China Daily Global Edition (USA)
Getting out there
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The pressure is on. The country’s high school graduates are beginning one of the most important events of their lives on Wednesday — the national college entrance exam, known as the gaokao in Chinese.
But its top scorers from previous years suggest the test results’ impact on their futures may not exactly match their expectations later in life.
About 9.4 million students are taking this year’s test, which lasts two to three days, depending on the province, Ministry of Education figures show.
Their scores will, indeed, largely decide their future. Only a small number of top scorers can get into elite universities.
Tsinghua University freshman Xiao A (not her real name) says the test enabled her to realize her childhood dream of entering a leading college.
“It tested my potential and proved to me that I’ll succeed if I work hard,” the 19-year-old tells China Daily via WeChat.
The student from a provincial capital in southern China earned over 700 points out of 750, the highest score among liberal arts students in the province last year.
“Not much changed after I got first place,” she says.
“Some people around me are smarter. So, I have to continue to work hard.”
She declines to offer tips for candidates in such a “casual chat”.
But she did detail advice in a newspaper interview in her hometown last year. The story revealed she didn’t only earn high grades in class but also joined extracurricular activities.
“We expected her to take the top score,” her high school’s head teacher says.
More choices
Other top scorers have been willing to share their experiences, such as Guo Yi.
The 35-year-old scored top marks in the liberal arts gaokao in Anhui’s provincial capital, Hefei, in 2000.
She doesn’t even recall her score today. “Maybe 610,” she says. “Is the total score 750?” The total is something virtually every student is sweating at the moment.
Guo works at an online-advertisement company in Beijing, and previously worked at Chinese internet giant Baidu, after completing a Peking University graduate sociology program.
“I thought I’d have more freedom working for an internet company,” she says.
“I left Baidu after half a year. I didn’t feel I was suitable for the position.”
She entered the web-advertising industry six months later and has worked in the sector since.
“Freedom doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want. It means I don’t have to do what I don’t like,” she explains.
“The gaokao enabled me to make choices.”
Guo says she expected to go to Tsinghua, Peking or the University of Science and Technology of China (a toptier science university based in Hefei) since she was 5 years old.
“School and the gaokao were things I had to do, rather than really wanted to do. But the exam enabled me to follow my dreams.”
She enjoyed astronomy and drawing as a child, and even considered going to a fine arts high school.
“But the fine arts teacher said my sketches felt too ‘heavy’,” she says, smiling.
“Exams are easiest for me. They flowed naturally, like a boat floating along a river.”
The exam was her ultimate life goal — until it was over.
“It was like the river finally ended,” she says.
“I never imagined what life would be like afterward.”
Her parents took her future for granted since she enrolled in Peking University. But she faced setbacks, especially while job hunting.
“I felt like I was falling from a high point,” she says.
“I’ve only stepped out of that mindset in recent years.”
The lesson, she says, is: “Play fully to advantages and work around shortcomings.”
She still considers becoming a cartoonist.
Cherish the moment
Tang Guoyu, who works in the Beijing office of a leading US IT company, earned over 680 points on the gaokao and was the highest scorer in science in Jiangsu province’s Lianyungang city in 2005.
The 29-year-old earned her PhD in computer science from Tsinghua, which she points out is full of top gaokao scorers.
“I didn’t feel particular pressure after earning a top
gaokao score,” she says. “The exam tests attitude beyond just knowledge. You just need to focus, try your best and not worry about the results.”
Still, she believes the test has significance.
“It has decided many things afterward,” she says.
“My lifestyle and the city I live in depended on that moment.”
Hangzhou native Jiang Xiaobin, the top scorer on the Chinese-language test in Zhejiang province in 2006, also points to how her success on the test gave her choices.
“I could have enrolled in popular schools like finance and law,” the Tsinghua journalism and communications graduate says. “But I didn’t. They didn’t interest me.”
The reporter for a Beijingbased newspaper, who mostly writes about reading and fine arts, explains: “The gaokao didn’t predestine my career, but gave me the privilege to continue with my interests.”
Jiang spent her childhood reading. She dreamed of become a globe-trotting author.
“I’ve perhaps partly realized that dream in another form,” she says.
“I may not make that much money. But it’s enough for me to take a job I really like. Doing well on the gaokao never means everything will go well in the future.”
She considers it a passageway along a much longer road.
“But everyone should cherish that moment,” she says.
“It’s fairer than job hunting because there’s no interview. Few situations later in life afford you such fair appraisals.”
Life stage
A 2011 report released by a research institute affiliated with the Ministry of Education makes an interesting point about the gaokao, which resumed following the “cultural revolution” (196676).
It says: “Few of the top scorers on provinces’ gaokao have become industry leaders. Also, except for scientists, the achievements of celebrated industry leaders, including artists, entrepreneurs and social activists, do not have direct relevance to their college educations.”
Renmin University journalism professor Zhou Yong, who took the top score in Hunan province’s liberal arts
gaokao in 1992, opposes “deifying” champions in an interview with Sina.com.
“Top scorers can’t duplicate one another’s experiences,” he says.
“Personal struggles mean more than status labels.”
A recent, viral WeChat post by Feng Lun, one of China’s most influential real estate developers, who took the exam in ’78, says: “The gaokao doesn’t make heroes. In China, parents’ happiness depends on if their children attend a good college. You’re a rebel if you choose something other than what your parents and the public expect.”
He specifically addresses the conventional idea that a student entering a good high school will attend a good university, which ignores the child’s happiness.
“The gaokao is an important life stage. But it’s not the only way forward,” he writes.
“University is a place to nurture values in addition to knowledge. Students may have different values. But this process makes them who they really want to be.”