A Yale Graduate's "Failed" Experiment in Elite Education
Is elite education the answer to changing the world? More than a decade ago, Jiang Xueqin believed it was—at least the fastest way to see results. "Select the most elite students from the best schools, send them to the best schools abroad, and then have them return to change the world."
This young man, who grew up in poverty in Canada yet gained admission to Yale University, received a fateful opportunity at age 32. He came to Shenzhen Middle School—one of China's top public high schools—to fulfill his ambition: to establish an overseas education system dominated by quality-oriented education, breaking completely away from exam-oriented education.
It was 2008, in southern China—a region with the strongest spirit of reform. Together with a principal who had devoted his life to high school education reform, they had Shenzhen's most elite high school students and invested the best resources.
This young "intruder" was radical. While some supported him, more teachers and students opposed him. Within two years, the experiment came to an abrupt end, leaving him with deep feelings of defeat.
Ten years have passed since that reform. Jiang Xueqin has completely bid farewell to domestic public high schools. Today, he lives with his wife and children in Chengdu, leading a different kind of life. The students from that era have all entered society. What remains of that educational experiment? Have they "changed the world" as he wished?
By Wei Xiaohan
Edited by Wang Shan
Video Edited by Zhang Xinyue
The Boundaries of Freedom
Guo Qi spent his middle school years in pure exam-oriented education. At a "not-so-good" junior high school in Shenzhen, he buried himself in practice problems, slowly squeezing past thousands of competitors to become one of the lucky victors, successfully entering Shenzhen Middle School—the best high school in the city. Unlike the expected routine, he was surprised by an unprecedented freedom he had never experienced before.
"Like a hungry person entering a buffet," a new world unfolded before him.
It was more like a university. With two to three thousand students, there were two hundred student clubs—the Model UN Association, Robotics Club, Mystery Club, and more. At the cafeteria entrance, colorful posters hung year-round, announcing sixty to seventy student activities updated in real time: New Year festivals, costume balls, environmental lectures. Students could skip uniforms and date freely—there were even girls in his class with dyed blonde hair. The school was near the bustling Dongmen commercial street. Some classmates would carry takeout food and run into Principal Wang Zheng, who would look at them curiously and ask, "What did you order? Is it good?"
This open atmosphere was connected to this "most controversial principal." In 2002, Wang Zheng came to Shenzhen Middle School as principal, practicing his educational reform in this city with a spirit of innovation.
Students could choose courses across grades, with over a hundred options waiting for them: History of Mathematics, Political Life of Citizens, War and Peace in the 20th Century, Ceramic Design. Each grade's 20 classes were divided into 7 units: regular units for the college entrance exam (gaokao), competition units, and autonomous units with greater freedom. In 2009, when Guo Qi entered the school, a unique unit had just been born—the International Unit.
It was an era when China was opening to the world. Sending children abroad to study, cultivating them as global citizens, was the trend among urban middle-class families. However, even at Shenzhen Middle School, known for its inclusiveness and freedom, the International Unit remained a unique existence. Its founder, teacher Jiang Xueqin, had no intention of adding any exam-oriented elements. Preparing for SAT exams, memorizing TOEFL vocabulary, teaching students how to write application essays—he hated these "utilitarian" methods. He wanted to cultivate an experimental field for elite education—at this top public high school, select a group of even more elite children, and through quality-oriented education, send them to the best foreign universities to become "people who change the world."
Guo Qi only learned about these things later. His reason for going to the interview was simple: he was tired of the exam-oriented life in junior high. He failed the first interview; the teacher asked him in English what books he liked, and he stumbled, unable to answer, randomly mentioning Harry Potter. Then there was another interview, this time with Jiang Xueqin. This Chinese-Canadian, speaking Chinese with a strange accent, cut straight to the point: Why do you want to join this system?
Thirty to forty students were selected. Guo Qi, who made the list, was somewhat flattered. In this school full of talented people, he had been completely ordinary at the time. "He [Jiang] probably really didn't care—he could teach whoever came. He was too confident in his system. Besides, everyone who came to Shenzhen Middle School was among the best students in all of Shenzhen."
