When I was a student in the middle grades of elementary school, I was once elected as the “township chief” of the school—a title that also meant I was chosen as the model student of the entire school, not just of my class. At that time, I felt quietly proud of myself. It was not a loud or boastful pride, but a warm sense of being recognized.
I knew, however, that I owed much of this honor to my teacher, Mr. Naiqin Zhang. He had guided me, encouraged me, and even helped prepare the speech that allowed me to stand before others with confidence. To him, I felt deeply grateful.
Around that same period, I experienced another cheerful moment—one that came not from recognition, but from laughter.
When I was in Grade Three, our class was chosen to participate in a school performance. A temporary stage was set up in the playground, and the villagers were invited to watch on a breezy early summer evening. The whole school seemed alive with excitement. There were songs, dances, and short plays prepared by different classes.
Our class presented two performances. A group of girls performed a graceful musical dance, while four boys—including myself—put on a silent comedy titled A Clever Fool. I played the main character.
My role required me to act in a serious manner, never smiling, while doing foolish things that would make the audience laugh. At the time, I did not know whether I was doing well. But the next day, a villager who had attended the performance met my mother on the road and said, “Your son was very funny last night. He never smiled, but he made everyone laugh.”
Hearing this, I felt a quiet joy. Perhaps, without realizing it, I had learned how to stand before people, to express myself naturally, and to connect with others. That experience stayed with me in later years.
Yet life, even in those early days, was never made of cheerful moments alone.
In Grade Five, I encountered something that shook my confidence deeply. Arithmetic had always been my best subject since Grade One. I had thought of it as something simple, almost effortless. But when the results of our first midterm examination were announced, a strange and discouraging truth emerged—none of the students in Grade Five had passed the Arithmetic test.
Even I, who had scored the highest in the class, received only a little over fifty points.
I remember the feeling clearly: confusion at first, then disappointment. How could something that had once seemed so easy suddenly become so difficult? It seemed that the lessons had leaped too far ahead, leaving all of us struggling behind. For the first time, I realized that confidence could be fragile.
But what truly left a mark on my heart was not this academic failure—it was a moment of public embarrassment.
One morning, during the flag-raising ceremony, all the students stood assembled in the playground. The national flag fluttered gently above us. It was a usual scene, calm and orderly.
Then, names began to be called.
One by one, several students—including myself—were called forward to stand on the square wooden platform near the flagpole. There were about fifteen of us. We stood there in silence, facing the entire school.
The reason was simple: we had not yet paid the Parents’ Association fee.
The fee was only ten NT dollars per family. But for my family, even such a small amount could not always be paid on time. My younger sisters also attended the same school, yet I, as the eldest, was expected to hand in the fee. Usually, we paid other necessary expenses first, leaving this one until later, when our parents could manage it.
Standing there in front of everyone, I felt a deep sense of embarrassment. Was this a reminder? A form of pressure? Or a kind of punishment? At that age, I could not fully understand. I only knew that I wished I were not standing there.
Looking back now, I understand more about the circumstances. But the feeling of that moment—of being exposed before others for something beyond my control—remains vivid even today.
Fortunately, not all such moments ended in discomfort.
That same year, our teacher was again Mr. Xincheng Cheng, who had taught us in Grade Two. He seemed more approachable now, and he worked hard to guide our large class.
During the summer vacation, he organized extra lessons to help students prepare for the entrance examinations for junior high school. Many students paid to attend these sessions, but I could not afford the fee.
Yet Mr. Cheng allowed me to join the class without charge. He even asked me to serve as the class leader, as I had done before. His kindness gave me both relief and encouragement.
One morning during those lessons, I tried to bring him a glass of tea. I did not realize how hot the tea in the pot was. As I poured it into the glass, the heat burned my fingers, and I could not hold it steadily. The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.
I stood there, shocked and ashamed.
To my surprise, Mr. Cheng did not scold me. He simply said, “Never mind,” and calmly went to fetch a ceramic cup instead. His gentle response eased my embarrassment more than any words could have done.
When I entered Grade Six, we were led by a new teacher, Mr. Yunxing Liao. He was young, energetic, and full of life. He played with us during breaks, spoke to us like an older brother, and often brought creativity into the classroom.
Under his guidance, we experienced many new things. Among them, one small moment remains especially meaningful to me.
One day, our class went on a hiking trip in the nearby mountains. Each student was expected to bring a lunch box. That morning, however, my parents had already left for work, and there was nothing suitable at home for me to bring.
I felt embarrassed and hesitant. I did not know what to do.
When I mentioned this quietly, Mr. Liao turned to the class and asked if anyone could help. After a brief pause, a few students offered. Finally, he asked a girl named Xiuhua, whose home was not far away.
About twenty minutes later, she returned, carrying a lunch box for me.
I can still remember that moment clearly—the simple kindness, the quiet understanding. I was deeply moved, though I could hardly find the words to express my gratitude.
Another unforgettable experience came near the end of our final year.
Mr. Liao had prepared a thank-you speech for the graduation ceremony and asked two of us—Shuilin and me—to memorize it. He gave us a curious instruction: the first one who could recite the speech perfectly would be allowed to rest, while the second would have to continue practicing—and would be the one to deliver the speech on stage.
We were both surprised. Normally, one would expect the better or faster student to be chosen for such a role.
We went to memorize the speech. As it turned out, Shuilin completed it first, while I was slower.
And so, according to Mr. Liao’s rule, I was the one assigned to stand on the stage and deliver the speech at the graduation ceremony.
At the time, I did not fully understand his intention. Why did he choose the slower learner? Why give such responsibility to someone less prepared?
Years later, I began to see a possible answer. Perhaps he wanted to give the quieter or less confident student a chance to grow. Perhaps he understood that sometimes what we need is not reward, but challenge.
In the end, however, life took another turn. When our final results were settled, it was not I but Shuilin who became the top graduate. He was admitted to junior high school without taking the entrance examination, while I had to go through the test to continue my studies.
Looking back, I find that my memories of those years are filled with both cheerful and shameful moments.
There was pride in achievement, and joy in laughter. There was also embarrassment, disappointment, and confusion. Yet, between these moments, there were acts of kindness, patience, and quiet encouragement—from teachers and classmates alike.
Now, after so many years, I realize that these experiences cannot be simply divided into joy or shame. Often, they are closely intertwined. A moment of shame may lead to growth, while a moment of success may carry hidden uncertainty.
Life, even in its earliest stages, teaches us in such subtle ways.
And perhaps it is through these cheerful and shameful moments together that we gradually come to understand ourselves—and others—a little better.
%20005%20Drizzle%20Beyond%20the%20Window.jpg)
.jpg)
%20005%20Drizzle%20Beyond%20the%20Window.jpg)
%20004%20Cheerful%20and%20Shameful%20Moments.jpg)
%20004%20Cheerful%20and%20Shameful%20Moments.jpg)
%20002%20First%20Sounds.jpg)
%20006%20Toward%20the%20Horizon.jpg)
%20004%20Cheerful%20and%20Shameful%20Moments.jpg)
%20003%20The%20Master%20of%20Many%20Ways.jpg)
%20001%20Small%20Hands.jpg)
