Let Us Be Strange and Upright:

Hello everyone.

My name is Shen Xincheng, from Shanghai Jiao Tong University.

I’m a young writer, a small Bilibili creator — but above all, before all these titles, I am a teacher, a proud teacher.

So let’s begin our talk today with two photographs from university campuses.

On the left, we see a middle-school student kneeling before a bust on the campus of Peking University. Do you recognize him? Yes — it’s Cai Yuanpei, the former president of Peking University and a key figure of the New Culture Movement.

A student bows to him as if he were Confucius. Just think about how thick the irony runs in that image.

The right-hand photo is even more amusing. It doesn’t matter which university it was taken at — because, honestly, every campus looks the same.

At my own university, SJTU, before every exam season, the little table before the statue of Confucius in the library is piled with fruit and snacks, as if Confucius really needed your handful of croissants to get you through finals.

But what it shows is a simple emotion — a religious one.

Do you know when human beings produce such religious feelings?

It’s when they’re suffering intensely but can’t explain why they are suffering.

Some of you might think — that sentence perfectly describes what school feels like.

I’ve visited many middle schools and discovered this is almost universal: students study desperately hard, even painfully, yet have no idea why they study.

Why Do We Study?

Let’s look at three possible answers: for knowledge, for money, or for self-realization.

Knowledge? — is it really scarce these days? Anyone familiar with the internet knows you can learn almost anything without ever setting foot in a university.

For money? — most of you here are no longer in that state of absolute financial insecurity.

Then is it self-realization? What does that even mean?

Meaning Isn’t Found in Pretty Words

When we try to answer, we often quote slogans or old sayings — pretty phrases like “In books lie grain, gold houses, and fair maidens.”

That line, by the way, was written by a Song-dynasty emperor as an advertisement for the imperial exam.

Let’s test whether it still matches reality today — whether it can actually motivate us to study.

Grain and wealth? That’s not what people today seek — starvation is pretty hard to achieve nowadays.

Gold houses? Those exist, yes — houses are as expensive as gold — but you can’t buy one just because you got a good job.

As for fair maidens — today’s youth don’t care for that; they don’t even plan to marry or have kids.

So none of these grand promises explain why we must work ourselves to exhaustion now.

“Self-realization” becomes an aimless journey without direction.

This confusion exists not only among elementary, middle, and high-school students, but even undergraduates and graduate students.

Desire Isn’t Mysterious

As a frontline educator, I’ve tried to understand this.

In my view, what we call “willpower paralysis” — the inability to want anything — is so widespread among young people because we keep searching for meaning and motivation inside those grand, moralistic slogans.

But that’s not how reality works.

We come into this world with a factory setting — a set of initial stats, unique to each of us.

Those numbers represent our innate abilities.

When we act in ways that align with those abilities, we perform well.

We’re praised, we get positive feedback, and next time our motivation grows stronger.

Over many cycles, those layers of feedback build up — and meaning is formed.

So — desire is not the prerequisite of action; it’s the result of it.

You can’t think your way into wanting something — you have to do, and then the wanting follows.

That’s why when a young person seems to have “no motivation,” it’s often because they’ve had too few chances to use their real abilities.

Why Kids Only Like Games

Let’s use this logic to explain a classic parental headache:

“My kid doesn’t like anything except video games.”

Why?

Because his quick reflexes and sharp perception — skills that once made the best scouts and hunters in pre-historic tribes — have no place in daily life or the classroom.

School never tests those things.

So he retreats into the gaming world, where he can watch his experience bar climb and finally receive steady positive feedback.

Not everyone loves games though.

If someone keeps dying at the same level, no matter how hard they try, they’ll quit — because no one voluntarily seeks constant humiliation.

That’s a self-protection instinct.

Exams Test Too Narrow a Range

Now let’s apply this to studying.

Why do so many students dislike learning or can’t find any sense of meaning or purpose in it?

The answer is simple: because our exams measure far too narrow a set of abilities.

Most of the “initial stats” we’re born with simply aren’t tested.

Some people object: “Too narrow? But we study for twelve years for the Gaokao!”

So let’s talk about that.

The Outer Shell and the Inner Core

Every exam has two layers: the surface and the core.

Take the Gaokao.

On the surface, it’s the curriculum — what teachers lecture on, the syllabus, the textbooks, the mock papers.

But underneath, the exam is really testing certain abilities.