This high-spirited young teacher seemed to have enough capital for pride. "I'm a Yale graduate"—he often kept this phrase on his lips, and he had been invited by Principal Wang Zheng, whom students trusted.
Jiang Xueqin invested the best resources, or rather, privileges. He separately hired nine Ivy League graduates as foreign teachers; while other students attended military training, the International Unit students substituted with outdoor hiking, along with yoga and other activities common in American high schools. Additionally, he established an English library with thousands of volumes, encouraging students to read English originals rather than memorizing vocabulary to pass exams; there was also a separate cafeteria with professionally nutritionally balanced meals, fruit essential; he let students open and run a coffee shop, providing "a public space for discussion."
Of course, these were exclusively for the International Unit. He believed, "The gaokao is a rigid system; there's no room for reform within it. Going abroad is the future of Chinese education."
Guo Qi was grateful to Jiang Xueqin for giving him this opportunity—he was Jiang's most loyal follower. For a high school student, this teacher from abroad was completely different from the conventional adults around him. He was very good at telling dramatic life stories, such as entering Yale from a poor Chinese immigrant family, or when he was short of money, going to a Las Vegas casino and winning a large sum with his strong mathematical abilities, or interviewing in a polluted village and falling off a motorcycle. "Like movie plots, yet somehow believable that this person would do such things."
Guo Qi, who had loved drawing since childhood, gained some freedom to explore. Even if it was just doing layout design for a 2A-sized Shenzhen Middle School Daily, later becoming editor-in-chief—they paid attention to school club assemblies and also cared about the H1N1 flu situation. He squeezed in time for interviews during lunch, working from 4 p.m. after class until 11 or 12 at night, then early the next morning taking fresh newspapers to place at the cafeteria entrance and distribute throughout the school.
High school passed busily; only later did he slowly savor its significance. "When facing parents, Jiang would mention sending children to the Ivy League—that was just strategic. His goal wasn't really to send you to the Ivy League, but to educate well-rounded citizens who could find what they loved and devote themselves to it."
In class, they read many critical English materials. Guo Qi was deeply impressed by one discussion topic: Does educational resource allocation favor the wealthy and powerful? For the first time, he was able to re-examine himself and those around him: "In such a good school as Shenzhen Middle School, how many are from extremely poor families? [There are few impoverished students at Shenzhen Middle School]—is it because they're not as smart as us, or is it class solidification that gives the wealthy and powerful better educational resources?"
Like a metaphor, it coincided with Jiang Xueqin's education experiment. The International Unit triggered intense discussion and even encirclement within the school—did it monopolize too many resources, affecting educational equity at this public school? Greater controversy came from the teacher himself. This intruder from the West underestimated the resistance reform would encounter. He was rough, direct, arrogant, and made shocking statements, stirring up storms.
The Intruder
The year he came to Shenzhen Middle School, Jiang Xueqin was 32, experiencing a low point in life.
Having been admitted to Yale University, this Asian youth from a poor family failed to integrate. He felt out of place among those from elite backgrounds. He thought of China—this distant, vague homeland might accept him. At that time, China was a vast land waiting to be discovered. With great ambition, he wanted to "change the world."
His career began as a foreign correspondent for international media. Clearly, this proud young man underestimated the difficulty. He constantly clashed with those around him. "The editor wanted me to write about how serious AIDS was [in China]. I thought tuberculosis was more serious at the time, but Americans didn't care about that. [Making that choice] violated professional ethics!" He couldn't accept it, argued with the editor, and walked away. He hardly stayed anywhere for more than half a year, sometimes as short as one month.
Everything was terrible. He looked down on small media outlets; submissions to The New Yorker were rejected. Younger colleagues around him gradually became famous, like Peter Hessler, who wrote River Town. The disheartened Jiang drank at home daily, playing video games until dawn.
Until Wang Zheng extended an olive branch, inviting him to visit Shenzhen Middle School.
