Creative Nonfiction
Jirka Matousek, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
My big brother, the eldest among us siblings, had to take the final highly competitive middle school entrance exam—a nightmare for 10- to 12-year-old kids aiming for the best schools. Determined to give him the best chance, Dad transferred him to a class taught by his friend, a teacher notoriously for achieving results through an iron-fist approach.
The teacher’s method was typical for that time: intensive test drills paired with harsh physical punishments. Spankings on the hands or buttocks, running laps, or squatting while holding a heavy chair were common. The cycle of "crime" (low test scores) and "punishment" continued relentlessly until students reached the teacher’s definition of acceptable scores.
I remember the kind of complex math problems we were drilled on during those years, such as the classic "Chickens and Rabbits are in the Same Cage."
The problem went like this:
Some chickens and rabbits are locked in the same cage. There are 35 heads and 94 feet in total. How many chickens and rabbits are there?
Using algebra, it is easy to solve, arriving at the answer of 23 chickens and 12 rabbits. However, algebra wasn’t taught in elementary school back then, and I struggled with these types of questions.
Moreover, students had to memorize thousands of Chinese characters and phrases, along with their proper usage. They were expected to correct misused homophones in sentences and compose well-crafted essays on unpredictable topics. Only the top one percent of students—those with the highest merit rankings—could secure a spot at the best middle school in the region.
For many, the pressure was unbearable. Some kids couldn’t keep up with the relentless workload and eventually dropped out of school entirely, becoming child laborers. Parents, however, often saw overcoming this grueling challenge as a crucial milestone, the first major success in life. Determined to ensure their children crossed the finish line, they forced them to attend costly after-school prep classes, infamously known as the "Cruel Torture Class" (惡補).
The Cruel Torture Classes began in 5th grade. My brother vividly recalled, “I was terrified of my teacher, Mr. Wu. We used to carry pieces of ginger to rub on our hands, hoping to ease the pain and prevent blisters from his spankings.”
My mother often shared a chilling story from that time: my brother was once beaten by our father with a belt after Mr. Wu caught him hiding a cheat sheet during a test. It was shocking to us—our father, who was usually so gentle, never spanked us!
Perhaps the Cruel Torture Class did its job—my brother earned a place at the best school in the region, Chia-Yi Middle and High School. Unlike wealthy families who celebrated such achievements with firecrackers or lavish banquets, my parents couldn’t afford such extravagance. Still, we proudly shared the news with anyone who asked!
My brother’s khaki, military-style uniform, with the school’s name embroidered on the top of the shirt pocket, became a badge of honor. It was a visible declaration of success that drew admiration and praise from everyone who saw him. Without a doubt, it inspired me, the second child, to follow in his footsteps.
Thirty years ago, I wrote this essay to capture the moment I decided to pursue education. It stands as evidence of when and how I set my first meaningful goal.
The Midnight Lamp
Twenty-five years ago, at the age of thirteen, I entered middle school. For the first time, I heard my heart whisper: “I will never become an ordinary person.” Fueled by an eagerness to absorb knowledge from school and beyond, I made a bold decision to challenge myself and strive for the person I envisioned. I set a goal: by the age of twenty, I would become someone of significance.
Perhaps this inner voice was too insistent to ignore. To focus on my ambitions, I moved into a small room where I could study and sleep alone, free from disturbing my peacefully resting family.
My father supported me by buying a small table lamp. Its soft glow illuminated my desk as I calculated math problems, memorized English words, and escaped into the imaginative worlds of the books I devoured. Often, I studied deep into the night, resenting the need to rest. My eyes would blur and refuse to stay open. On those nights, I sometimes slumped over my desk, dozing off and leaving traces of drool on my books.
When my mother noticed, she would shake me awake and urge me to go to bed. But if a test was near, I refused her. Though she didn’t agree with my midnight study habits, she would lovingly prepare a bowl of hot noodle soup, its warmth revitalizing me and giving me the energy to tackle my challenging homework.
A few hundred yards from our house stood the train station. During my late-night study sessions, trains would stop at the station, breaking the stillness of the night. Their rumbling roars became my companions in the quiet hours. Sometimes, as the trains passed slowly, I caught glimpses of passengers through the windows and wondered: “Who are they? Where are they going? Why are they traveling at this hour?”
