Chapter 3: The Turbulence in Math Class

Speaking of which, differentiated instruction actually has little impact on two groups of students.

One group is the academic geniuses who have never considered learning a challenge, because no matter how the classes are divided, they always stand at the top of the pyramid. Differentiated instruction benefits them; when teachers lecture, they no longer have to cater to struggling students and can aim as high as they wish.

The other group is the students who find learning difficult. For them, being at the bottom is inevitable—whether it’s Class D, E, or F, it makes little difference. Of course, some in this group are diligent and hardworking, but still struggle to grasp concepts despite their effort. They remain ambitious, but such students are few.

Yes, the greatest impact caused by differentiated instruction falls upon those of us whose grades are somewhere in the middle—not high, not low. We are left in a constant state of anxiety and unease...

In stark contrast to our uncertainty and apprehension, Old Fan, who had finally achieved his ideal and fulfilled his ambitions, was riding high, full of pride and satisfaction. Even the smile on his face seemed more genuine.

Old Fan’s teaching style became increasingly abstract and freeform. Lost in confusion, I faced the first monthly exam after the implementation of differentiated instruction.

Unsurprisingly, I did poorly. To be precise, I simply didn’t know the material.

Knowing this outcome was inevitable didn’t make it easier. Holding my math book and exercise notebook as I left my classroom—leaving behind classmates with whom I had recently shared lessons—I felt acutely embarrassed and humiliated under their sympathetic or indifferent gazes.

Even though I tried to appear calm and indifferent, my heart felt as if it had been split open.

Survival of the fittest? Is this just the rules of the game?

I didn’t know.

From then on, my math grades continued to decline. By the second semester of senior year, I had dropped to the C level.

Oddly, my mood grew calmer. While I hesitate to call it numbness, I had learned to treat all of this as part of routine life.

Habit is truly a terrifying thing.

“Ye Lingyin, come to the front and solve the problem on the blackboard!” The math teacher’s voice pulled me back from my wandering thoughts.

What was the teacher just talking about? Arithmetic and geometric sequences? I don’t know how to solve them...

The math teacher for Class C was a man in his fifties, soon to retire, very tall—at least six feet. He wasn’t particularly strict, perhaps because he had little hope for Class C students.

Now, he fixed his gaze on me, motioning for me to come up and solve the problem.

Why must it be me? Helplessly, I walked up to the podium, picked up a piece of chalk, and prepared to write on the blackboard.

But I couldn’t even remember the formulas—what was I supposed to write?

The other classmates called up to solve problems had already finished and returned to their seats.

I stood alone at the front, clutching that half piece of chalk, unable to write a single word, feeling my face burn with shame.

Perhaps the math teacher was in a bad mood today, or perhaps he was simply frustrated with us.

He frowned and said, “You don’t know this? What have you been learning in class?”

At that moment, my long-suppressed pride and sense of shame erupted. I felt angry.

I blurted out, “I just don’t know it—so what?!”

Then I quickly returned to my seat.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I forced myself not to cry. I knew that the pride I once felt from scoring perfect marks in both Chinese and math on my primary school graduation exams, the joy of being chosen as math class representative in middle school—those were distant memories now.

Once the teacher’s pride, now, in his eyes, I was just a student who knew nothing.

There were a few mischievous boys making a commotion in the classroom; one seemed to be standing up for me. But my mind buzzed, and I could no longer hear what they were saying...