Perils of the Slow Track
by Huina Zheng
In the recent monthly exam, I ranked tenth from the bottom in my class, a setback largely due to my struggles in math. My position might have been improved if I had joined my math teacher’s remedial classes. Yet, the thought of my mother spending more on my education held me back. Absent the threat of being downgraded to a slower track next semester, my faltering grades would have been less concerning. In the competitive realm of Chinese high schools, every student faces the pressure of academics, but a higher rank correlates with increased university prospects.
Just a week after the exam, it felt as if my very reality had shifted, with every movement and thought dragging through an invisible resistance. It was as though the looming threat of the slow track had manifested itself into a surreal slowness, permeating my existence. Gripping my ballpoint pen became a struggle as I tried to jot down notes. Though its ball rolled across the notebook, it dragged heavily across the paper, leaving deep indentations behind. The task of note-taking turned Herculean; lagging far behind, I was stuck on the first point as the teacher raced ahead to the fifth.
Splitting my attention, I juggled the lecture’s listening demands with the mechanical efforts of writing. Yet, it wasn’t all disadvantages. When I ate lunch, I no longer gulped down food without tasting it; I had started to chew slowly, discovering for the first time the rich sweet and salty flavors of braised pork, its tender texture perfectly seasoned, fatty but not greasy, with a hint of soy sauce and caramel sweetness. However, this newfound appreciation cost me precious study minutes, widening the academic gap with my peers.
Teacher Chen, my Chinese and homeroom teacher, called me to the corridor behind the classroom. “Zhang Yi-ting, I cannot assure your continuation in the fast track without significant improvement,” she warned me. “Lingering at the bottom justifies a move to a track that might fit you better.” Her brows were furrowed, and her gaze pierced through me as if her words weighed a ton, making her heart heavy.
“Could more effort boost my grades?” I pondered aloud.
“Effort alone won’t suffice. Without tangible progress, you might find the slower track’s rhythm a harsh reality,” she cautioned. “You’ll slow down, jeopardizing your chance of getting into university.”
“What’s your advice?” I asked, my tongue feeling as if it were weighed down by lead, each word struggling to squeeze out of my mouth. The curse of the slow track seemed to cause my speech and thoughts to sink together into a sluggish vortex.
“Be more proactive,” she said. I wondered if this meant I should attend those remedial classes.
“I’ll try my best,” I said, returning to my classroom. I opened my math textbook and began solving problems. During self-study class, I let the practice problems fill my brain, using the scent of ink to dispel the sluggishness wrapping around my thoughts like thick syrup, and persevered in my studies.
“Every student with poor grades risks being moved,” Teacher Chen’s solemn reminder echoed. Indeed, the fluctuation of grades hung over every student like the sword of Damocles, becoming my mantra of self-comfort as I struggled in this highly competitive academic environment. At least in the slow track, the daily overwhelming pile of assignments, the pressure from more diligent and talented classmates, and the constant fear of being eliminated seemed less daunting.
My mother always had high hopes for me, believing I could enter a top university, become the pride of society, and a pillar of the nation. She often fantasized about returning to my high school to give a lecture on how she raised such an outstanding child, despite having only a middle-school diploma and working as a cleaner, without the financial means to afford tutoring classes for me. Yet, through her educational methods and philosophies, I was still able to unlock doors to top universities, which was her proudest vision.
All this was meant to prove I wasn’t “a poor student like Lan.” Lan, the daughter of her cousin, was born into a family of doctors, received various expensive tutoring from a young age, yet failed to enter the city’s key high school. Her parents sent her to an international school, preparing her for college in the United States. Students like Lan never had to worry about being in a slow track. Her family’s financial resources allowed her to enjoy high-quality educational resources.
Faced with my having to choose between extra tutoring and the slow track, my mother would tell me to attend Teacher Yang’s remedial class. But I hesitated every time I thought that a 45-minute class equaled two days of my mother’s hard labor. Moreover, in the remedial class, Teacher Yang would explain in advance the types of problems that would appear on the exams, giving an unfair advantage to those who could afford it. This inequity left me in a dilemma over whether to join the remedial class. However, I realized that this temporary advantage was like cheating, but it offered no real promise of success, because no teacher could predict the types of problems on Gaokao. My math teacher’s remedial class was like a mirage; it appeared to offer a path, but I decided I didn’t have to take it.
I refused to join it. I at least wanted to give it a shot on my own, with two months left in the semester and two monthly exams to improve my grades before the slow track curse affected me. The only issue was that I couldn’t be sure if my mind would still be sharp enough to handle the final exam, which was the most important assessment affecting our grades. I started studying an extra hour every night, so my brain could get more training, and I could keep my thoughts quick.
My brain worked best between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. when everyone else fell into deep slumber. Once everyone started to wake up, the noise of daily life drowned my thoughts, making it hard for me to concentrate. I could only wait for the tranquility of late night to return, allowing me to immerse myself in my studies and thoughts.
My mother called me a “study machine,” which was saying a lot for her, who topped her class multiple times, helped her parents with household chores and farm work after school. If it weren’t for working to support her younger brother’s education, she could have become a lawyer. I told her that today’s academic environment relied not only on intelligence to get into a university; it demanded continuous practice and preparation. She couldn’t understand.
Teacher Yang also made an effort to teach in his living room, providing lessons to students who paid for this extra help. Whenever he encouraged students who hadn’t joined these sessions during the math lessons, I bowed my head to avoid eye contact with him. Still, he caught me in the school corridor after school, when I was walking with my head down, focused on reciting words from my English vocabulary book, my backpack heavy with various study materials.
The reflective tiles on the school corridor floor reminded me of the smooth dance studio floor from my childhood dance classes. Back then, I twirled in front of the mirror, dressed in colorful dance costumes, in love with every spin and leap. I believed that, with enough effort, I could become a shining star on the stage. However, the cost of dance classes was too much for my mother, so I gave up.
“I’ve heard from Teacher Chen that your grades have been lingering at the back of the class. Don’t struggle alone,” Teacher Yang said. “I can help you. I don’t want to see students with potential like you get dragged down by math grades.”
“I’m fine,” I replied.
“I know facing academic difficulties can be discouraging. If you have any questions, or need extra help, feel free to come to me.”
“Thank you.”
He asked one more time as I prepared to leave, “Are you sure you don’t need additional tutoring? It’s not too late to start working hard. Don’t forget, only one or two students from the slow track manage to get into a university each year.” I didn’t turn back, just said, “Thank you, I’ll consider it.” Then I walked down the stairs, reminding myself to look up next time I walked.
As the night deepened, the lights in the schoolyard twinkled in the distance, like navigation lights under a distant starry sky, guiding the way home. I slowed my pace, letting my thoughts drift with the surrounding stillness. I felt the passage of time and the trajectories of those who couldn’t keep up with the tide of the era; they were being silently phased out. I decided: even if tomorrow brought clouds heavy with rain, flooding the path to school, my steps shall not halt.
Copyright © 2023 by Huina Zheng