They had met at the High School Affiliated to Peking University in the late 1990s, where he briefly worked as a foreign teacher. "Young Wang Zheng was an idealistic vice principal, and I—a young teacher—was also a typical idealist. We naturally became good friends," Jiang Xueqin later wrote in his book. The reason for that invitation was that the teacher originally responsible for the international program had left Shenzhen Middle School and needed a successor.
Shenzhen's nights had a lively atmosphere. In Jiang Xueqin's memory, he and Wang Zheng often went to restaurants at 10 p.m. to eat congee until the early morning. He repeatedly described his visions, unwilling to merely write recommendation letters or contact schools for students, but wanting to establish a system, select some of the most elite students to send to the best foreign universities, and become people who influence the world.
He was eager to prove himself—this might be his last chance.
This contradicted his upbringing, but he had practical considerations—"Only wealthy people invest in education. The poor are very conservative about education. To innovate in education, you can only go where there is money." In his eyes, there was probably no place more suitable than Shenzhen Middle School—parents had acquired wealth through personal struggle, and when it came to their children's education, they also had sufficient spirit of adventure.
However, many people found it hard to understand his "adventure." The International Unit was closed and independent. Without paying extra tuition, students here could have separate foreign teachers, a coffee house, a cafeteria, and a foreign-language library; the curriculum was different from other units, and they even published their own newspaper, Shenzhen Middle School Daily. This caused dissatisfaction from other students and parents, who complained that he was creating special privileges.
Another controversy came when he announced the dissolution of the student union at a student representative assembly, without any democratic deliberation process. In his view, the student union was bloated and over-powered, becoming an obstacle to reform. At that time, posts about this teacher on the Shenzhen Middle School BBS were full of criticism and even cursing, believing he was autocratic, monopolized resources, and disrupted educational equity.
Jiang Xueqin couldn't understand how he had become a "devil" overnight. In a fit of pique, he required all students participating in the International Unit to sign an agreement promising "not to make statements unfavorable to the work of the international system," isolating those who criticized him.
Xiao Jia entered the International Unit in 2009. In her eyes, this teacher from abroad was somewhat strange, often making shocking statements. "For example, saying the student union was like a triad, and the senior group was like a cult." When recorded by an International Unit student and posted online, he tracked down the student and directly expelled them from the International Unit.
"Everyone felt this person was so fierce, so scary. Some girls in the class didn't dare talk to him. If you missed a word while reading aloud, he would scold you—why wasn't your attention on the text?"
In this closed world, Jiang Xueqin was a god-like existence. He used radical methods to eliminate everything he didn't agree with. "What's the point of Chinese [class]? Don't study it anymore," the Chinese teachers from other classes argued with him angrily. Even the foreign teachers he recruited himself dissatisfied him; these young people's entertaining teaching methods seemed irresponsible in his eyes. Combined with being late for meetings, he eventually let them leave.
As for the two hurdles that had to be crossed—SAT and TOEFL—he believed they couldn't be overcome by memorizing vocabulary and doing practice tests, but by improving English ability through reading. When he found first-year students looking at TOEFL vocabulary books, he was furious and scolded them: "I'll teach you when it's time to start. Why start memorizing early?"
These stemmed from his personal experiences. During his high school days in Canada, to escape a marginalized environment, Jiang Xueqin spent most of his time in books—libraries, on the subway. This intensive accumulation earned him an acceptance letter from Yale. He believed his experience could also apply to these children.
Some students could only memorize vocabulary secretly behind his back. They were too different from Jiang Xueqin—coming from urban middle-class families, some had already decided to go abroad early. "Especially those aiming for business schools—the TOEFL scores of these eight or nine people in their second year of high school were already out," Xiao Jia suddenly felt a sense of crisis; in one year, the application season would begin.
To catch up, she often studied for several consecutive days without sleep. As for that quality education, it was also constantly problematic—some classes were suddenly changed after a few weeks. She felt like a lab rat, always in a state of panic.
"Jiang wanted to completely create the feel of an American high school, but your colleagues and students are Chinese, and they couldn't really accept it. Moreover, American high schools have four years, while China only has three. To catch up with the application season in the third year of high school, preparation in the second year was already too late, so he only had one year left—too short."
