separated the two.

Zhou Haitao was panting heavily, his eyes were red, and his fists were still clenched. When he saw Lin Zhiyuan, he loosened his grip and lowered his head.

"What happened?"

"He..." Zhou Haitao's voice trembled, "He said I was a country bumpkin."

Lin Zhiyuan looked at the boy from the next class. The boy was covering his nose, blood seeping from between his fingers. Seeing Lin Zhiyuan looking at him, he stubbornly said, "I'm telling the truth! He's a country bumpkin! Dressed in rags, and stinks horribly—"

"That's enough," Lin Zhiyuan interrupted him, his voice not loud, but cold.

He led Zhou Haitao to his office, made him sit down, and poured him a glass of water. Zhou Haitao didn't drink it; he sat there with his head down, his shoulders trembling slightly.

"Does it hurt?" Lin Zhiyuan asked.

"It doesn't hurt."

"Your lips are all sore, and you still say it doesn't hurt."

Zhou Haitao fell silent.

Lin Zhiyuan sat down opposite him and looked at him. The thin boy sat in the chair like an injured cat, his whole body tense, ready to run away or fight back at any moment.

"Zhou Haitao, I need to tell you something."

"Um."

"I was told that when I was in college."

Zhou Haitao raised his head.

"During my freshman year, I came from a small county to the provincial capital and knew nothing. I didn't know how to use the cafeteria card, how to borrow books from the library, and I spoke with an accent that my classmates couldn't understand. Once in the dorm, one of my roommates said, 'Are you from a remote mountain village?'" Lin Zhiyuan smiled as he said this, "I said, 'Yes, I am from a remote mountain village.'"

Zhou Haitao looked at him, and the redness in his eyes slowly faded.

"And then?"

"Later, that roommate became my best friend. He told me that when he said that, it wasn't because he looked down on me, but out of curiosity. He thought that people who could pass the exams in remote mountain villages were very impressive."

"I'm not from a remote mountain village."

"So what if you are?" Lin Zhiyuan looked at him seriously. "Just because you're from the mountains, doesn't mean you can't beat city people in a fight?"

Zhou Haitao paused for a moment, then his lips twitched, as if he was trying to suppress a laugh.

"However," Lin Zhiyuan changed the subject, "fighting won't solve anything. If you hit him today, he'll still talk about it tomorrow. Can you hit him once, or a hundred times? What you need to do is not shut him up with your fists, but shut him up with your achievements."

Zhou Haitao lowered his head and remained silent for a long time. Then he said, "Teacher Lin, I understand."

"Good, go back and wash your face. You have class tomorrow."

Zhou Haitao stood up, walked to the door, then turned back: "Teacher Lin, have you really been told this by someone?"

"real."

Were you sad at the time?

"I was sad," Lin Zhiyuan said, "but later I wasn't sad anymore. Because I knew I wasn't what they said I was."

Zhou Haitao nodded and left.

五

On the first weekend of December, Lin Zhiyuan took Su Wanqing out for a nice meal.

It was called "good," but it was actually just a newly opened hot pot restaurant in the county town. Lamb rolls, tripe, duck blood, cabbage, and vermicelli filled the table. The broth was red oil, so spicy that Lin Zhiyuan was sweating profusely.

"Eat slowly." Su Wanqing handed him a tissue.

"I haven't had anything this spicy in ages."

"You used to be able to eat spicy food?"

"When I was in college, I ate hot pot with my classmates from Sichuan, and I could eat more than them."

Su Wanqing laughed: "You're bragging."

"real."

I don't believe it.

The two ate and chatted for two hours without realizing it. When it came time to pay the bill, Lin Zhiyuan glanced at it—one hundred and twenty-eight yuan. That was half a month's worth of food expenses for him.

"Is it expensive?" Su Wanqing asked.

"Not expensive. Worth it."

As they stepped out of the hot pot restaurant, a light rain began to fall. The December rain was light, a fine, persistent drizzle that felt slightly cool on their faces. Su Wanqing opened an umbrella, which Lin Zhiyuan took and held over their heads.

"When will you tell your parents about us?" Su Wanqing suddenly asked.

