Chapter 5: Registering for the College Entrance Examination

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“Storms rise over Zhongshan, turning the sky yellow and wild,
A million valiant troops cross the great river.
The tiger crouches, the dragon coils—now grander than before,
The world overturned, we exclaim with passion.
Let us take the remaining courage to pursue the fleeing foe,
Never seek empty fame like the Hegemon of old.
If heaven had feelings, it too would grow old,
But the path of righteousness is ever marked by change.”

…

In the junior high class run by the Shiling Brigade, Liu Yimin paced back and forth at the front of the classroom, dressed in a white undershirt that had turned almost beige with wear. His coarse, light-gray trousers felt stifling against his legs, patched in several places at the knees and seat—although the cloth matched, even a blind man could see they were later additions. Because of the heat, he’d rolled up his pant legs, revealing his feet in a pair of liberation shoes with gaping holes, the soles and uppers stitched together with thread—a temporary fix, clearly not long for this world.

“This poem was written by our great leader when the People’s Liberation Army liberated Jinling. The first two lines describe the grand scene of our army’s triumph, the next line expresses the leader’s revolutionary fervor upon hearing the news of victory… It conveys his unwavering faith in the liberation of all China!”

The junior high class combined two grades into one room, with a total of thirteen students—two absent, having taken leave to work. The classroom walls, once whitewashed with lime and straw, were peeling badly. The desks were battered and broken, the benches brought from home—uneven in height, mismatched in shape. Above the blackboard hung a portrait of the leader, its corners yellowed; on either side, banners read “Unity and Tension, Seriousness and Liveliness.” At the back, another slogan declared, “Shorten the school system, revolutionize education.” Elementary school had been shortened to five years, junior high to two.

“Seventh graders, recite what we covered today. Eighth graders, recite yesterday’s lesson. Before class ends, I’ll call on each of you.”

They still used the old textbooks, the yellowing covers bearing the instructor’s portrait and the “Three Red Banners” with the “Educational Policy.” New books would not arrive until the second semester of 1978.

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Flipping through the textbook, the spirit of the era leapt off every page, with quotations on nearly every one. Even the math textbooks featured problems starring the “Red Sun Commune” or “Forward Factory.”

The classroom was so stifling that Liu Yimin simply dragged a bench outside to sit under the walnut tree. The teacher next door, a young woman, glanced over before turning away again—that was Li Lanxia, the primary school teacher for the village, daughter of the Party branch secretary and elder sister of Li Lanyong. By seniority, Liu Yimin had to call her “sister.”

This was the main office of the Maiji Brigade: three brick-tile rooms and a cave dwelling. The walls, once whitewashed, were flaking badly from age. On the mottled surface, bold red characters proclaimed, “Raise your vigilance, annihilate all invading enemies!” The exclamation point was painted especially thick. The leftmost room was used for brigade meetings; the other two had been converted into classrooms for the primary and junior high classes.

Glancing at the sun, Liu Yimin judged that the school day was nearly over. He stationed himself at the classroom door, perched with one leg crossed over the other, his toe just blocking the threshold.

“Recite your lessons. No one goes home until you do.”

After a while, Liu Yimin’s brow tightened in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair and waved at the student standing before him.

The student—who had been mumbling uncertainly—immediately brightened, rubbed his nose, and hurried back to his seat.

“Yimin, don’t get too worked up,” Li Lanxia suddenly said, standing at the door of the primary class.

“Ah, Sister Lanxia, I’m really at my wit’s end.”

Li Lanxia had been assigned to Shiling Brigade by the commune as a primary school teacher. She was a state employee, on a commodity grain ration, different from village teachers like Liu Yimin.

The days passed with Liu Yimin teaching and preparing for exams. Even though he knew the 1978 college entrance exams would be simple, he put his whole heart into studying—his “Atlas of Educated Youth Geography” was nearly worn out from constant use.

In mid-June, as the final days for exam registration approached, Liu Yimin rode his bicycle to the commune to sign up.

Shiling Commune was a large one. Its main gate, styled like a scroll, had two cement-and-marble pillars, each hung with a wooden plaque. The couplet read, “The seas surge with angry clouds, the five continents quake with wind and thunder.” Above the gate, six large characters proclaimed “Shiling People’s Commune,” flanked on each side by three sculpted red flags, with a massive five-pointed star at the crossing of the flagpoles.

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On either side of the entrance wall, slogans declared the guiding ideology and leadership strength. Inside the gate stood another screen wall, bearing the words, “Unite and strive forward, build the nation with diligence and thrift.”

There was a two-story office building inside, a national flag flying from its roof. The courtyard was dotted with many red flags, though the fabric had faded somewhat with time.

At the exam registration point, a table was set up outside, where a staff member dozed. With the deadline approaching, few people came by; earlier in the week, they’d been overwhelmed.

“Comrade, I’d like to register.”

“Registration fee—fifty cents. Here’s the form. Fill it out carefully. Oh, it’s you? I remember you from last year—you were shivering in the northwest wind when you registered. Taking the exam again this year?” The staff member sized up Liu Yimin and recognized him at once.

“Yes, I am. It’s not easy to get this chance—I can’t give up.” Liu Yimin filled out the form meticulously.

“Thank the Party and the good policies of the state. Let’s hope you pass this year.” The staff member offered the standard encouragement he’d given to countless applicants. As for actually passing, he privately doubted anyone from Maiji would make it. He placed the form in a file folder and sealed it with care.

After a decade of pent-up candidates, the number of examinees was enormous, but university admissions had not expanded much—the odds of getting in were vanishingly small.

According to procedure, the staff member had Liu Yimin read the latest college entrance notice from the admissions office.

The provincial admissions office had just issued this year’s notice: there would be a single national exam paper. To prevent insider dealings, the central government ordered that, starting this year, all scores be publicly posted. Before 1977, exam results were considered top secret and filed away, never announced.

This year, students would also choose their preferred universities after the exam, but before results were published—unlike later years, when choices were made after receiving scores.