Staring at the moving train until it vanished, I imagined the passengers looking back, noticing my glowing yellow lamp in the distance. Perhaps they wondered, “Who is there? Why is that lamp burning so late at night?”
In the sound of chugging trains and the light of my midnight lamp, my thirteenth year of life passed quickly. It was a year marked by hardship and loneliness, yet it taught me resilience and the strength to endure. The midnight trains, like a string of glittering pearls gliding through the darkness, would disappear into the unknown. This image, indelible and everlasting, remains one of the most beautiful memories of my life."
Apparently, I never became famous by the age of 20. My schooling and career instead followed a modest path. However, when I look back, many moments associated with the image of midnight study stand out vividly and seem to have guided me toward becoming who I am today. One of these memories involves the lumber factory and the food cart in front of it.
Our street was called “Forest Road,” aptly named for the cluster of sawmills and lumber stores packed wall to wall along its length. The stretch began at the Ah-Li Mountain Railroad Station and extended about a mile, ending near our house.
Directly across the street from my home was a sawmill. Its sprawling tin roof was visible from the small upstairs window of my house. By day, the sawmill filled the air with the sharp, rhythmic screeches of running saws—a sound so piercing it hurt the ears of anyone who paid attention.
The lumber store owners were wealthy, as the adults often told me, but they didn’t seem to interact with our social circle. Our railroad public housing community was home to many “People from China” who spoke only Mandarin, while these “Taiwanese People” primarily spoke Taiwanese.
However, I became friends with Ah-Yu, the daughter of the sawmill owners across the street. I often ventured into the sawmill to look for her. It was a bustling factory, with massive saw machines in constant motion—peeling bark and slicing logs. The floor was blanketed with ankle-high piles of sawdust and thin bark peels. I enjoyed stepping into the soft, tingling layers and breathing in the fragrant scent of freshly cut wood.
Despite the allure of the sawdust, the sight of the enormous machines and the betel nuts-chewing workers, whose mouths and teeth-stained dark red juice like blood smears, unsettled me. The factory was off limits to children, so I usually stood at the entrance, glancing around and calling Ah-Yu’s name. Once I found her, we would run outside to play or do our homework together.
I excelled academically, while Ah-Yu shone in athletics. What she didn’t know was that while she slept peacefully at night, I was “burning the midnight oil,” preparing for tests.
In the winter, as I studied alone at night, the warm glow of a yellow street light illuminated the scene outside. A food cart was always parked in front of the sawmill, and the sweet, rich aroma of deep-fried egg flour filled the air, stirring my hunger.
Mom would sometimes give me money to buy the snack. At the cart, a neatly dressed middle-aged couple worked together. The husband rolled the dough, while the wife filled it with sweet red bean paste. Each cake was deep-fried in a large pot of oil until its crust turned golden and cracked. They never fried the cakes in advance—they insisted on cooking them fresh for each customer, ensuring they were hot and crunchy.
The cakes were affordable, so Mom allowed me to buy enough for everyone at home. After savoring the sweet, warm snack, I always felt re-energized, ready to return to my studies with renewed focus.
The couple appeared to be in their late thirties or early forties. They were always smiley, soft-spoken, and gentle—very different from the typically loud, peasant-like demeanor of most street food vendors. To me, they seemed more like teachers or office workers, and I suspected they were educated. Regretfully, their business didn’t last long enough for me to learn more about them. They came only during the winter months, and only for a few winters. I often imagined they had faced financial hardship and started this work to supplement their income. Perhaps, once their situation improved, they no longer needed the extra work.
By the 1970s, the overharvesting of the A-Li Mountain forests led to the decline of the lumber industry. Chia-Yi City’s once thriving lumber stores and sawmills began to disappear. In the early-70s, the sawmill owned by Ah-Yu’s parents was closed, and years later, was demolished. I entered high school with dreams of university, while Ah-Yu attended a business trade school. Our paths diverged, and when I moved to Taipei for college, we lost contact.
I never had those red bean deep-fried cakes again, but the memory of the couple remains vivid. They were truly one of a kind. If I could recreate that cake, I believe I would taste more than just the ingredients. I would taste the essence of those moments: the midnight study, the sawmill, the glowing food cart, the well-mannered couple, my athletic friend Ah-Yu, and the history of a once-prosperous lumber town now vanished. All of them are embedded in that fleeting yet unforgettable time.