TEST FEVER

By RICHARD MULLINS

What the gaokao means to today’s students, teachers and parents

HUNDREDS of sweating students wander nervously around the grounds of Beijing’s No. 2 Senior Middle School, clutching chewed-up pencils in their quivering hands. For once, the streets outside are eerily quiet – all traffic in the surrounding area has been cordoned off. The doors spring open, and the shaking students shuffle through, leaving their parents outside, chomping their nails down to the quick. The students will spend three days scribbling the contents of every brain cell onto pieces of paper. Then, they’ll walk back out the doors, with their academic fate sealed inside a number of paper envelopes. Middle schools all over the country witness similar scenes. It’s June, and about 8 million senior three students are sitting this year’s gaokao, China’s National College Entrance Exam.

“It was the most important day of my life,” recounts Yang Yang, who sat the gaokao in June last year. “All of my classmates, all of our parents and all of our teachers were under tremendous pressure for the entire year.” Pressure is something that China’s dedicated bunch of senior three teachers are accustomed to. Each and every year they prepare a fresh group of young students and worried parents for an academic crusade, and their job is quite literally a full time one. “Parents frequently call us at home, to discuss their child’s progress or problems, or to seek advice on anything from dealing with psychological difficulties to insomnia,” says Wang Xiaoqian, an English teacher in a Beijing middle school. Students spend every waking hour battling with books, pens and test papers, with little time to spare for socializing or exercise, save for the PE classes in school. Any other activity is deemed a waste of valuable time. Facts and figures are memorized, so that come exam day, the student will be able to fire them onto the papers, almost without thinking. Parents, meanwhile, worry that their child will either fail to get into one of the country’s key universities, or worse still, fail to get accepted anywhere. Their concerns are justifiable – it is their solitary child that the parents of today will depend on tomorrow.

The National College Entrance Exam was restored in 1977 after the Cultural Revolution. Over the years, it underwent a number of reforms, aimed at making the test fairer and more objective. “Nowadays, the examination system is standardized nationwide,” says Liu Yusen, an experienced teacher in a top Beijing middle school. “All schools now use the 3 + X system. This means students take three compulsory subjects, namely Chinese, English and Mathematics. Then they choose a combination of History, Geography and Politics, or Physics, Chemistry and Biology.” However, the examination papers and standards still differ between the municipalities, provinces and autonomous regions. Shanghai and Guangzhou pioneered the 3 + X system, and it gradually spread around the country. The exam contents have also been reformed in recent times. They are now much more comprehensive than in the past. “For example, the English exam now includes a listening comprehension section, as well as a composition section, and a large part of the marks are awarded for these,” says Liu Yusen. “These changes are aimed at getting a better assessment of the students’ ability to learn and use a subject, rather than simply memorizing grammar and vocabulary.” However, learning by rote is still the dominant method, particularly in schools with poorer facilities.

Quality of learning is not the only disadvantage that schools in poorer areas have to contend with. If a girl from Anhui Province has set her sights on a degree in Beijing’s Tsinghua University or Shanghai’s Fudan, she’ll have to put in a stellar performance on exam day to achieve that goal. “The key universities are all located in China’s big cities,” says Chen Ling, who used to teach senior three in Hubei Province, but now works in Beijing. “And local students, or those with a hukou (residence registration) in these cities, can get in on a much lower score than those from outside. The difference in scores is substantial.” So deciding which university to apply for is a massive headache for gaokao students – and their parents. “Students should be realistic,” says Yang Yang. “They should know their capabilities, and apply accordingly.”

