(Written by Hugh Ao of Beijing)

          My math teacher is also the charge teacher for our class.  Her name is Yi Suqin.  She's a very unusual person in many ways.  She likes to chat - just like other women of her somewhat advanced age - but when she hears that students have given her a nickname for it, she says nothing.  In her mind, being modest is one of the very important things in life.  Everyone knows that she is unparalleled among teachers in our school.

          She always arrives very early in her classroom.  She teaches two classes - about 105 students, and that's a lot of homework to check every day.  As the exercise books are really too heavy for an old lady, she usually asks a student to help her with them.

          On a recent Thursday morning, however, she knew that our next lesson was P.E. and she didn't want any of us to be late for class so she refused all help.  The students went out of the classroom laughing and shouting - just like a flock of chickens - and when I followed behind them, her classroom became very quiet once again.

          Just outside the building, I discovered that I'd left my watch on my desk and would have to go back.  I'll never forget what I saw as I started to enter the room.  Our homework had been placed on a chair so Mrs. Yin had to bend at the waist to lift it.  For some reason, she was having trouble bending.  I saw her try three times without succeeding.  She was obviously have some kind of phyisical problem.

          Then she tried to get down to the books by bending her knees, and suddenly her whole body went askew.  I rushed over to her and provided support so she wouldn't fall, and she gave me a sign suggesting that she'd like help to sit in a chair.  She sat there for a few seconds - collecting herself - and then raised her head and gave me a smile.

          "Thank you.  Why did you come back?"

          "I left my watch here."

           "Be quick.  Don't be late for class."

          I nodded and went for my watch.  I still wanted to say something about what had just happened, but didn't think I should.  I was very concerned about her, and the view of her starting to fall appeared in my mind again and again.

          Two days later, I told my parents about the incident, and they weren't all that surprised.  They told me that she had been examined a week before in the hospital where they work.  She had complained that her waist hurt her a lot, and the docor had told her she should stop work.  She had refused, however, as she said she wanted to continue to treat her students the way she'd want her children to be treated.

          I listened with my mouth open.  I was amazed about what she had continued to do - teach our lessons, check homework, clean the classroom for us.  I could hadly believe that she was able to do all that for us, and I felt hot tears stinging my eyes.

          As I raised my head, it was almost as if I could see her there before me working for us unselfishly, and I thought to myself, "She loves us.  It's a kind of mother-love.  No, it's even more; the relationship goes beyond teacher/student, beyond mother/child; it's beyond what I ever dreamed would be possible.