As the sun struck the glass and sharpened the vagueness, I was rewarded with a clear view of everything around me. It was early, and the hall was almost empty. “I would get an F in the ‘elite exam,’ since elitism is all about efficiency,” I thought, fumbling with the materials I needed for an overseas pass.
Then I saw it: a white fluffy hat with an oversized pom-pom, cradled close to a black coat. The boy beneath blinked with wondering eyes, but the coarse threads of the scene already seemed to disturb its tranquility. I could not help thinking about his future: when he grows up, he will inevitably discover that he lives in a cruel world where seven-year-olds can be debate champions, and everyone insists—willingly or not—that the sky’s the limit.
The trickiest part is this: before the first punch, all beautiful eyes are still full of curiosity. But after, they may realize they are not special, and that too much has already been lost.
I know this as the construction of elitism, but I also know I was once its follower—iced latte in hand, typing with a performative flourish. Such a system numbs the softest part of the heart, the part that feels love and wonder. And yet its magic is undeniable: it pulls people in and holds them tight.
That boy’s face reminded me of my debate coach. He once told me that every step matters in a world obsessed with pros and cons. I was shocked when he resigned from our debate institution to begin teaching for the gaokao, the Chinese college entrance exam. How could a libertarian embrace the very construction he resisted?
His answer stayed with me. Perhaps resistance does not always mean standing outside the system—it can mean walking within it, quietly rearranging its logic from the inside. For a long time, I believed reflection required distance, that purity came from detachment. But maybe the truer strength lies in staying among the noise while keeping one’s heart soft, porous, alive.
As I left the hall that morning, sunlight still traced the glass. The boy in the white hat was gone, yet the image lingered—a small reminder that curiosity, once lost, can still be relearned. Maybe reflection begins there: not in escaping the constructions of elitism, but in learning how to see again, and to care.