From the outside, the Gaokao looks dazzlingly comprehensive — three main subjects, six electives, nine in total, studied for twelve years.

But if we dig down, the core abilities it measures boil down to only three:

memory, numerical reasoning, and logical inference.

Every subject just mixes those in different proportions.

Let’s test that idea.

Three Kinds of Subjects

First, Chinese, English, History, and Politics — these are about 90 percent memory, 10 percent inference.

Take English: in many regions, students can score near-perfect on exams yet be unable to speak the language at all.

Why? Because the test never meant to teach communication — it uses English as a form to test memory.

It doesn’t matter if you can converse — just memorize it all. That’s the game.

Then there are Geography, Chemistry, and Biology.

Technically sciences, but in the Gaokao they demand about 70 percent memory, 30 percent inference.

You memorize cell structures, chemical reactions, climate patterns — all memory-heavy.

Only two subjects are different: Math and Physics — roughly half memory, half numerical reasoning.

For those with a true mathematical mind, math itself becomes a language, a beautiful way of perceiving the world.

If you don’t feel that beauty, well — you probably don’t have that aptitude.

(And I don’t either!)

Thankfully half the test is still memorization, so we can survive by memorizing formulas and drilling past papers.

In the end, the Gaokao tests just those three capacities — memory, numeracy, and inference.

All the rest is decoration.

Why “Effort Always Pays Off” Works — and Misleads

In our basic education system, students believe deeply that “hard work brings results.”

You’ve seen those wild motivational rallies, kids shouting until they choke with tears.

Why do we believe so devoutly in effort?

Because in a system built almost entirely on memory, effort does work.

If you try harder, you remember more; if you review more, you perform better. Simple cause and effect.

But here’s the trap:

because seven out of nine subjects rely on memory, students think they’re developing many different skills, when in fact they’re just training one — memory.

It creates the illusion of all-round excellence.

They come to believe it’s possible to be perfect at everything.

But as any adult will tell you — that’s impossible.

Life eventually forces you to let go of the weights you can’t carry; only by traveling light can you carve out your own space.

Negative Feedback Is Still Feedback

When we fail, that’s feedback too.

In games, in study, feedback shapes us.

Originally, physics was meant as a filter: to identify those fit for research.

The idea was, if you don’t have the knack, don’t torture yourself — it’ll only make you miserable.

But parents flipped that message upside-down: “Physics is important, you must master it even if it kills you.”

They refuse to accept the meaning of failure.

Another common scene: parents saying, “My kid’s grades dropped because they changed math teachers — he liked the old one.”

If a child studies only to earn praise, not from genuine interest, then let them fail.

If you can do something only by forcing yourself, burning endless energy to reach others’ average level — that’s simply not your area of ability.

Failure tells you that.

Let motivation fade naturally.

It’s fine.

Meaning will exist elsewhere — keep exploring.

The Gaokao’s Surface Splendor and Inner Simplicity

Because the Gaokao’s outer form is so elaborate yet inner core so thin, people get trapped in a false order of priorities.

Take the plight of liberal-arts students.

“The humanities are useless” — nonsense. Humanities matter deeply.

But whether humanities majors are useful is another question.

Don’t be offended — I’m a humanities student myself, so I’m scolding my own kind.

Here’s why: since the exam tests only three abilities, most students choose liberal arts not because they’re strong in those skills but because they’re weak in math and physics.

They didn’t become humanities students through selection; they landed there by elimination.

Yet once labeled “liberal-arts student,” many stop reflecting.

They think the title itself gives them meaning.

So some adopt a naïve romanticism, imagining they’re rebelling nobly against worldly pragmatism:

“I’ll renounce all materialism and become a poet.”

They scribble a few lines in a notebook and call it destiny.

When I meet such students, I ask: “Do you know how poets in history actually survived?”

Two examples:

First, poets with salaries — like Su Dongpo. He was a government official living on imperial stipends, writing poems on the side.

Without that life experience of bureaucratic rises and falls, do you think his poems could resonate with generations of Chinese people in every hardship and joy? Of course not — you’d have nothing to write about.

Second, poets without salaries — like Homer, the legendary blind author of the Iliad.

How did he survive? Traffic.

He had flow.

He memorized everything, performed it live with a lyre, vividly enough to feel like cinema. He was his own soundtrack.

Being a poet wasn’t romantic — it was labor.

We’ve been fooled by appearances.

To live by any craft, you must return to its core — to your actual abilities.

