Ever since I was four, I'd rise before dawn each day.
My grandmother walked me to school, navigating around the big dog.
I trudged along, stumbling over uneven ground, stars dancing before my eyes.
If I woke to see the window paper already turning blue, my first reaction was to cry, "I'm going to be late!"
At school, I was always the first one there, wearing my padded overalls, swaying unsteadily in the dark doorway, waiting for the gates to open.
When the morning study bell rang, I'd pull out my books and then collapse face-first onto the desk.
Without fail.
I'd only wake up when the next class bell rang.
Today, Tumo wrote on his blog about how ridiculously low his college entrance exam scores were back then, and how he ended up getting admitted to Fudan twice—once through recommendation and once by actually passing the exam.
He was thrilled to meet someone new who "also went to Fudan and also got perfect scores on the math section of the college entrance exam!"
His blog post was titled "I Just Love Chatting with Smart People."
Oh dear, it seems I've lost Tu Moto forever.
From age four all the way through college graduation, I never scored a perfect hundred, never ranked in the top ten, never received praise from teachers, never looked around with pride when test papers were handed out.
I went to school out of fear. After barely graduating with my accounting degree, I got a job at a radio station.
On my first night home, I stood watching TV for a bit out of habit before heading to my room to do homework. As I turned to leave, I froze, mouth agape—No homework?
My first twenty years were over, and they had nothing to do with the rest of my life.
The biggest impact it had on me was that after leaving it behind, I never once woke up early on my own.