Remembering Principal Yang Dongfu
Painting “Principal Yang.” Principal Yang, Maomao’s hand, thermos, Gorky’s Seagull
A few days ago for Teacher’s Day, amid all the “Thank you, teachers” messages, I thought of my middle school principal, Mr. Yang Dongfu.
My middle school, Jiaotang Middle School, was about three kilometers from home. Seven or eight years ago, it was demolished and is now part of the runway at Changsha Huanghua International Airport. Physically, the school has been erased, and I can’t revisit it. When I think back, I have to piece together scenes in my mind of people and events.
Mr. Yang Dongfu became the principal when I was in eighth grade (1996). He was also my Chinese teacher. In late February 2005, he suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage while teaching and didn’t survive. He was 41. I was in my fourth year of university, about to graduate. I didn’t find out about Mr. Yang’s passing until about four years later.
Thinking back, he must have been 32 when he became principal—very young. But in my memory, Mr. Yang was always a serious, authoritative figure, so much so that classmates nicknamed him “Yang Donghu” (forgive the accent of us Fulan people). This is the first time I calculated Mr. Yang’s age at the time, and I’m surprised that someone so young could be so steady and imposing—sometimes even stern and demanding!
As I’ve grown older, memories of Mr. Yang have faded, like old paper slowly deteriorating. But three things remain, transformed into feelings in my heart.
Back then, I was the Chinese class representative, so compared to other students, Mr. Yang paid me more “attention” and had higher expectations. As a child, especially in middle school, I was timid, shy, and obedient. Every time I faced Mr. Yang’s scolding and demands, despite being nervous and scared, I somehow sensed care. I remember a scene where when I wrote messily in my notebook, Mr. Yang’s big hand would smack down on mine, extremely painful. It hurt my hand but left a mark in my heart, prompting me to improve my writing. Seeing my progress, I felt grateful. How many deliberate lessons from teachers off the formal curriculum can a student really receive?
At the end of ninth grade, before the high school entrance exam, the school organized a parent-teacher meeting. As the big test approached, the atmosphere actually lightened. My dad asked Mr. Yang privately about my academic performance, probably to gauge Mr. Yang’s expectations for my entrance exam. Mr. Yang cheerfully patted my dad on the shoulder and said, “Your son will be fine, no need to worry.” Hearing those words, I stood there with a blank face but was thrilled and encouraged inside.
A good teacher should be able to provoke and stimulate students’ feelings, knowledge, and ideas. Once, Mr. Yang was teaching us how to recite a passage in Chinese class. When he demonstrated, the whole class was stunned. We never knew a text could be read with such grandeur; some students even laughed, finding the intensity overly dramatic. That was my first exposure to recitation, opening my eyes. I realized that spoken words could be a beautiful art.
At that time, Mr. Yang was reading Gorky’s “The Seagull.” It begins, “Over the vast ocean, the storm is gathering the clouds. Between the clouds and the sea, the seagull, like a black lightning bolt, is flying proudly…” This opening line, along with Mr. Yang’s emotion and rhythm as he read it, always comes to mind, and I find myself imitating that earnest and slightly “dramatic” tone.
This post is a tribute to Mr. Yang.