Putting the Surface and the Core Back in Place

After meeting more than a thousand Jiao Tong students each year, I’ve tried to map out what truly matters — the inner abilities education should nurture once we strip away appearances.

I’ve identified eight of them:

Memory, Inference, Expression, Perception, Numeracy, Manual Operation, Passion, and Creativity.

A competent science student needs at least these three: numeracy, inference, and memory — to see the world mathematically.

But a first-rate scientist must go further — to perceive the world deeply and connect with society.

An engineering student may rely less on memory and numeracy, but must have strong hands-on operational skill — to build.

A top engineer also needs perception, because senior engineers are essentially project managers who must communicate across teams.

That’s why I’m puzzled when parents tell me, “My child’s introverted; maybe he can be an engineer.”

I think — excuse me, do you know what you’re saying?

You think engineers don’t need to talk?

Silent engineers are exactly who AI will replace first.

A basic humanities student may lack numeracy or manual skills, but must have strong expression and perception.

A great one adds inference — nearly philosophical reasoning.

Across all fields, two traits define excellence: passion and creativity.

Passion is that lifelong obsession with something others don’t understand.

Creativity is rarer still — the ability not just to execute but to invent.

Yet these two most precious abilities are precisely the ones our exams ignore.

Why?

Because standardized testing was born over a century ago for the industrial era, to mass-produce human machines — people who could temporarily do what machines couldn’t, until machines caught up.

When Machines Become Better Machines

Now machines have caught up.

They can infer, extrapolate, even express fluently.

No one expected progress to accelerate so fast.

So students ask: “If AI can do this, why should I learn it?”

And we can’t answer — slogans don’t work anymore.

Why Memorize Poems If We Can’t Write Them?

Take the Chinese essay exam.

Teachers say, “We recite poetry to inherit traditional culture.”

If that’s the goal, then store the poems on a hard drive.

A kid will forget them after one summer.

True inheritance means creating — standing on the shoulders of predecessors.

But do we let students create?

Rarely.

When they finally get the chance — the essay section, 700 words, “any form allowed”…

Then comes the fine print: “Except poetry.”

If you forbid creation, why make them memorize so many poems?

Now AI writes poems too.

We gasp at how impressive it seems — but writing verse has long been romanticized.

Think of the first poem any Chinese child learns: Ode to the Goose by Luo Binwang.

To compose such a four-line poem, what must one do?

Recognize twenty characters, classify them, arrange them by rhyme and tone patterns.

Basically — database retrieval.

Perfect for a machine.

Without human perception, poetry is just computation.

So when schools demand that students recite every poem and every poet’s courtesy names and pen names, it produces nothing but mechanical recall.

At that point, you and AI are no different.

True “AI-Empowered” Education: Subtraction, Not Addition

What, then, should a good literature class look like in the age of AI?

It should have students write poetry — any form that expresses something personally meaningful — and perform it with emotion.

Teachers must tell the life stories behind the works so vividly that students feel genuine empathy for the author, and thus memorize naturally, as they do with rap lyrics.

That is real empowerment.

“AI in education” isn’t about handing every kid a gadget or using facial-recognition cameras to measure smiles. That’s dystopia, not empowerment.

True empowerment means every student learns to express themselves.

The classroom should be chaotic — gloriously chaotic.

Second, stop inventing artificial exam questions just because the syllabus demands them.

Focus instead on real-world questions that actually spark curiosity — which are always cross-disciplinary.

Third, realize that universities cannot manufacture abilities from scratch through neatly divided majors.

Even when they succeed, it’s slow and costly.

The efficient path is to discover innate abilities early, ignite them, and use them to guide one’s life work.

Only a Choice Made Through Effort Surpasses Effort Itself

Let’s summarize.

Meaning in life comes from the abilities you possess and the positive feedback you accumulate through using them.

Learning feels meaningless because exams test too few abilities.

So never suppress the rest.

Find them, nurture them, protect them — until the day they matter again.

In the AI era, the ability our exams prize most — memory — has become the least valuable.

When it finally turns useless, you’ll realize that what sustains you in society is your unique combination of abilities.

Students Who Turned Ability Into Path

On my Bilibili channel, Personal Struggles, I interview Jiao Tong students who’ve done just that.

One grew up in an unhappy home and developed deep sensitivity to emotion; though majoring in AI, he dreams of becoming a therapist by 35 — once financially free.

