It was July 15, 1973. The morning air was bathed in the light of the rising sun, promising another long, hot day ahead. I hurriedly finished my breakfast and walked to the local examination center, where the national college entrance examination was to be held.
Sitting in the classroom, I wiped the perspiration from my face as I looked around at the other candidates. They were all plainly dressed young workers from different factories, just like me; some were smiling, some looked serious, and others appeared nervous. Indeed, after seven years of the Cultural Revolution, we were finally being given a chance to pursue our ambitions. If the Cultural Revolution had not occurred, many of us might have already graduated from college or been nearing graduation, and I might have been a sophomore in medical school. Instead, we were all sitting in the same classroom taking the college entrance examination. We had lost seven years of our lives—the very years that should have been devoted to our education.
I had dreamed of becoming a physician ever since I was a little girl. Both of my parents had worked in an army hospital. They constantly reminded me that I would have to study hard to gain admission to a good medical school. I followed their advice and consistently earned good grades in school, but my dream did not come true.
When I was fourteen, the Cultural Revolution broke out. All the schools were closed, supposedly because they were not properly fostering the future generation of the proletariat. Students were expected to participate in the revolution by writing big-character posters criticizing their schools and teachers and by studying nothing except Chairman Mao's books. Meanwhile, I eagerly awaited the day when schools would reopen so that I could complete high school.
Two years later, the schools still had not reopened. Instead, Chairman Mao called upon high school students to go to factories and the countryside to receive re-education from workers and peasants. The government stressed that real knowledge was derived not from books but from life experience and that workers and peasants were therefore our best teachers. Accordingly, I became an assembly worker at an instrument factory in the city of Handan, five hundred miles south of Beijing.
In 1971, after undergoing a period of transformation aimed at purging them of their alleged bourgeois tendencies, the universities were gradually reopened to young workers and peasants, but not to recent high school graduates. College entrance examinations had been abolished, and students were selected primarily on the basis of political merit rather than academic achievement. The government's rationale was that high examination scores meant little if students were unwilling to use their knowledge to serve the working class. The revised college admissions policy limited applicants to those between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five who had worked in factories or on farms for at least two years. Candidates also had to be nominated by their fellow workers and, most importantly, approved by the Party committees at their workplaces.
Things began to change in 1973, when Deng Xiaoping, the Party’s former general secretary, returned to public life. He reinstituted the college entrance examinations and liberalized the admissions policy. Applicants no longer needed approval from the Party committee at their workplace, but they did have to achieve high examination scores.
In June, our factory, which employed more than a thousand workers, was allocated ten student places by the local bureau of education. In response, the factory’s Party committee decided to select thirty candidates to take the entrance examination, with the ten highest scorers to be admitted to college.
My assembly department employed one hundred and thirty workers. This meant our department was allotted one college place. Having worked in the factory for three and a half years, I longed for an opportunity to continue my education. The department manager held a special meeting and asked workers to vote for three candidates from among those who had submitted their applications to take the entrance examination. I was fortunate to be one of the three selected. My supervisor surprised me by saying, “From now on, I don’t want you to work overtime. Go home after work to prepare for your exam.” His words astonished me. The political climate was changing, and people were beginning to say openly what they had previously been afraid even to think.
Compared with the college entrance examinations held before the Cultural Revolution, this examination was much easier. It consisted of only two subjects: Chinese and mathematics. We had one month to prepare. During that month I moved most of my belongings from the factory dormitory back home, where I would have a much better environment for studying. Before the Cultural Revolution began, I had completed two years of junior high school, yet the mathematics examination covered material from the entire six-year secondary school curriculum. Although I had studied some advanced mathematics on my own, I was still not sure whether it would be enough …
As I sat in the classroom, my heart pounded, wondering if I would do well. At precisely ten o’clock, the proctor walked into the classroom and announced that we could begin. He then turned to the blackboard and wrote down the title of the essay for the Chinese exam: One Thing Which Had Deeply Impressed Me. We had two hours to complete it.
I tapped my pencil against my head. What could I write? I had been working in the same factory six days a week for three and a half years, performing repetitive tasks every day. Nothing had deeply impressed me. But Chairman Mao had declared that factories and the countryside were our best universities. How could I possibly write that our best "university" had been monotonous? I dared not write anything that might suggest dissatisfaction with the government, or my chance of going to college would disappear. I had to think of something impressive. This was no time to hesitate.
