Hometown

Yesterday, I picked up my concert flute, which I hadn't used for a long time, to play a Japanese melody called "The Original Scenery of Hometown." As usual, I wanted to dissolve my sentiments into the music. I couldn't help but think of my hometown, though I still couldn't identify exactly where it was.

"Hometown" is always a confusing word to me. To my parents, it usually means the rural village where we lived before. However, I don't have much of an impression of those days because I moved to an urban area at the age of four. I usually consider the neighborhood I lived in within that urban area to be my hometown. It is the place where I can recall many stories from my childhood. It is where our family's previous store was located, where my junior high school was, and where my former neighbors—including my parents-in-law—used to live or currently still living.

A couple of months ago, I visited there with my family. A distinct change was that the empty space between my old apartment building and my in-laws' building has now become a car park. I missed the old days a little bit, when seniors could sit under the trees chatting with friends, and children, including me and my brother-in-law, could play various games.

For a very long time, when we talked about hometowns, we meant my mother's maiden hometown—the village she lived in before marriage. In the past, my granny lived alone in that village. Every school holiday, I would spend two to three weeks there. I liked living in the countryside, where you could see blue skies, white clouds, green trees, ponds, insects and animals just by walking out of your home. Granny raised a tortoise, and I often fed it carrots and porks. She also had a longan tree, which was said to have been planted by my granddad's parents. I envied the children living in the countryside because they could connect with nature easily. Meanwhile, I could only sit lonely on the balcony and it was the only place I could feel a little of the natural world.

Xi'an is another city that I was once attached to. However, the Xi'an I really liked belongs to the past, which has been gone for a very long time—for twenty years now.

Outcry In The Classroom

A few days before the school holidays, we received the student report for our older son. I talked to my wife privately, saying, "I think he has done well as a junior primary schooler. In fact, I don't want him to be too excellent at the beginning, as I am afraid he might be upset if he cannot always maintain that level of excellence. I'm fine as long as he can catch up with others." While I was talking about this, I could not help but recall my own experiences as a student in the past.

I was always a poorly performing student during the early years of my primary school. One day, the teacher required me and a few other students to stay in the classroom because she wanted to chat with our parents when they picked us up. When the parents arrived, she told them we were students falling behind others. Some parents blamed their children immediately upon hearing this, while my mother responded gently to the teacher, "I don't know how to teach him, so I hope the teachers from the school can support him more if needed."

The next day, the teacher praised the parents who had blamed their kids and criticised my mum, saying that she was not a responsible parent. My poor performance continued until Grade Five, when my dad started to guide me. He checked my homework every day. One day, he told me I was wrong on a question in the homework. The question stated that there was a metal sheet with a given width and length forming a rectangle, and if we wanted to cut small circles with a given radius, how many of them could be cut? In the answer I provided, I calculated the area of the rectangle, then calculated the area of the circle, and divided the former by the latter to get the result.

Dad drew a picture in a sketch book and said, "Cutting circles is different from cutting squares from a metal sheet, as there must be some corner materials that cannot be used." He asked me to use a ruler to draw the rectangle and label square grids whose side length was the same as the circle's diameter, and directly count the number from there.

The next day, the teacher said what I did was wrong and that the standard answer was the same as my previous solution. "My dad said this was impractical." I said to the teacher and explained like dad. "I think what your dad said is partially correct, as in practical applications, it should be like what he said." the teacher replied, "But in the exam, you still have to do it the same way as the standard answer, as the motivation of the question is to examine whether you know how to calculate the area of a circle from the radius. In your approach, you can't tell others that you can master this."

Under dad's guidance for my studies, I made rapid progress and, in Grade Six, I became one of the top students. After studying at a junior high school near home for three years, I was offered a position at our city's most prestigious senior high school. Moreover, I was selected for the so-called "Top Students' Class"—a class that was formed by the top 50 students in the grade. Within this competitive environment, I was no longer a top student anymore, which meant I also lost attention from the teachers. I became a low-performing student after staying in the class for a year. Then it was time for students to choose whether they liked to study STEM or the humanities and social sciences. Most students in my class chose physics, and so did I. Our class then became the class formed by the top students who selected physics. A few students in physics had fallen behind others in my class a little bit, so they were kicked out of my class and transferred to an ordinary class. Their academic performance suddenly boosted after that, while I finally became the last one in my class that year.

In the final year of senior high school, my academic performance was always within the range of the bottom ten students, and I had significantly fallen behind a few students from other classes.

"He has actually done quite a lot of exercises in his homework," the physics teacher said. "However, he always gets poor marks in the exams." Then suddenly all the students laughed, staring at me with prejudiced faces.

I became too stressed when the Gaokao, the entrance examination for universities, was approaching. In the mock exams, I was so anxious that I couldn't help but suffer from diarrhea during the exams, and I didn't have enough time to finish answering the questions.