Looking back now, Jiang Xueqin doesn't regret his thunderous methods—only this way could he rapidly advance his reform. He also admits that one or two years was too short, and moreover, the severity was mixed with his selfishness: "I was too eager to prove myself at that time, wanting to see results quickly."
Just as external criticism and parents' controversy over Shenzhen Middle School's "free-range" education continued unabated, the school's high school entrance exam admission score line dropped to third in the city for the first time in 2009. Many people had lost patience. Some students later recalled that the year or two Jiang Xueqin was at Shenzhen Middle School was exactly the transition period before Principal Wang Zheng left—everything seemed to have accelerated.
Exit
The news of departure came in May 2009. Wang Zheng told Jiang Xueqin that he would soon leave Shenzhen Middle School to become principal of the High School Affiliated to Peking University. Without any warning, Jiang Xueqin was somewhat stunned. The international system had just been established, having experimented for less than two terms in the high school department and only just beginning in the junior high department. Without Wang Zheng's protection, this experimental field was precarious.
He remembered that before leaving, they had a conversation.
Wang Zheng hoped he would stay at Shenzhen Middle School. "He said Beijing's environment wasn't suitable for me, probably afraid I would cause trouble." Meanwhile, Jiang Xueqin strongly urged Wang Zheng to stay—
"Principal Wang, you're harming yourself by doing this. I don't care, okay? But at Shenzhen Middle School, you could become a historical figure, truly create a great school. Why give up? Going to be principal at the High School Affiliated to Peking University, you will definitely fail."
Jiang Xueqin felt pessimistic about the future—that was probably a completely different environment. But without Wang Zheng, he didn't know where else he could go. "In these two years at Shenzhen Middle School, I became a [so-called] devil."
He was lonely and proud, distant from other teachers, disapproving of many of their behaviors, such as secretly checking stock prices during self-study classes. He guessed the teachers probably weren't happy with his high profile either, even "jealous of him."
He once explained the international system at a school-wide faculty meeting: "We are trying to make this project a bit more refined, see how it works, and then slowly promote the good things to other schools. It's not for profit, but purely educational reform." "Bullshit!" a female teacher loudly retorted on the spot.
In Jiang Xueqin's heart, Wang Zheng was his only ally—they were the same kind of people, with impressive academic credentials and pure ideals. And now, his ally was leaving him.
He found it hard to explain how this relationship came to an end. Looking back, the cracks appeared bit by bit.
He remembered Wang Zheng asking him to write recommendation letters for third-year students going abroad. He refused because when he was establishing the international system, he had asked these children to join, and they had rejected him.
"Some students said behind my back that I was a fraud. When I was building the international system, they laughed at me from the sidelines. Now they need me and want me to serve them? Quite utilitarian and selfish. But Wang Zheng was particularly protective of students. He believed every child could realize themselves. As an educator, you can only provide conditions and then wait."
Like Jiang Xueqin, the students of Shenzhen Middle School were also immersed in confusion. The campus magazine Nirvana conducted an exclusive interview with Wang Zheng before his departure. At the end of the interview, they asked this question—
"Just in case—purely hypothetically—if your successor cannot continue what you've done these past few years?"
"Then that is Shenzhen Middle School's fate."
The successor pressed the brake pedal on the school's reform, and the unit system gradually exited the historical stage. Jiang Xueqin couldn't care about these things anymore. "I would definitely be replaced." There would be no more principals like Wang Zheng giving him so much freedom—"As long as you want to do something, he would support you 100 percent." Following Wang Zheng was his only choice at the time. He remembered calling nonstop for several months until the other party finally answered and said, "Come to Beijing."
The high school international system was later taken over by another teacher. In Xiao Jia's eyes, everything finally got on the "right track"—the independent cafeteria closed, AP courses changed from self-study to having dedicated teachers, the foreign-language library opened to all students, the proportion of foreign teachers decreased, and except for English classes, Chinese teachers were preferred. As Jiang Xueqin had predicted, the system he established ended so briefly.
