Zichen Wang delivers a startling verdict: the sudden death of an education influencer has become a rare moment of collective clarity for ordinary Chinese citizens, revealing a deep societal hunger for authenticity over privilege. The piece is notable not for the biography of the deceased, but for how it uses his final moments to expose the brutal, unspoken realities of China's hyper-competitive education system and the stark geographic inequalities that define it.
The Verdict of the Streets
Wang frames the massive crowds gathering in Suzhou not merely as a funeral procession, but as a political and social statement. "As the Chinese saying goes, the people see with clear eyes," Wang writes, suggesting that the public has grown weary of elites who "keep shattering expectations and exposing themselves as little more than self-serving mediocrities." The author argues that the mourning was a "verdict delivered by countless ordinary Chinese on a man they felt had spoken to them, stood with them, and never pretended to be above them." This framing is powerful because it shifts the narrative from personal grief to a collective rejection of the performative virtue that often characterizes the Chinese intellectual class.
The core of the argument rests on the idea that Zhang Xuefeng's value lay in his refusal to sugarcoat the stakes of the Gaokao, the National Higher Education Entrance Examination. Wang notes that for the vast majority, this single test is the "only determinant for admission into undergraduate programs," creating a pressure cooker where a single mistake can define a lifetime. The author highlights the geographic inequity inherent in the system, pointing out that in 2022, top universities admitted 550 students from Beijing's 54,000 candidates, but only 424 from Henan's 1.2 million. "Numbers do not lie: if you grow up in the wrong province, your chance of getting into China's indisputably top two universities is at least 25 times more difficult," Wang observes. This statistic is the bedrock of the piece; it explains why a blunt, pragmatic voice like Zhang's resonated so deeply with the millions facing these odds.
In an era when the rich and the powerful... keep shattering expectations and exposing themselves as little more than self-serving mediocrities, ordinary people have not lost their judgment.
Critics might argue that elevating a single influencer to the status of a moral arbiter oversimplifies the structural issues at play. However, Wang's point is not that Zhang solved these problems, but that he was the first to speak the truth about them without the filter of academic pretension.
The Pragmatism of Survival
Wang dives deep into Zhang's controversial advice, particularly his dismissal of journalism as a viable major for those without family connections. "If a child insists on majoring in journalism, I will knock him out!" Wang quotes, capturing the shock value that made Zhang famous. This wasn't just hyperbole; it was a reflection of a society where career security is paramount. Wang explains that Zhang's counsel was rooted in a brutal pragmatism: "If you come from a well-off background, you have more choices... But for most families, conditions are not that favorable, so you should choose a major that suits you and can secure your future livelihood."
The author effectively uses a transcript of Zhang's pep talk to illustrate the gap between the academic ideal and the workforce reality. Zhang told students that studying is the "simplest thing" they will ever do compared to the social maneuvering required in the workplace. He described the necessity of tolerating "an irritating colleague" or enduring "nauseous middle-aged men" at business dinners. "Which one do you think is more challenging? Clearly, studying is much simpler, isn't it?" Wang uses this to show how Zhang reframed the anxiety of the Gaokao not as a barrier to be feared, but as a manageable hurdle compared to the corruption and nepotism of the adult world.
This perspective is particularly poignant when viewed against the backdrop of China's slowing economic growth. As the "pride of the world" (天之骄子) status of college graduates fades, the pressure to find any secure path intensifies. Wang notes that for non-elite students, the choice of major is often the "last hope to climb the ladder." Zhang's advice, while harsh, offered a roadmap for survival in a system that often feels rigged.
The Illusion of Home
Perhaps the most striking section of the commentary is Wang's inclusion of Zhang's personal testimony about life in Beijing. Despite owning an apartment in the capital, Zhang confessed, "I have never felt like Beijing is my home." Wang details the logistical nightmare of living on the outskirts, where a taxi ride to the airport costs a staggering 450 yuan, forcing even successful professionals to rely on ride-hailing services for basic mobility. "Every time I return to Beijing, my thought isn't, 'I'm coming home.' Instead, it's, 'How am I going to get home?'" Wang writes.
The author uses Zhang's story to paint a vivid picture of the "real Beijing"—not the tourist sites, but the crushing density of places like Tiantongyuan, a community of four million people where the morning commute is a physical struggle. "Try catching the first subway train at 5 a.m. from Tiantongyuan North and see whether you can get on or not. That's the real Beijing, you know?" This anecdote serves as a microcosm for the broader Chinese experience: immense ambition fueled by immense hardship. Zhang's motivation, as Wang recounts, was a personal rejection by a girlfriend's father who called him "just a poor guy from Northeast China." That rejection became the fuel for a decade of struggle.
Actually, it means having so much money that you can choose not to do things you don't want to do. You have the right to say 'no.'
Wang captures the essence of Zhang's definition of "financial independence" not as wealth for its own sake, but as the autonomy to refuse indignity. This resonates because it speaks to a universal desire for dignity in a system that often demands submission. The author suggests that Zhang's popularity stemmed from his ability to articulate this desire in the vernacular of the common person, stripping away the polite euphemisms of the elite.
Bottom Line
Zichen Wang's piece succeeds by using the death of a single figure to illuminate the collective anxiety of a generation trapped between rigid academic structures and a volatile economy. The strongest element is the unflinching presentation of geographic and class disparities in the education system, which provides the necessary context for Zhang's blunt advice. The argument's vulnerability lies in its romanticization of the influencer's role; while Zhang offered a voice of truth, he could not dismantle the systemic barriers he described. Readers should watch for how this surge of public sentiment translates into policy pressure, as the "verdict" of the streets may eventually force the administration to confront the inequities of the Gaokao system. The story is not just about a man who died; it is about a society that is finally, loudly, demanding a fairer game.