Based on the results of the mock examinations, our school arranged for the top 50 students to have additional lessons. Most of them were from my classroom, while only one to two students were from others. I was not included within that group. Every afternoon, about ten or so students who were considered "losers" from my classroom studied by ourselves, while most of my classmates went to another room to receive extra instruction. No teachers came to our classroom to supervise us. No one even cared whether we were really studying. Students from other classes were treated very differently. As only a few of them had the opportunity to attend the extra lessons, the teachers would sit in their classrooms to supervise the remaining students. Every time I went to the teachers' office, my teachers would be surrounded by those top students, so I didn't get an opportunity to ask questions and seek help. I had been given up on by my school.

The reason I was given up on was that I had fallen behind in a class formed by top students at the beginning of senior high school. I regretted studying so hard during my years of junior high school. I knew I would at least receive more support if I hadn't been selected for this special class—a class that was designed to help top students achieve the highest marks in exams so they could go to the top two universities in China.

"Which questions do you want me to talk about?" When our teachers asked such questions in the classroom, I shouted out the numbers of the questions that I didn't understand. I shouted so loudly that my voice muted everyone else's. The teacher was embarrassed, while a few students frowned as if saying, "We already know how to do these simple questions," or, "It's a waste of our time." I didn't feel guilty at all despite this, as I knew the school's arrangements were very unfair to me. The teachers had to talk a bit about the questions I raised.

One day, the head teacher of my classroom began to ask poorly performing students to her office one by one, and she said she wanted to offer some support and express concern for those who had been ignored for a long time. I was one of them. She asked me why I was so stressed and whether I needed other support. I then said I would try my best to manage the stress. After she met with all of those students, she suddenly came back to the classroom and blamed me in front of the whole class, criticising my gestures for not being elegant and my words for not being mature enough. I was shocked. I thought even if my gestures were not elegant or my language was not mature, she should not be offended like that. I didn't know why she was suddenly angry with me and spent more than half an hour blaming me in the classroom, in front of all my classmates, just some weeks before the examinations. If she really wanted to educate me, why not tell me in a private conversation after the examinations? I didn't think the matters were that urgent. Instead, I felt I was innocent. Many years later, when I thought back to this incident, I realised the teacher was lying in front of all the students. She didn't care about my behaviour or words; rather, she minded me shouting out during lessons to request that the teachers explain what I didn't understand. There must have been other students who thought I wasted their time. But I still didn't believe it was my fault.

After all, even if I was given up on by the school and teachers, they should not have treated me like that. As a student in the school, I should have received equal support compared to those top-performing ones. Especially since my academic records were far above the average in my grade. I was only falling behind in my class because it was a special one filled with students selected from exams at the beginning. I knew I most likely wouldn't have opportunities to get into top universities in cities with a high standard of living, so I focused on universities located in Northwestern or Northeastern China, as they were not as competitive as the province I was living in.

I was finally accepted by a top institution for electronic science in Xi'an and studied telecommunications engineering. In the first semester, my academic performance was far below the average. However, I caught up with the average in the second semester. From the second year onward, I continued to improve and became a top student in my class. Many years later, when I recalled this, I thought of a doctor's judgment during a physical checkup after I recovered from mumps as a teenager. He said some aspects of my puberty development progressed slower than average. Despite this still being normal, it might have triggered a brain development delay for a few years, which was a disadvantage during the university entrance exams.

In the final semester of the final year, all students needed to do a final project. At first, I wanted to devote all my energy to it, but my supervisor told me to use a few network simulation software platforms, such as OPNET and NS2. Later, as I planned to study in Australia, I spent a lot of time preparing for the IELTS exam. Once I finished the examination, I had less than a month left for the final project. I didn't have time to learn those network simulation tools. I spent some time reading a research paper instead and used the C programming language to write a simulation program for an algorithm from that paper, which shocked my supervisor. But later he said that due to our university's policy, students who wanted to be accepted into a postgraduate course with entrance exam exemptions had to achieve straight A's in their grades, while those who would study a postgraduate course at our university had to get a B. For others, the best possible grade allowed was a C. Since I had a plan to study abroad, he argued with the review panel and finally managed to give me a B. How ridiculous!

In 2017, just a few days before I went to Shenzhen for a job interview, I received a meeting invitation from QUT to discuss plagiarism within a PhD thesis written by a QUT graduate who was working at CMU as an associate professor. During the meeting, the staff from QUT said the thesis contained statements copied from others. They asked me how I wanted them to deal with the issue. I said they should do what they had to do according to QUT's rules. A couple of months later, I received an email from the head of school at QUT. He said they had contacted the professor from CMU and he had corrected those parts containing plagiarism. QUT would replace the old thesis with the new one online so that in the future, people would not find the same problems in the thesis.

I then understood why plagiarism was so popular in the academic world.

