The Master of Many Ways

#2026-0403

The Master of Many Ways

(A story from Dreamlike Reality)

When I think of my years in Grades Three and Four, one figure rises above the rest—not because he spoke loudly, but because everything he did seemed to carry a quiet power.

His name was Mr. Naiqin Zhang.

He came from Shandong Province, following the government to Taiwan in earlier years. In my eyes, he looked almost like a soldier—upright, steady, and composed. He spoke clear and standard Mandarin, the kind we were only beginning to learn. There was something in his bearing that made him seem both approachable and quietly commanding.

By that time, school was no longer new to me. I could read, write, and follow lessons without much difficulty. But it was under Mr. Zhang that learning began to feel different—not just something to complete, but something to experience.

It began, perhaps, with drawing.

In those years, the school offered what we called “extra curriculum” activities. Students from Grades Three to Six could choose a group according to their interests. Without much hesitation, I joined the Drawing and Painting group.

That was where Mr. Zhang led us.

One afternoon, he placed a portrait on the front table—a picture of Yue Fei, a historical hero. We were asked to copy it using pencils and colored crayons. One by one, we bent over our papers, trying to follow the lines, the shapes, the colors as carefully as we could.

When we finished, we submitted our work and gathered around him as he began to look through the drawings.

When my picture appeared before him, I spoke without thinking.

“This one is not good enough,” I said.

I meant my own drawing. I thought I was being modest.

Mr. Zhang turned to me and said gently, “Don’t be so critical of your classmates’ work. This one is not too bad, is it?”

I was startled. For a moment, I could not speak.

Only later did I begin to understand that he had not simply misunderstood me. He had used that moment to teach something else—that learning was not only about skill, but also about how we looked at others, and perhaps at ourselves.

Under his guidance, drawing became more than copying lines. It became a way of seeing.

But Mr. Zhang’s influence did not remain within the classroom.

One year, the school organized an election. It was meant to teach us the idea of democracy. Each class selected a “model student,” and from among them, one would be chosen as the “township chief” of the school.

To my surprise, I became one of the candidates.

I did not know how to speak, nor how to persuade others. But Mr. Zhang helped me. He wrote a campaign speech for me and arranged for me to read it through the loudspeaker in the teachers’ office.

That was not all.

On the day of the campaign, some classmates formed what they called a “horse” by placing their hands on each other’s shoulders. I sat above them, lifted slightly higher than usual, as we moved from classroom to classroom.

“Please give me your precious votes,” I repeated, again and again.

From that small height, I felt both excited and uncertain.

When the results were announced, I was chosen as the “township chief.”

I was only in Grade Four.

Some older students laughed at me afterward. They played with words, making light of my title, as if to remind me that I was still younger than they were. At the time, I felt a little embarrassed, but not deeply hurt.

What remained stronger in my mind was something else—the feeling of being supported, of being lifted, quite literally, by those around me.

And behind it all, I knew, was Mr. Zhang.

His way of teaching was never limited to one method.

One morning, he brought steamed bread he had made at home. He broke it into small pieces and gave one to each of us.

“Do not swallow it too quickly,” he said. “Chew it slowly. What do you taste?”

We followed his instructions.

“It’s a little sweet, isn’t it?” he continued. “That is the starch. When you chew it, it becomes sugar.”

It was a simple lesson, but I remember it clearly even now—not because of the explanation, but because of the experience itself.

Another time, he took us to the playground and arranged us in rows of four. We stood in formation, as if preparing for a march. But instead of marching, he asked us to pose—lifting one leg, stretching our arms.

Then he took photographs from different angles.

When the pictures were later displayed, they showed a perfect procession, as if we had been moving in complete unity.

We had not been marching at all.

Yet through his camera, we saw something we could not see while standing still.

Even in the classroom, he found ways to make things come alive.

Once, during a teaching demonstration for other teachers, he told a story using a series of drawings. The pictures were arranged in layers at the top of the blackboard. As the story unfolded, he moved them one by one, revealing each scene in order.

It was like watching something appear and disappear at the same time.

We followed every movement, every image, as if we were part of the story ourselves.

There were also moments when he was strict.

Before one examination, he set different expectations for different students. For me, he expected a score of ninety-five.

When the results came, I had scored ninety.

According to his rule, I received five strikes of the bamboo stick.

Yet even then, I could feel that he did not strike with full force. There was discipline, but there was also restraint.

He demanded effort, but not without understanding.

Under his guidance, I began to feel that learning was not only about knowledge, but about becoming something more than I had been before.

Then, not long after I graduated from the school, he left.

He moved to a distant place to continue teaching.

I did not expect how much I would miss him.

One day, while I was already in junior high school, I saw a jeep passing by near Changliu. On its side was a round plate with the character “勤” (qin).

My heart suddenly stirred.

Perhaps it was his bearing—always a little like that of a soldier—that made the thought come to me so quickly.

That was the same character as in his name—迺勤 (Naiqin).

Without thinking, I began to run after the jeep.

I thought he had returned.

The vehicle moved quickly along the road, and I ran as fast as I could, trying to catch up. When I could no longer see it clearly, I turned toward the place where he used to live.

I ran all the way to his dormitory.

But when I arrived, there was no jeep.

The courtyard was empty.

Only then did I realize that I had been mistaken.

Years later, I understood that the character “勤” on the vehicle referred to military logistics, not to a person’s name.

But at that moment, standing there and catching my breath, I felt something I had not expected.

A quiet emptiness.

And beneath it, something else—something that had begun long before, in those classrooms, in those drawings, in those carefully guided moments.

Even now, when I think of those years, I do not remember only what I learned.

I remember how I was led—sometimes gently, sometimes firmly—to see more, to try more, and to believe, even for a while, that I could become more.

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