Every day, I shouldered my schoolbag again and headed west, enduring loneliness and solitude. Every day, I opened my mouth wide and imitated Teacher Zhang, forcing air past my lips with a burst of "PPP" sounds. Half a year, a year... I got used to this quiet life, looking out at distant mountains and the sea, watching flowers bloom and fade. Like a monk who had taken his vows, I sat every day in a corner untouched by sunlight, listening to the endless chatter of one teacher after another. One year, two years... Then suddenly, one day, I picked up a teaching pointer and realized I had become Teacher Zhang. I still couldn't tell when to curl my tongue and when not to, and spoke Mandarin with a thick, fried-noodle accent, teaching lessons that put even me to sleep. But the spittle flying from my mouth as I taught kept the students below me alert, so they wouldn't sleep until dawn. Only then did I understand: that piece of chalk drew rainbows, but scattered tears; at that lectern, others were lifted up, while the teacher gave of himself.
Dedicated to the teachers who have quietly devoted themselves, and to their families.
Theme: They were the ones who gave you a glimmer in the chaos, and let me embrace the light of today.