I began to write about my work: how my fellow workers patiently taught me to read blueprints and assemble industrial equipment; how I had realized that my junior high education had not adequately prepared me for the demands of the revolution, and that I hoped for an opportunity to continue my education. I emphasized that this was not for my own benefit, but for the benefit of the people, and the country. My pen flew across the pages of the examination booklet, and I finished well before time was called.
As I walked out of the classroom, I felt relieved that the Chinese examination was over, yet I remained anxious. I knew that my essay would be judged not only on the quality of my writing but also on whether the political content reflected the values expected by the authorities. Had I written too much about myself? Had I used enough of Chairman Mao's quotations? Had I made a mistake by mentioning that some of my fellow workers were college graduates rather than simply describing them as experienced workers? I walked home slowly during the two-hour lunch break. I had to put the morning behind me and prepare myself for the math examination in the afternoon.
A week later, the examination results were announced: I had placed second among the thirty candidates from our factory. Overjoyed, I pedaled home as fast as I could and shouted, "Mom and Dad, I'm going to college!"
"Good, good!" my father exclaimed.
"This year I'm certain I’ll get in!" I declared. "Even if only two places are assigned to my factory, I'm guaranteed admission!"
"No one will replace you this time!" my mother exclaimed, alluding to what had happened the previous year.
The year before, a college place was allocated to my department, and my fellow workers had nominated me for college, along with another worker as an alternate. However, the Party secretary selected the alternate candidate, who was a Party member, explaining that my political credential was not strong enough to pursue higher education. My disappointment was so profound that it took me months to recover.
"What school will you be attending?" my father asked.
"I don't know yet. There are five colleges to choose from. "
University places, together with the designated fields of study, were assigned to factories by the government. From the day I began working in the factory, I had abandoned my dream of becoming a physician. The college places allocated to factories were always for engineering programs. Those were the only options available to me. Still, my desire to go to college was so strong that I was willing to attend any school and study any subject.
The next day I received a call instructing me to report to the factory reception room for an interview with Professor Yan from Xidian University . I hurried there to meet him.
Professor Yan appeared to be in his late forties, slim, with black-framed glasses. He greeted me and politely guided me to a chair facing him.
“How long have you been working at the factory?” he began.
“Almost four years.”
“Do you like factory life?”
“Yes, I do.” I lied without hesitation. Seven years of the Cultural Revolution had taught me how to protect myself from being accused of opposing Chairman Mao’s revolutionary line.
“What do you like about the factory?”
“As Chairman Mao teaches us, workers are our best teachers. I have indeed learned a great deal from the working class,” I answered, sounding as though I were reciting an essay from a newspaper. The truth lay somewhere in between. I hadn’t liked factory life, but I had come to admire my fellow workers. They were kind, sincere, and hardworking. Many of them had become my close friends.
“Then,” Professor Yan smiled, “why do you want to go to college?”
“Working in the factory has made me realize how much we could benefit from more advanced technology. I want to learn more so I can serve the factory better.” I chose my words carefully. If I answered any of his questions incorrectly, he might conclude that my motivation for going to college was not sincere.
“Very good!” Professor Yan said approvingly.
He asked several more questions. Judging from his expression, I believed he was pleased with my answers. Suddenly, he asked, “What would you do if you weren’t admitted to college this year?”
What? My nervousness returned. Had I said something wrong? Hadn’t I answered all of his questions correctly? “I thought I would definitely be going to college!” I blurted out, tears welling up in my eyes.
My reaction made him laugh gently. “Don’t take things so seriously! I ask this question to every candidate. To tell you the truth, we’re excited about the new admissions system because the quality of the students admitted in recent years has not been satisfactory. I’ve traveled all the way from Xi’an and arrived a day before the examination results were announced. I wanted to get here before representatives from other colleges so I could recruit the best students. You’re my first candidate.”
“Will you admit me?” I asked, hoping for reassurance.
“Yes, I’ll certainly try,” he said with apparent sincerity. “But I can’t guarantee anything yet. As you know, the admission process takes time. It may take as long as three weeks. I’ll contact you as soon as I know anything.”