Wang Zheng brought the unit system to the main campus of the High School Affiliated to Peking University, and Jiang Xueqin also brought his international system to the international department there. Those two years he lived somewhat numbly, but still kept paying attention to the direction of Wang Zheng's reforms. The High School Affiliated to Peking University changed from a unit system to a house system, with first and second years completely separated from third years—the former receiving quality education, the latter focusing on preparing for the gaokao. He felt Wang Zheng seemed more radical than when he was at Shenzhen Middle School. There was no way to know Wang Zheng's true thoughts; they had long since lost contact.
The moment the other shoe dropped was the winter of 2012. While vacationing in Canada, Jiang Xueqin received an email from Beijing. The sender was Wang Zheng. There were no extra words in the letter, only an image of an official document with a red letterhead—the Peking University leadership team had decided, through discussion, to dismiss Jiang Xueqin from his position.
He knew he had been completely abandoned.
Whether from the perspective of the person involved or an outsider, this was not a glorious farewell—being fired, with controversies about him still visible everywhere on the Shenzhen Middle School BBS. This 36-year-old Yale graduate felt he was falling into an abyss. The education experiment he had invested such high hopes in, along with his life, had completely failed.
The Failed Man
In early spring 2022, I met Jiang Xueqin at a subway station entrance in Chengdu. He was holding a half-year-old baby in his arms, walking and speaking at a flying pace. Only the mixed, overgrown white hair on his head reminded me that he was already a 46-year-old middle-aged man.
Clearly, he was not living a "successful" life in the secular sense. The apartment was rented—118 square meters, 2,800 yuan per month, an unimaginable price in Shenzhen or Beijing. Four years ago, he chose to come to unfamiliar Chengdu with his pregnant wife; lower living costs were one of the reasons.
After the pandemic, they cooked at home. Lunch was all green vegetables—bitter melon, cauliflower, beans, lettuce—paired with purple brown rice. His wife jokingly called it the "forgiveness meal." If it wasn't raining, the two would definitely take their two children for a walk in a nearby park. "You rarely see people this poor yet this happy," they joked.
After leaving the High School Affiliated to Peking University, Jiang Xueqin stayed away from those top public high schools, somewhat passively—
Looking back, he indeed felt he had been too extreme. He shouldn't have pinned his hopes only on going abroad, but should have made reforms accessible to all students. But the environment and times were different. He once introduced innovative education projects to middle schools at a training meeting in Chengdu. High school teachers didn't seem very interested. He guessed it was probably because "middle school students are busy with the gaokao." He turned to cooperating with elementary schools, but encountered the pandemic, and projects in the past two years had almost disappeared. His wife was a full-time homemaker. At the worst times, the family couldn't even come up with living expenses and had to borrow money from his wife's parents to get through the crisis.
He said there weren't no opportunities to make money. His Yale degree, and his resumes from Shenzhen Middle School and the High School Affiliated to Peking University were golden calling cards. Helping students write recommendation letters and introducing them abroad through intermediary agencies could bring in hundreds of thousands of yuan in income, but he didn't want to do that. "It violates the essence of education, wastes my talent, is unworthy of myself, and doesn't set a good example for my children."
In Chengdu, one of the few people who could visit each other was American writer Peter Hessler. His family had "Eileen Gu-style" twin daughters—the ideal image of elites: smart, passionate, and hardworking. In half a year, they could go from failing math to catching up with the school's teaching progress. They were excellent at long-distance running; "they might really participate in the Olympics in the future."
Jiang Xueqin's four-year-old eldest son seemed to be the opposite of those twin girls—not very good at socializing, used to freedom, walking barefoot in shopping malls, with somewhat "strange" temperament. Hessler's wife suggested they discipline the child's behavior and cultivate social skills, but Jiang Xueqin disagreed. The kindergarten teacher always called him, so he simply took the child home. "I had the same personality as a child—disobedient, with many ideas, beaten and scolded by my parents every day."
This child was more like the opposite of his past elite education experiment.