The Calmness After Raging Waves

Last Sunday, we went to the Redcliffe Peninsula. After spending some time allowing the kids to play on the jumping pillow by the seashore, I suggested moving to a place where we could admire the sunset over the ocean.

When we arrived, the waning sun was shedding its golden rays onto the lawn where we were standing. There was the sea in front of us, with a patch of stunning golden waves reflecting the light of the sunset. The clouds had been turned into pink, orange and purple. A few canvas boats were lazily floating on the water, while a couple of fishing boats were moving steadily, crossing the golden waves. Our two boys were chasing each other on the lawn. Occasionally, there were passersby leading dogs who greeted us.

“Once I retire," I said to my wife, "I will take you to the seashore every afternoon to admire the sunset, watching the waves moving from far to near, and the tides rising and receding.""But the ocean is not always calm," she said. "Sometimes, there are tempests!"She was correct. The ocean is not always as calm as it was then, and it is not unusual to see raging waves. This is just like a person; sometimes, a very gentle person can have tantrums. Life contains suffering. But there will be a day when all this suffering has passed, leaving only memories, and our life experience will have been enriched. 

Many years ago, a friend living in Shenzhen told me, "Please never think of or speak of the sufferings in ZTE again. We've understood you. Past is past. Let's look forward to the future."I'm very grateful for my friend's concern. However, when thinking of those stories, I have not felt annoyed or disturbed. Instead, I view it as a glory. It is unusual for a fresh university graduate to be deceived by a tech giant. To some extent, it is the proof of my excellence.

When we came back home, I drew a picture in the evening when my toddler was sleeping. It has become one of my most satisfying landscape paintings.

My musical journey

Every Monday afternoon, I take my son to piano lessons after finishing work. This is also an opportunity for me to learn music theory from a teacher as a spectator, even though the piano is not the instrument I play.

I did not have similar opportunities during my childhood. When I was very young, I had few toys. One of my favorite activities was role-playing, using toilet paper and rubber bands to make fake people. During the first year after my dad came back home, he bought an electronic keyboard for my eldest sister, which was why I always thought he favored her more.

However, I would occasionally imitate my sister and sit in front of the keyboard to play a simple tune, such as "Ode to Joy." Around the same time, I could play a nursery rhyme on a harmonica, though I still did not understand how to read sheet music. I played songs by ear and through practice.

A couple of years later, I got a bamboo Dizi. I was almost immediately attracted to its pleasant sound. Dad was said to be an amateur flutist, so he began to teach me. Meanwhile, I bought a couple of music books to learn the techniques along with music theory by myself.

When my seventeenth birthday came, my parents bought me a very expensive xiao flute. At first, I refused it as it cost too much, but Mum and Dad insisted on giving it to me as compensation for a childhood that was lacking toys. They also bought a very cheap erhu which broke after just half a year.

Since then, playing the xiao flute had become my favourite hobby. I liked to play it on the balcony of my dorm during my years in Xi’an, and it gave me much pleasure and decorated my university life. I only stopped for a couple of years when I first came to Australia, but I couldn't hold out for longer, so I picked it up again and often played it on the lawn close to Indooroopilly State High School. It soothed my heart when I was lonely, especially when I was isolated and bullied on campus, or when I had quarrels with my grandmother.

When I was still studying, I was eager to finish my degree as soon as possible; however, my supervisor continually said there were too many spelling and grammar errors in my thesis and would not allow me to submit it. I was very frustrated because I knew I couldn’t improve my English to correct them in a short time. I didn't want to do anything but find something that I was interested in. I went to a music store nearby and bought a classical guitar. From then on, the classical guitar became my favourite instrument, and it has accompanied me through all those difficult times.

To me, Dizi is like my first lover in the good old days. Xiao is like my ex-partner who has lived with me for a long time and now is still one of my very best friends. The classical guitar is as if a lover that I am now dating for.

Children’s Day

The recent newsletter from my son's primary school described the activities for Under Eight's Day. We didn't have a festival like that when I was growing up in China. Instead, we had Children's Day on June 1st for all children before they entered secondary school, which is probably the closest equivalent.

I can still remember that there was usually an evening carnival held in the open air at school. Each class would put on a performance on the stage, such as a choir, a dance, or a drama, but as usual, it was none of my business. I was never on stage throughout the years at primary school. Even when everyone else danced to "Jingle Bells" in Grade Three, I was the only one left in the audience area. I didn't mind that at all and even felt lucky as it gave me much freedom to do whatever I liked, such as staring at the moon, counting the weeds on the ground, and looking for uniquely shaped rocks.

When I was in Grade Five, my mum bought me a new pair of pants for the carnival. "Though you won't participate in the drama, you should still dress smartly and enjoy the activities," she said.