As I walked out of the reception room, I felt more confident. People walking through the factory gate greeted me warmly, sharing in my excitement. A technician from another department came to tell me that the candidate who had ranked first had completed all six years of secondary school before the Cultural Revolution began, while I had completed only two years. He was amazed that I had placed second despite such a disadvantage. Young workers my age looked at me with admiration. For the first time in years, I felt that the world I had dreamed of was finally within my reach.
Toward the end of the third week, I was told that Professor Yan was waiting to speak with me on the phone. “This must be about my college admission,” I thought. But why would he call instead of sending a formal admission letter?
I picked up the receiver and heard Professor Yan’s voice: "I'm calling to let you know that I haven't forgotten you. I'm still working on your application. The process takes time."
"I understand."
"Have you read the August 10 edition of People’s Daily?"
"No, not yet.” I had been so absorbed in planning for college that I hadn't read a newspaper for days. “What's in it?"
“There’s a letter from a college applicant that was written during the entrance examination. It's important. I hope you'll read it carefully…” He seemed about to say something more, but stopped. After promising to call me again, he hung up.
I was disappointed. Professor Yan had deliberately avoided mentioning the status of my application. Had he changed his mind? Why was the admissions process taking so long? Then I remembered the letter he had mentioned.
I rushed to the factory library and found the August 10 edition of People’s Daily. A bold headline stretching across the front page caught my eye: A Thoughtful Examination Paper. The article was written by a college applicant named Zhang Tiesheng, who worked on a rural farm in Liaoning Province. Instead of answering the examination questions, he had written a letter to the examination committee on the back of his test booklet:
I have lived and worked on this rural farm since 1968. I love my job and have devoted all my time to it. After eighteen hours of hard labor in the fields each day, there was no time left to prepare for the entrance examination. I received notice of the examination three weeks ago and could do no more than glance through my textbooks. As a result, I remembered almost nothing. Today, as I sit in the examination room looking at these questions, I feel despair—the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. However, I am not ashamed! Frankly, I have a strong aversion to those bookworms who have never engaged in honest labor. The new entrance examinations are dominated by those "college-aholics." ...
As I read this letter, my anger grew. Millions of us welcomed the new college admissions process. Why was this applicant complaining that the examinations were dominated by "college-aholics"? Everyone who took the examinations had worked just as hard as he had; otherwise, they would never have been nominated by their factories or farms. His conclusion seemed deeply unfair.
A lengthy editorial on the front page praised Zhang's letter, declaring that what he had submitted was not an empty examination paper but a thoughtful response to the entire college admissions system. The editorial argued that old ideas and customs still persisted in China, contrary to Chairman Mao's revolutionary line, and urged readers to remain vigilant in exposing the capitalist roaders within the Party.
I stared blankly at the newspaper, unable to imagine why Zhang's letter would have anything to do with me.
By late August, I still hadn't received any news about my college admission. Meanwhile, articles criticizing the college entrance examinations were appearing in the major newspapers almost daily. It seemed that the political climate was rapidly shifting back to what it had been a year earlier.
In September, the Bureau of Education finally announced that all college admissions would be suspended pending the development of a new admissions policy.
Finally, in October, the government declared that the college entrance examinations had been a mistake and denounced them as an attempt by the "former capitalist roader" Deng Xiaoping to take China backward to the conditions that had existed before the Cultural Revolution. Examination scores were no longer the basis for college admission. Once again, political credentials became the decisive factor.
Ironically, the newspapers reported that Zhang Tiesheng, who had effectively handed in blank examination paper, had been admitted to college. He became a national hero, and the radical leaders urged young people to emulate his dedication to the revolution and his courage in fighting the "capitalist roaders."
Summer had given way to autumn. The flowers lining the factory sidewalks had withered. I became more and more depressed. All of the hard work I had put into earning high scores had been for nothing. Worse still, my high scores could now be used as evidence that I had not engaged in “honest work”: if I had devoted all my time to revolutionary work, as I was supposed to, how could I have had time to prepare for the examinations?
The factory’s Party Committee was scheduled to announce the names of the ten applicants who would be admitted to college the following week. Although I knew my chances were slim, I still clung to a faint hope: perhaps they would choose me because I was the only one among the thirty candidates who had been nominated two years in a row.
My last hope vanished the day I received an urgent message from Yifen asking if she could speak with me. She worked in another department and was a graduate of Xidian University. I agreed to meet her at the back door of my department.