That aborted experiment made him completely lose hope in cultivating elites. He once extremely believed that children selected through layers of screening in a selection system were "already very utilitarian." Recounting those past events—private conversations recorded by students and posted online for attack; students maintaining surface relationships with him just for a recommendation letter; going abroad being more like a business where money could buy entry—the reality was far from his ideal vision.
I asked him, if he could do it again?
"If I could do it again, I wouldn't have any admission standards, nor any strong personal color or any prejudice. I would open resources to all students. Elite education is about selecting 'smart' children, but if you have heart and love, you can change every child's life. They all have souls."
This is also what Western scholars are currently reflecting on: Have we in the past overly agreed with the values of "elite education" and "cultivating global citizens"? Harvard professor Michael Sandel, known for his open course "Justice," reflects on elite arrogance in his new work—"They forget the factors of luck and assistance on the road to success—family, teachers, social class, country, and era—believing that those struggling at the bottom must also deserve their fate. Meritocracy is tyranny." Meanwhile, Oxford professor Xiang Biao believes that "the 'global citizen' imagined in the West cultivates people into isolated individuals. You no longer come into contact with other educational methods, nor with real life—such as how do fishermen fish? How do landless farmers fight?"
Jiang Xueqin strongly agrees that "meritocracy is tyranny." Even public education is about elite selection. This was something he felt after leaving the elite circle.
After resigning from the High School Affiliated to Peking University, he returned to Canada and experienced many things unrelated to education: skydiving; learning cooking, taking boxing classes, singing, writing books, and more. The capable classmates in his classes hadn't all received elite educations; on the contrary, the Yale graduate became the "dumb student," cooking terrible food, afraid of heights, and when the tone-deaf him was scolded by the teacher, he suddenly understood those students he had scolded.
He tried giving his first stand-up comedy routine. In the past, what he hated most was being laughed at, but isn't stand-up comedy about taking your own wounds and making fun of yourself? In a restaurant, facing twenty or thirty strangers, he nervously finished a few minutes of jokes about his ex-girlfriend. Looking at the people laughing below, he felt released.
He accepted his failure and re-examined why those years of reform had ended up in such isolated circumstances. "90 percent was my problem. I was 32 then, young and idealistic, but without experience. Too extreme, too anxious, not respecting these children, not communicating or explaining with them. To keep this system running, I was anxious to produce results. This is what I regret most."
After returning to China, he had more time to immerse himself in the world of writing, sorting out past experiences, or indulging in writing science fiction. He had a gentle wife who was also his best reader and listener. "Now I'm happier than before, physically and mentally healthy, with love."
Just, there wouldn't be such opportunities again.
He was still obsessed with the educational ideal of "changing the world." For example, wanting to find rural education entrepreneurs to promote creative courses to rural schools. To others in education, this seemed too idealistic—it's hard enough for an institution to promote rural education reform, let alone an outsider working alone.
"I won't have such good opportunities in my life again," he couldn't help but lament when he said this. "At the most open time for Chinese education in 2008, [we could have] created a new possibility for it."
"Novelist" and "Reading Expert"
Mo Yifu saw Jiang Xueqin again at a book-sharing event in Shenzhen last December. This former moderator of the Shenzhen Middle School BBS had once stood on his opposite side. In past memories, Jiang Xueqin was an authority figure, a controversial teacher. Their last interaction dated back more than ten years—it was not pleasant. As a student representative, he wanted to talk to Jiang Xueqin about everyone's complaints, but when the other party saw him, he turned and walked away.
More than ten years later, Mo Yifu became the head of an innovative education institution. That day he sat in the audience, listening to Jiang Xueqin talk about his educational philosophy, and for the first time understood that "he is actually a humanist." Not seen for many years, his tone and state seemed to have softened—not so intense anymore, and more powerful. "Probably because he's a father now."
This former student leader was also reflecting on whether the high school era had only enjoyed the power of freedom, with insufficient communication between teachers and students, leading to those oppositions? The scene was somewhat rushed; he added Jiang Xueqin's WeChat, thinking that when there was an opportunity in the future, he would sit down and have a good chat with him.
