Author: Anyi He
I still remember the sun-soaked streets of Panzhihua, a small town cradled by the rugged mountains of Sichuan province. The air there was cold with a sense of pride, carrying an aromatic, earthy scent of pine mingled with the distant smell of wildflowers that dotted the hillside. Few mountains are within sight range, and the rural environment is spread for miles. In this humble setting, my cousin, whom I’ll call Li Wei for privacy, began his life’s journey. This journey would eventually take him far from the similarities he was familiar with.
Li Wei was the kind of child who seemed to carry the weight of his dream even from a young age. Unlike the other kids taking their time chasing dragonflies in the rice paddies or flying the vibrant kites in the corn fields, he was often found under the sprawling branches of the ancient banyan tree that stood at the edge of the town. There, with the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, he would immerse himself in books that transported him beyond the mountains—to the ocean of knowledge far away. The only morning he broke from this routine was at the end of middle school when he celebrated with all his classmates at a party.
The 1990s in China were a time of transformation. The echoes of economic reforms were beginning to ripple, and chances were only delivered to the ones prepared. Especially after the implementation of Gaokao, the smart ones immediately realized that this was the key to the system. The score on Gaokao is the definition of life-changing; it could bring you out from your mountains to the cities where opportunities fly everywhere.
Li Wei approached his studies with an enthusiasm that bordered on obsession. At a very young age, he realized the importance of this life-giving opportunity. The dim glow of his study lamp became a family sight against the inky canvas of nights. Neighbors passing by late in the evening would see the silhouette of his bowed head through the window, a lone figure hunched over textbooks that seemed to pile ever high. The scratches of his pencils on the papers were a constant soundtrack in his household and a rural area like Panzhihua, which was sometimes the only hue in the dark sky every night.
The score of Gaokao finally came. The summer sun hung high in a cloudless sky, casting long shadows stretching endlessly. The mangos were redder and yellower than ever on the two sides of the street. “630,” one of the highest in the province. Hearing this news, Li Wei felt all his past sufferings were worth it. Looking at the score, excitement was not enough to describe his feelings. Without hesitations, he signed his name for the highest university in China—Tsinghua University. That is where he knew his life would be changed.
The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of preparations. His mother meticulously packed his belongings, carefully folding each article of clothing and tucking in small notes of encouragement. His father imparted words of wisdom in his gruff, understated manner, advising him on everything from managing finances to staying true to his values. The townspeople continued to offer support—some practical, like a sturdy suitcase or a warm quilt for Beijing’s harsh winters; others more symbolic, like talismans meant to ward off bad luck.
Finally, the day of his departure arrived. The entire family accompanied him to the train station—a modest structure of weathered bricks and peeling paint that had witnessed countless farewells and reunions over the years. The platform was abuzz with activity: vendors hawking steamed buns, the hiss of locomotives, the murmured conversations of travelers.
A hush fell over our group as the train pulled in with a screech of metal on metal. Hugs were exchanged, tears shed, and final words of advice offered. His mother pressed a small pouch into his hand—a lavender-filled sachet for calm and jasmine for luck. “Remember where you come from,” she whispered, her eyes glistening.