The morning air hung heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth as we set out beneath a sky of muted gray. Our journey was long and winding—highways unfurling into mountain roads, which in turn narrowed into meandering country lanes. Outside the window, the world softened: steel and concrete fading into patchworks of farmland and scattered villages.
Three hours later, we arrived at our destination. The building, once a grain storage silo, still bore the rugged charm of its former life—weathered brick, rust-streaked beams—but inside, it had been thoughtfully repurposed. Now it housed offices for PKU volunteers and served as a gathering space for their charity efforts, complete with well-equipped event rooms and modest guest quarters. I was especially struck by the photo wall—a mosaic of smiling faces and handwritten notes left behind by past cohorts of CAPS students.
We had come to meet the local middle school students. Though just a short distance from Beijing, the school felt like a world away. The schoolyard was a sea of packed dirt without a hint of color. No grass fields, no playgrounds—just a bare flagpole casting a thin shadow over the empty courtyard. The building itself was a stark, rectangular block, its concrete walls weathered by years of wind and rain. Each window offered a glimpse into a classroom—each one a mirror of the next. We were guided into a first-floor classroom, the sudden hush of curious eyes turning toward us. The room smelled of chalk dust and wooden desks. The students sat in perfectly aligned rows, each at their own little desk, textbooks propped open. They were reciting English vocabulary—first the English word, then the Chinese translation. The cadence was mechanical, drained of emotions, a call-and-response echoing off the bare walls.
After we stepped inside, the teacher stopped their recitation and gave us the room. This hour had been reserved for PE, usually held outdoors, but the rain had kept the students inside, leaving them with a stretch of free time. I could feel the eyes of the students on us as we made our way to the back. I slipped into an empty seat beside a girl who greeted me with an excited smile. Before I could say a word, she pressed a pink lollipop into my palm, its cellophane wrapper crinkling softly. My heart squeezed at the unexpected kindness. Flustered, I realized I had nothing prepared to give in return. I rummaged through my bag and finally unearthed a wrinkled packet of dried beef and a few fish snacks. She accepted them with delight, tucking them carefully into her desk.
Our guide introduced us to the class and explained the purpose of our visit. I shifted my attention to the rest of my class as I introduced myself. The room hummed with quiet anticipation. Our guide sparked the first ice-breakers, and at first, the dialogue danced within polite boundaries—hands rose like tentative waves, questions carefully chosen, answers given with gentle invitation.
Then, when I pulled out my phone to show them a picture of what an “American breakfast” looked like—my own morning meal at Cornell—the stillness was broken. Suddenly, the students rose from their seats and all crowded around me. Excited chatter filled the air; a dozen or so heads craned eagerly for a better glimpse of the small glowing screen. Seeing the commotion, our guide suggested that I move to the front and project the image for the entire class to see. As I pointed to the picture of the waffle crowned with blueberries and whipped cream glowing on the blackboard, I tried to turn it into a quick English lesson—weaving in a bit of vocabulary and grammar here and there— but they seemed far less enthusiastic than before.
When I returned to my seat, eager whispers once again urged me to share more photos from my album. This soon unraveled into a full tour of the many apps on my “exotic” phone. By then, a small circle of students had gathered around each of the three of us, and the teacher had long since surrendered any pretense of order. With no one reigning them in, the emboldened students grew more daring with their requests. A few even asked if I would play a round of League with them. Then came the flood of requests for signatures. I lost count of the notebooks and scraps of paper I signed, handing out my WeChat and phone number along the way.
A loud ring of the bell cut through the lively chatter, signaling the end of the free period and halting the flurry of signatures. Their teacher from before, a young woman who seemed to be in her mid to late twenties, stepped back into the classroom. English exam papers were quietly handed out, and the room settled into focused silence.
The girl sitting beside me nudged me for the answers. I glanced at the exam passage with her, quickly scanning the paragraph and whispering responses. Her deskmate peeked over, jotting down our selections onto his own paper. For a few questions, a flicker of doubt stirred within me—phrases that felt oddly phrased, questions that tested recognition more than comprehension. Though I ended up answering all of them correctly, it was clear this exam belonged to a system quite different from the one I knew.
In the American classrooms I was familiar with, English was taught not only as a language but as a living thing—something to be felt, interpreted, played with. We underlined metaphors in poems, debated meanings in short stories, experimented with voice and tone in our own writing. Mistakes were stepping stones, grammar a companion rather than a warden. But here, the approach felt more rigid, more rule-bound—English distilled into charts, formulas, and fill-in-the-blank questions. Memorization reigned; fluency was measured in accuracy, not expression.
When the teacher reviewed the exercises, I was surprised to see my new friend pay no attention at all, considering how much she struggled with the passages. When I hesitated and voiced my concern, she seemed unbothered, brushing off my worries with an easy wave and saying that it doesn’t matter because she couldn’t understand a thing anyway. Instead, she pulled out an array of colorful pens and invited me to draw with her. Every so often, she would produce a small gift from the depths of her desk—a packet of tiny folded paper stars, a green translucent sticker embossed with 发财 (fortune) in gold, and even a plastic snack container buzzing with trapped ants which she introduced as her cherished “pets”. As moved as I was by her kindness, I couldn’t help the quiet ache that settled deep in my chest. I noticed that her pencil case was worn, its colors faded and edges frayed, and I thought back to my own childhood—a stash of pristine pencil cases and untouched stationery sets lying forgotten in drawers, wasted in their disuse. The treasures she produced were humble to the point of heartbreak— the kind of trinkets that might have been discarded elsewhere, yet here, they were her most precious gifts.
When the teacher moved on to the next passage, I gently urged her to give it a try. I guided her through the lines, breaking each sentence into manageable pieces, stepping in only when she faltered, offering translations for the trickier words. To my pleasant surprise, she picked things up quickly, grasping new vocabulary without needing me to repeat a thing. It was a quiet revelation—proof of just how bright she truly was.
It dawned on me then that the issue wasn’t her ability to learn, but the system around her—one that prized correctness over curiosity, precision over play. Sitting beside her, it struck me just how easily the joy of language could be stifled. How many of them would grow up believing English was something cold and distant—meant only to be gotten right—when it could just as easily be messy and magical?
And as I watched her lean in over the passage, brow furrowed in focus, I realized that this brief exchange had changed something in me too. I had come to share, to teach, perhaps even to impress. But I was reminded of how much there is to learn: about patience, about inequity, about the countless bright minds left untended. Most of all, about the quiet power of kindness—passed between children, in pencil marks and paper stars.