If you were a teacher, or have retired or, perhaps, you now have another job, how would you react if someone called you “Shitty Teacher”? Even if you are the most self-disciplined person and don’t feel in any way offended by it, I guess you’d still feel unhappy about it.
    I have been called so, and not just for once. In the noisy Taipei Mass Rapid Transit System main station, teeming with commuters about to take a ride or who have just alighted from a train, a man shouted those words three times. And I heard it loud and clear. At first, I didn’t realize he was calling me. After all, I was just a part of the flowing throngs that came and went, but no matter how much I was in a hurry, I stopped walking, curious at the sound of the words “Shitty Teacher” just like anybody would. I turned towards the line of vision of the man who made the calls, eager to know who that humiliated person happened to be. It took no time for me to find the source of the shouts, and it seemed that the calls were directed at me. I saw that young man, who looked to be about in his thirties. His eyes, like the gaze of commuters who halted their steps out of mere curiosity, were all glued on me. Instantly, I felt at a loss and became nervous. The man, like an ice-breaking vessel, waded his way across the sea of people around him, walking briskly towards me.
    “Sir!” he greeted me, extending his palm towards my stillreluctant right hand, and then he shook it using both of his.
    “You are . . .” I did not have the slightest impression of this person in my memory. Yet what made me feel some sense of security were his beaming face and the warmth with which he held on to my hand. Still, I felt ill at ease.
    “You taught us how to make shit.”
    “Ah!” That elongated exclamation is a trick forgetful old people like me often employ to make a quick rewind back in time. Make shit did he say? Luckily, I wasn’t yet senile and I did manage to recall. “Oh yes! That was a long, long time ago. Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes, you made shit!” Deliberately, I turned my smiling face and words towards the curious onlookers whose stares were still riveted on me. It worked fine, for after making eye contact with me, they flashed a smile and resumed their walk.
    Yes, it really happened. That time, I played the role of a teacher and taught a group of kindergarten students how to make shit out of mud. This is how it all happened.
    It must have been seventeen years ago. I was then working as assistant manager in a rural factory in Central Taiwan. Although I was in charge of product marketing, I was also assigned to take care of cultural, educational and leisure activities of the factory’s 3,000 employees. The duty of supervising the kindergarten and nursery school the company had built for employees’ children also fell on me.
    One afternoon, as I visited the school grounds, I ran into a female teacher along the corridors. She was leading a group of kids, each one holding a box filled with mud, back into the classroom from the nearby rice paddies. With mud in their hands, the children had happy smiles on their faces as they exchanged ideas on what to do with it. Like a flock of lively sparrows, they chatted happily, including the teacher. But the moment she realized I was walking right behind, the teacher suddenly, as though I had broken something into pieces, became stern and instructed the kids not to talk. With mud in their hands, and their minds preoccupied with what to do with it, the children were too happy to mind the teacher. They continued laughing and chatting, making the teacher even more nervous. Because I was getting closer, there was no time to repeat her instructions. Instead she said in a loud voice: “Children, say hello to the Director!”
    The kids looked about, bobbing their little heads, and when they saw me, said: “Hello Mr. Huang!” The greetings, not made in unison and coming from left and right, sounded barely familiar and without much feeling. If the happy mood of an instant ago were a delicate crystal piece, by now it had already been smashed into pieces. I felt regret mixed with a sense of guilt for having showed up, saddened by this culture of fear, the fear of superiors in the workplace and the fear instilled in the minds of subordinates by those who abuse power. Affected by the teacher’s nervousness, they too turned uneasy. Suddenly, a box slipped from the hands that held it, followed by a spattering sound. A ball of mud had hit the floor. A kid cried out: “Ah!” With an obviously frightened expression, he looked up to his teacher.
    “You’re too careless! Pick it up, quickly!”
    Frightened, the kid squatted to pick up the mud from the floor. As everyone milled around him, the boy felt very embarrassed. Beyond everyone’s expectations, the boy stood up without touching the mud at his feet and, pointing at the heap, he laughingly said with little self-confidence:
    “Look! It’s a cowpat.”
    “Nonsense! Pick it up, quick!” The teacher turned even more nervous. At the sound of the word “cowpat” the children giggled and laughed, repeating the word. The teacher walked towards them, and then bent down to pick up the mud. “Teacher, don’t pick it up,” I said before she could touch it. She stood up and looked at me.
    “Let me do it,” I said smiling and then I asked the kids: “Come and have a look, doesn’t it look like cowpat?”
    “It looks very much like one!”
    “Really it looks like a cowpat. Really interesting!”
    And so they all agreed, with each saying that the mud on the floor really looked like cowpat. The atmosphere, stern for some time, became lively again. Even the boy who first thought he made a booboo joyously took pride in his discovery. Glancing at the faces of his classmates, he wished those standing in the back would also come closer for a look. Only the teacher had not come around by this time,...