college dream and the gaokao journey
Many believed that scoring 26 in last year’s gaokao was excessive. He answered with a calm promise to return, as if history itself had handed him a heavy bill to pay. The tale hinted at the cost of crossing China’s famed exam gate—whether it would be more expensive to pass the gaokao or to pursue the path many expect from a prized, high-stakes test. He suggested that MacArthur had driven the Japanese from the Philippines and that surrender had occurred this week with two dozen losses. A thoughtful voice weighed whether to press on, admitting, “I am considering continuing, I should think about it.”
No one can extol the gaokao as vividly as Liang, who earned the nickname “King of Gaokao.” His story began in 1983, a moment when Deng Xiaoping’s reforms were still shaping the economy. Repeatedly challenged by health issues, labor emergencies, and regulations that were later repealed, Liang’s path to appointment faced frequent pauses. His adventures became part of annual discourse. In a video about Douyin, the Chinese branch of TikTok, he expressed quiet pessimism after the exam, guessing that admission to a top university might be tough that year.
“I am very disappointed, I never thought the results could be this bad”
A few days later, he watched his score unfold on Sichuan provincial television and confirmed the fear: 428 out of 750. It was even lower than the previous year. “I am very disappointed,” he confessed, adding, “I never thought the results could be this bad.”
college dream
Liang began pursuing university life at age 16. His parents, hoping for one of their five children to enter higher education, offered him encouragement. After enduring three failures, they urged him to rethink his ambitions. He shifted to a vocational training path but left it behind because the noisy machines clashed with his temperament. While preparing for exams, he sustained himself with small jobs, selling clothes and household goods until a woodworking business emerged that changed his fortunes. A 1992 law had banned the gaokao for those over 25, a prohibition which would only be repealed in 2001.
His best score to date was 469 points in 2018. While that was enough to enter a university, it fell well short of the 600 needed at the best institutions, leaving Liang with a stubborn dream of Sichuan University, a prestigious beacon in the region. He experimented with options, even replacing science with art to widen chances. In 2011, he revisited the gaokao with his son, who already held a master’s degree.
twelve hours of work
Born in the heart of Sichuan province, Liang stood among the 13 million examinees who took the gaokao that year. At 57 years old, he had a family and a successful business, yet the urgency to secure a university education persisted. The drive was no longer about career ascent alone; it had become a matter of personal pride. The local press quoted him saying, “Not having a university education bothers me. I want to become an intellectual.”
Liang is now 57 years old, with a flourishing family and a thriving business.
Liang describes his daily routine as a disciplined monastery: twelve hours of study, a table strewn with Chinese dominos, and abstaining from alcohol or mahjong. What fuels this relentless pursuit is the enduring respect for education in Chinese culture. Across the centuries, scholars traveled to Beijing to study in the imperial era, and only a select few found roles within the palace system. Today, the meritocratic ideal still hinges on a filter that begins in school and sends the best toward the nation’s most prestigious universities, often open to the public. The very top scores open doors to seats at institutions like Beida or Tsinghua, which serve as ladders to employment with multinational firms or government opportunities. Wealth and pedigree can still tilt the balance toward private institutions abroad, where tuition may buy a degree but not always guarantee proven knowledge.
Offerings in temples
The gaokao remains the defining moment for Chinese students, separating those who will power the economy from those who will light the boiler. Everything appears perfectly ordered. Many parents practice rituals and offerings in temples as a touch of luck for weeks before the exam. In some places, restaurants close and traffic pauses near testing centers to minimize distractions. The questions themselves are guarded tightly, and revealing them carries penalties equivalent to those for state secrets. The ceremony surrounding the gaokao is a carefully choreographed rite, shaping the collective psyche of families and towns alike.
“If I stop going to gaokao, I will regret every sip I take for the rest of my life.”
For Liang, this ritual has been a part of life for four decades. The doubts that surface are ordinary, and the resolve to continue remains stubborn. Even as the path grows steeper, the prospect of giving up becomes unthinkable. In moments of repose, he contemplates a quieter, simpler plan, perhaps a few days of mahjong with friends, but the overall purpose remains intact. The gaokao story is as much about tradition as it is about personal ambition, a narrative that continues to shape choices and identities across generations in China, and beyond.