Senior three teachers put their heart and soul into preparing their students for the gaokao. When the coursework has been covered, it’s revised again and again. Extra study sessions and classes are put on at the weekends, and are mandatory. “In addition to the weekend classes, we offer weaker students more classes, where we take them through more difficult areas of the subject until they’ve got a good grasp on it,” says senior three teacher Guo Liying. Mock exams are prepared and marked throughout the term. The only thing that teachers don’t do for their students is to physically take the gaokao itself. “After the mocks, we hold extensive meetings with the parents,” says Guo Liying. “First the principal will give a speech, telling the parents what he expects from the students and offering some general guidelines. Then we step in and discuss each case individually.” Their advice often extends beyond academic boundaries. These experienced senior three teachers impart nutritional tips, growing pains advice, and in some cases, psychological counseling. “Due to the seriousness of the gaokao, and the impact that success or failure can have on a child’s future, there can be great tensions between the parents and their children,” says Guo Liying. “Sometimes just a phone call or a few kindly words of encouragement are enough to defuse the tension.”

Yang Yang’s mother, Li Baoqiang, felt these parent-teacher meetings were invaluable when she was trying to guide her son through the most challenging year of his life. She also found them costly. “At the meetings, we were encouraged to buy medicines or health tonics to help keep the kids mentally and physically fit,” she says. “These were ‘conveniently’ available when the meetings finished, and they were not cheap!” Li Baoqiang did worry over her son’s health when he was preparing for the gaokao. Fourteen-hour study marathons, repeated over a lengthy period of time, are bound to take their toll on anyone. She was also concerned that Yang Yang might not perform to his best ability. “I would offer my son ‘words of encouragement’ – but we both knew that ‘study harder’ was my real meaning.’’ Yang Yang, like most Chinese youngsters, was mature enough to realize that his mother had his best interests at heart. So harder he studied, and was accepted into his chosen course, ranking first among all the applicants.

Not all students are as fortunate as Yang Yang. Many fail to get through the gaokao system. Disappointed, dejected, but not dead, they’ll find other options available should the unthinkable come to pass. They can always repeat. But the number of candidates is rising every year. Statistics from the Chinese Ministry of Education (MOE) show there were 6 million in 2003 and 7 million in 2004. The Ministry estimates that 8 million will sit the test this year, and more than 10 million in 2006. “None of us thinks we’ll fail. We like to have a positive attitude going into the test,” says Cheng Bing, who sits the gaokao in June, “but we all know that should we fail this time, the competition will be much greater next time round. This discourages many failed students from trying again.”

Then, the number of MOE-accredited private colleges is growing, and these do not use the gaokao system when admitting students. They offer failed students a second chance at obtaining third-level education. However, private colleges in China usually get “second pick” when it comes to recruiting students. Only students that have applied and failed to get into public universities can be accepted. This hardly affords private universities the opportunity to cultivate the cream of the country’s talent. What’s more, today’s private mega-colleges, their facilities and faculties have been conjured out of non-existence over the past twenty years or so. Such hasty construction of academic institutes raises questions about the quality of the lecturers, and the existence of a well established “university culture”. “Although I’d like to see more students going to private colleges in China, they’re still in an early stage of development,” says teacher Guo Liying. “People, and more importantly, employers, don’t yet give them the recognition they need.”

Some other reforms to the national college entrance examination system have been introduced in recent years, but they have been met with mixed reaction from the public. In the past, only unmarried under-25-year-olds could sit the exam. These criteria have been abolished; the exam is now open to anyone with a high-school graduation certificate. So a great many more Chinese have a chance to get a college education and enter an increasingly knowledge-oriented job market and culture, a sign of progress for any nation, developing or otherwise. However, some parents fret that their little emperors will have an even tougher time competing against the big boys, and if they do get through the gaokao, that older classmates may corrupt their little kiddies’ delicate young minds.

“The gaokao system works for us,” says Yang Yang. “It is a year of great stress, a year when books and notes are our only companions. But Chinese students know the value of success and the price of failure, so we’re willing to make every effort we can.” Offering a small piece of advice for June’s gaokao contenders, Yang Yang says, “The most important thing is to keep motivated. See the goal line and visualize your success. It’s important, though, not to burn out. Get enough rest and perform to the best of your ability. It will be worthwhile in the end!”