When I arrived at the classroom, my teacher was instructing some students on how to perform the play "The Fisherman and His Wife". She glanced at me as I entered the room. She was telling off the boy who was supposed to play the fisherman, saying, "Why are you wearing such brightly coloured pants? You don't look like a poor fisherman at all! Please find someone wearing grey to swap with you."

"Who is wearing grey?" the boy asked. The teacher gestured to me, signaling for me to come over. She then said, "You two go to the bathroom and swap your pants, please!" I was highly reluctant to do so, but since it was the teacher's instruction, I had no choice. "Hooray!" "Well done!" All others cheered as the boy performed on stage. "The drama was very impressive!" the principal remarked. But I sat there unhappily, staring at the blue pants I had exchanged with the other boy.

When the carnival ended, we went back to the bathroom to swap our trousers back. "Why are my trousers so dirty?" I asked. "It's none of my business," he replied, “The teacher told me to rub some dirt from the ground onto them. She said it was the only way I could look like a poor fisherman." At home, I cried and blamed my mother for giving me a pair of grey pants. I sweared I would never wear them again.

As I grew older, I realized that this was simply a form of schoolyard bullying. It was the teacher, if not the boy, who wanted to embarrass me. While art imitates life, it also elevates it. In a drama, one does not need to wear exact replica clothing to portray a character convincingly. There are many other ways to convey your role to the audience; that is the true art of the stage.

Recently, I sang Cantonese opera, performing both the male and female roles. I do not attempt to sing exactly like a woman, as that is impossible. Instead, I alter the two voices just enough to make it clear that there are two distinct characters: one male and one female.

The Love That Can’t Tell

 Yesterday, I drew a picture of an old lady taking three children to eat jelly in a revolving restaurant. My son saw the picture, pointed to the little boy in the middle, and said, "That's me!" "No," I said, "that's me when I was very young." The story behind the picture is that my grandma took me and my sisters to a revolving restaurant during her first visit to China since migrating to Australia. I was five years old at the time.

Grandma was the kind of person who liked to hide almost everything in her mind. I felt it was very challenging to know what she was really thinking about. I remember that many times I saw her staring at an old black-and-white photo of a lady sitting on a chair. I asked her who she was. "She's my mother," she said. However, she refused to tell me why she looked at her mother's photo again and again throughout the year. "Do you miss your mum?" I asked. "No," she responded.

One day, when I woke up in the morning, Grandma merrily told me that she had cooked some noodles for my breakfast. "Now you should know how good I am to you. I am over eighty. Who else would I make breakfast for?" she said. "Yeah, you're good to me. But that doesn't mean you're better to me than to others. You took care of others when they were very young. You cuddled them, soothed them to sleep, and fed them. But when I came to your place, I was already grown up. At least you don't need to feed me," I rebutted.

A few days later, I came home just as the moon was rising. Grandma was standing on the porch, waving anxiously at me. She urged me to come to the dining table as soon as possible, and she opened the microwave to fetch a bowl of soup. After dipping a finger into the soup, she said, "The temperature is just right. This is a bowl of American ginseng soup. I only have one bowl. Drink it as soon as possible." "But I am not hungry," I said. "Sit down!" she ordered.

With one hand holding the back of my head and the other hand holding the bowl, she fed me! After she finished feeding me, she looked out the window and glanced around. Suddenly, she giggled and said, "This is a secret between us. Don't tell anyone that I gave the soup to you!" She looked smug.

A nightingale with a true heart

Yesterday, I drew a picture of a bird and flowers. While drawing the bird, I thought of a fairy tale called The Nightingale, written by Andersen. In ancient China, there lived a nightingale who could sing beautifully. His songs touched the emperor, who couldn't keep tears from falling while listening to his singing.

But soon, the emperor of Japan sent a mechanical bird to China, causing the real bird to lose favor in the palace. The end of the story was that the emperor became very sick a few years later, but the real nightingale flew to his bed and cured him with its singing.

What is the difference between the real and mechanical birds? Only the real bird can sing from its heart. A song from a true heart can cure a soul while those with hypocrisy only make others sick. Any form of art should be created from the creator's true heart. Otherwise, it is hard to move people, or what is worse, it is harmful. This is a principle I have always adhered to while making any art product. 

Many years ago, when I was about to leave Xi'an, a friend said to me, "Oh, my dear Little New, you're too kind-hearted because you treat everyone with a true heart. I'm afraid that you will be hurt sooner or later, since not everyone is as friendly to you as we are." After leaving Xi'an, my life became very different. I went to Australia and met a lot of people. Just as my friend had expected, I was hurt by one person after another. I even tried to learn to be more hypocritical and cunning, but I found it very hard to be that way. I have a strong feeling of guilt when telling a lie. Having experienced the ups and downs of life, I've chosen to be myself, living a simple life. I want to just be a nightingale Lin a forest, singing with my own voice and own heart.