"I already said that."

"I mean, formally. Like, proposing marriage."

Lin Zhiyuan paused. He turned to look at Su Wanqing, whose face was dimly lit by the streetlights, making it impossible to discern her expression.

"Are you... pressuring me to get married?"

"No," Su Wanqing said, walking with her head down. "I was just asking."

Lin Zhiyuan was silent for a moment, then said, "I'll visit your home during the Chinese New Year."

"real?"

"real."

Su Wanqing didn't speak again. But Lin Zhiyuan sensed that her steps became lighter. The rain pattered on the umbrella, making a soft, rustling sound, like someone whispering.

He tilted the umbrella towards her, leaving half of his shoulder in the rain, but he didn't feel cold.

六

In the last month before the end of the semester, Lin Zhiyuan was extremely busy.

With his duties as a homeroom teacher, teaching Chinese to two classes, plus final exams and review sessions, he was busy from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day, even his meals were rushed.

Su Wanqing said he'd lost weight. He didn't think so. Wang Jianguo said he'd aged. He didn't think so either. He just felt like a machine, constantly running, with no time to stop and think about anything else.

One evening during self-study, he was patrolling the classroom when he passed by Zhou Haitao and found him doing English reading comprehension. Zhou Haitao's brow was furrowed, and he was scribbling on the paper, clearly not doing well.

"Do you need any help?" Lin Zhiyuan asked in a low voice.

Zhou Haitao shook his head and continued working on the problems.

Lin Zhiyuan walked over to Liu Qiang. Liu Qiang was working on math problems; he had written half a page of a difficult problem but hadn't solved it yet. He was biting his pen cap, looking pained.

"Would you like me to explain it to you?" Lin Zhiyuan asked.

"You teach Chinese, so you can do math?"

"I can still do high school math."

Liu Qiang handed him the test paper with some skepticism. Lin Zhiyuan glanced at the question; it was an application problem involving quadratic functions. He took a pen, drew a diagram on the scratch paper, and then explained it to Liu Qiang step by step. After he finished, Liu Qiang suddenly understood: "It's so simple!"

"It's simple to begin with. You're the one who's making it complicated."

Lin Zhiyuan continued walking. When he reached Zhao Xiaoman, she was reading a novel, which was covered by a textbook. He tapped on her desk, startling her, and she quickly shoved the novel into a drawer.

"What book?"

"...The First Intimate Contact".

"By Pizi Cai?"

Zhao Xiaoman looked up in surprise: "You knew?"

"I was a college student once too," Lin Zhiyuan said in a low voice. "You can read novels, but not during class. Read them after class."

Zhao Xiaoman nodded and put the novel from under her textbook into her schoolbag.

When I walked over to Chen Yutong, she was writing something. It wasn't homework; it was something she had written herself—densely packed words on a hardcover notebook.

"What are you writing?"

Chen Yutong looked up, hesitated for a moment, and handed him the notebook.

Lin Zhiyuan took it and saw four words written on the first page: "The Rainy Season Will Never Come Again".

"Are you writing a novel?"

"Yeah. Just... writing whatever comes to mind."

Lin Zhiyuan flipped through a few pages. The handwriting was messy, but it was clear that he was writing seriously. It was a coming-of-age story about a girl, with strong autobiographical elements.

"Show me when you're done writing."

"It's not good...it's poorly written."

"Whether it's good or not is up to me." Lin Zhiyuan handed the notebook back to her. "Keep writing."

After evening self-study ended, Lin Zhiyuan walked out of the classroom. The corridor was empty, and the moonlight shone on the ground, like a layer of frost. He stood in the corridor, looking at the distant mountain shadows, and took a deep breath.

This semester is almost over.

There's one month left until the final exams. Then it's winter break. Then it's Chinese New Year. Then it's the new year.

2002 years.

He has been at this school for a year and a half. In that time, he has transformed from a nervous new teacher into a homeroom teacher who writes "Welcome Back" on the blackboard. From a graduate who couldn't even write well with chalk, he has become a teacher who can grade essays, handle fights, and interact with parents.

Has he changed?

changed.

But he felt that things were getting better.