I conveyed Mo Yifu's thoughts to Jiang Xueqin. He didn't show any intention of reconciliation, but he understood those curses. "Their starting point was to protect Shenzhen Middle School. They didn't oppose what I was doing, but opposed my methods."
After leaving Shenzhen Middle School and the High School Affiliated to Peking University, Jiang Xueqin successively received emails from some students. Someone said that because of a history extracurricular foreign teacher in high school, he became interested in international relations and chose the corresponding major in university, while when he first entered the High School Affiliated to Peking University, he was still in a state of playing video games daily and living in a daze. Another student wrote that the most valuable thing learned in the international system was "not leadership skills or writing techniques, but a consciousness of constantly challenging oneself, jumping out of one's small world, and embracing new things at all times."
Jiang Xueqin didn't have much intersection with Shenzhen Middle School students. He met Yang Yueqi once in New York. This girl who wanted to enter a multinational corporation, after graduating from the Wharton School, went to New York University to study journalism and now works as a financial reporter at a famous American media outlet.
During her university years, people around her constantly discussed and urged her to go into investment banking, consulting, and high-paying jobs on Wall Street. She had also interned on Wall Street but didn't like the high-pressure life of only sleeping five hours a day, so she left.
At the Wharton School, this was a somewhat unusual choice. She sometimes felt out of place with classmates around her, a bit lonely. The values cultivated during her high school years protected her a lot at such times—"not being influenced by the outside world, listening to one's own heart."
Unlike Yu Qiao, Xiao Jia's memories were gray. That immature experiment left her with many unpleasant memories. "Using high school students as experiments, honestly quite irresponsible. We just happened to catch it and became lab rats."
She didn't get into her ideal school. After several twists and turns, she transferred to the University of Southern California to study her favorite film and television major and is now a producer. She joked that the biggest experience left to her from high school was probably "learning how to smoothly navigate through some changing environments."
Guo Qi followed his interests to the Rhode Island School of Design and also became an architectural designer as he wished upon returning to China. He cherished what that short educational experiment left on him—learning to face an open world and persistently doing what he liked.
Regarding the "failure" of that educational experiment, he had another perspective. "Just like a writer who thinks he wrote a very bad novel, but his readers might combine their own experiences, even misinterpretations, to discover something valuable."
They didn't seem to have the ambition to change the world as Jiang Xueqin envisioned, but became better versions of themselves—this is probably also the value of education. Almost every interviewed Shenzhen Middle School student would mention the school motto from Wang Zheng's tenure, like a warning sentence. Some even kept it in their QQ signatures all along—"Cultivate outstanding citizens with distinct personalities, full of confidence, willing to take responsibility, with thinking ability, leadership, and creativity. No matter where they are, they can enthusiastically serve society and show respect for nature and care for others within it."
One student evaluated, "Without Wang Zheng's educational reform, Jiang Xueqin's educational experiment probably couldn't have existed either." Whether radicals or conservatives, all gained some space beyond traditional education.
In the winter of 2021, Principal Wang Zheng of the High School Affiliated to Peking University was dismissed. The notice didn't mention specific reasons. His term was originally supposed to end in June of the following year.
Jiang Xueqin and Wang Zheng had long since lost contact. He couldn't explain the specific reasons, but had vaguely sensed this day coming from clues and wasn't surprised.
On the day Wang Zheng was dismissed, he wrote in his Moments—
"Waking up today to see the news, knowing that Wang Zheng is leaving the High School Affiliated to Peking University, my feelings are complicated. I want to cry, and I want to laugh. I want to cry because Chinese education needs Wang Zheng's ideas, courage, and action too much. I want to laugh because I know Principal Wang—he is a fighter and will absolutely never give up his ideals."
As expected, Jiang Xueqin will soon join an international school in Beijing. He fantasizes about finding opportunities to meet this former principal, perhaps being able to sit down and catch up like friends again, or even having a chance to cooperate once more? He thinks that leaving the job might not be a kind of happiness for Wang Zheng's life—finally free from so many demanding duties, and no longer having so many people coming to find him. He can freely walk his dog and stroll in the campus of the High School Affiliated to Peking University.
(Xiao Jia is a pseudonym)