A few minutes later, she hurried in. Closing the door behind her, she whispered, "I know we've never spoken to each other, but I've heard a great deal about you. I sympathize with your situation." She paused for a moment to catch her breath.
"I visited Professor Yan yesterday. He was one of my favorite professors. He told me what happened when he delivered your admission papers to the factory's education office. Manager Huang, who was in charge of college admissions, told him, ‘Do you still want her at your college? People call her Miss Bourgeois. She was the typical college-aholic in our factory. She's so delicate that she'd fall over if a breeze blew against her. According to the government’s new policy, we must recommend someone both physically and politically strong to college.'"
The words struck me like a physical blow. I couldn't believe Manager Huang had described me that way. Before the examination began, I had met him in the hallway. He had smiled at me and said, "I guess you'll be in the top ten."
Yifen continued, “Professor Yan argued with him. Manager Huang insisted that the university had no right to choose students from the factory. It was the factory’s responsibility to decide who was qualified. Professor Yan replied that if he had no right to choose students for his college, he certainly had the right to refuse those sent to him. To uphold the integrity of his college, he refused to accept two of the candidates Huang recommended. One of them was the daughter of a high-ranking Party official who had been pressuring the factory to have her daughter admitted to college.”
After another pause, Yifen looked at me and said quietly: "Will you promise me not to tell anyone? If this becomes known, it could cause serious trouble for Professor Yan. I didn't want to tell you, but I was afraid that if I didn't, your disappointment would be even greater when the Party Committee announced the candidates who had been admitted."
"I won't tell anyone," I replied.
Yifen looked around, making sure no one else was watching us. "I have to go", she said, patting my shoulder, "Be brave."
I watched her back as she rushed toward her department, feeling as if a heavy weight were pressing on my chest. I stood by the door for a few minutes, calming down and making sure there were no tears in my eyes, then walked back to the workshop.
As soon as I got home, I threw myself onto my bed, crying loudly. My parents rushed into my room.
"Something has gone wrong with your college admission!" my mother said.
I nodded and, through my sobs, told them what had happened. They sighed. They had been reading newspapers every day and already sensed which way the political wind was blowing.
My grandmother came in and sat on the edge of my bed, gently patting at me. "You've been losing weight,” she said. “You're paying too high a price. Don't think about college anymore. It's not a place for you."
She did not realize that her words were only making me feel worse. I cried harder, almost to the point of hoarseness. Everyone was supposed to have an equal opportunity to attend colleges. Why was it so difficult for me? Why had my dream slipped farther away year after year? The more desperately I pursued it, the more unattainable it seemed.
"You're only twenty-one years old," my mother said encouragingly. "You still have four more years to try."
Four more years? Who knew what would happen next year? I had already been nominated by my department twice. There were many young workers waiting for their opportunity. Even if another college place were assigned to my department the following year, it would surely be someone else's turn.
"Perhaps you should try to join the Party first," my father suggested.
In fact, I had already applied to join the Party. From the day I began working at the factory, I had tried hard to "improve" myself in order to qualify for membership. I spent most of my evenings working overtime and came to know our products inside and out. I earned a good reputation through hard work, not by shouting revolutionary slogans. Yet because I showed little interest in politics, I was never considered suitable for Party membership.
Overcome with disappointment and frustration, I cried myself to sleep.
Sleep brought no relief. Morning came far too soon. My eyes were swollen like overripe peaches. My mother called my department to report that I was ill.
My family was unusually quiet that day. No one mentioned college. My father turned off the radio when a news broadcaster began praising the revised college admission policy as a great victory. My parents felt guilty that they could do nothing to help me get into college, though I knew there was nothing they could have done.
When the department manager announced the names of the ten workers who would be going to college, everyone turned to look at me, wondering how I would react. I remained silent and showed no anger, as if nothing had happened. Several of my fellow workers came to me afterward and promised to nominate me again the following year. Their kindness gave me the strength to hold on to hope through those difficult years.
In November, the ten admitted students left the factory for their colleges. That same week, I received a package from Professor Yan. It contained six college textbooks together with a cover letter:
I’m sending you the textbooks used by our first-year college students. You have already mastered most of the high school curriculum on your own, and I believe you are capable of mastering college courses as well. Promise me you’ll never give up your studies.
Tears rolled down my cheeks onto the notepaper. “I promise,” I whispered to myself.