Another once hated math, until he discovered its beauty at university and now wants to teach it passionately in high school.

A third loved tinkering in a motorcycle repair shop; that awakened his hands-on genius.

He joined a robotics club, stayed on as instructor, and later founded a startup in educational robotics.

Each followed a difficult, unconventional path.

So when people say “choice matters more than effort” — nonsense.

Only a choice made through effort outweighs effort itself.

That effort is inward, not outward — not about which major earns more, but about discovering your inborn stats and playing them to the fullest.

Too Many Beams, Not Enough Twisted Trees

At SJTU we run a “Youth Workshop,” where graduate students share stories from their fields.

In spring 2024, amid economic gloom, we invited student entrepreneurs — the ones truly doing things.

One of them, Chen Ruizhao, is both…a master’s student and a CEO — we jokingly call him both Xiao Chen and President Chen.

His startup builds AI-driven “virtual girlfriends” — yes, anime-style romance games. The company’s name is Shell Almond (机壳杏仁).

In the photo, he’s the tall, slender boy in the purple shirt — fair-skinned, fine-haired, almost delicate in manner. He’s strikingly distinctive.

I asked him, “How do you see these unusual traits of yours? How do you feel about how others see them?”

He smiled and said,

“Teacher, think about it — how many normal people would choose to start a company at a time like this?”

That line hit me like a revelation.

I suddenly understood what’s wrong with our education: we’ve been producing far too many “normal” people.

Let Us Be Strange, Let Us Stand Tall

As educators we often say we want to “raise pillars of society.”

But pillars, by definition, are building materials — commodities.

And commodities obey a market rule: when supply exceeds demand, their value drops.

That’s exactly what’s happening — an oversupply of pillars, and a shortage of crooked, gnarled trees.

In Zhuangzi, the chū-lì trees — two species with crooked trunks and useless wood — were despised by carpenters, yet the philosopher said they possessed great use precisely because they were “useless.”

Ironically, many figures we revere today were those very crooked trees of their own time.

Take Li Shizhen, author of The Compendium of Materia Medica.

He passed the first imperial exam at fourteen, but quit at twenty-three after repeatedly failing to advance.

Unable to win that game, he turned to medicine — where memory still mattered but reasoning mattered more.

His masterpiece survived only because one of its editors — his son, Li Jianzhong — later passed the imperial exam and became an official.

See? Every family still needs one person inside “the system.”

Next, Song Yingxing, author of The Exploitation of the Works of Nature (Tiangong Kaiwu).

He failed the exams until forty-five, finally broke down, and rebelled: “I’m done with scholarship — I’ll study how people actually get rich.”

He roamed the country, documenting how coastal cities made salt and how Sichuan folk used natural gas.

Without him, we might never know those details.

Yet the Qianlong Emperor’s Siku Quanshu — 790 million characters of official knowledge — excluded his book entirely.

The literati deemed such practical records “unrefined” and worthless.

Why do we still have Tiangong Kaiwu today?

Because it traveled to Japan, was brought to France by European traders, praised by Enlightenment encyclopedists as “the Chinese encyclopedia of 17th-century science,” and finally returned to China in the 20th century to earn the respect it deserved.

Notice something?

All these “great men” were failures of the exam system — losers in their own era — yet history stood with them.

History Still Rewards the Crooked Trees

Our age is no different.

Today’s dazzling technologies often come from lopsided students, dropouts from elite universities, rebels who left their graduate programs to build games.

China’s most famous AI model doesn’t come from any university or research institute — it was created by a quantitative-trading company.

The age is rewarding the crooked trees again.

But here’s the bitter irony:

the moment such people achieve worldly success, they instantly turn back into “pillars.”

So smooth, so silent a shift that parents start saying to their kids,

“See how cool those people are? You want to be like them, right?

Then study hard!”

Absurd, isn’t it?

What traps us isn’t external standards — it’s our own ignorance: ignorance of history, of how industries actually work, and the fear that grows out of that ignorance.

Three Things I Want You to Remember

If, throughout this talk, you’ve kept thinking, This teacher is describing me, then these last three lines are for you:

1. You are not ordinary.

2. You are not alone.

3. Beyond the maze of exams, the world is vast and beautiful — and you are not just a visitor of the scenery. You are part of the scenery itself.

I’m Shen Xincheng, from Shanghai Jiao Tong University.

You’re welcome to find me on Bilibili, where I keep exploring education and individuality.

Thank you.