Old notebook, flipping through the pages…

My grandfather kept many books written in classical Chinese, saying they were the writings of "sages" and therefore had to be carefully preserved and not soiled. Occasionally, he would discard a book that had unfortunately been infested with termites to use the paper for kites. Textbooks were scarce back then, so it was natural for older siblings to pass them on to younger ones. But the awareness of keeping old notebooks, especially those with both good and bad grades and teachers' comments, only formed in me during my middle school years.

In the 1960s, school notebooks were only made of the same size as A4 paper as today's, with notebooks for taking lessons being double-sided vertical notebooks; exercise books for subjects done in class were kept in their original size, with blue or pink covers, and at the top of each exercise page, purple ink grids were used for teachers to grade and red ink comments were added. My collection of notebooks grew larger over time, each sparkling with pages of life and affection. My parents had to sell a flock of chickens or a pig to buy kerosene, fish sauce, salt, matches, tobacco, and new clothes, and writing paper for my siblings and me for the new school year. And each time they gave us paper, pens, and a lump of purple ink bought from the market vendor, they never forgot to remind us: "Study hard so you can become a good person." I didn't understand what it meant to "become a person," I only thought that buying paper and pens cost a lot of money (5 hào, 2 xu, with 5 hào being the highest denomination at that time), and if I was a poor student, I would be scolded by the teachers and all my parents' efforts would be wasted. So, besides tending the cows, chopping vegetables for the pigs, and sweeping the house, I would sit at my desk studying until late at night, sometimes having to use water from the laterite well to wipe my face to keep my eyes from drooping.

Each time I turned a page, I noticed my handwriting changing over time. The higher I got in the grade, the worse it got, and I secretly justified my carelessness by saying that the teachers lectured too quickly, and if I didn't use abbreviations or scribbles, I wouldn't be able to keep up. Indeed, some teachers lectured slowly, their voices soothing and easy to listen to, allowing me to record everything clearly in my notebook. But some teachers had less clear voices and spoke too quickly, forcing me to scribble, but deep down I cherished the knowledge they imparted and tried my best to take complete notes. And the images of my teachers kept flooding back. Among the teachers who taught social sciences, I remember most vividly the way Ms. Tran Thi Nga, my history teacher, checked our homework. During her class, the class would fall silent, only the rustling sound of the pages in her notebook could be heard. Looking at the red ink pen she usually used to grade and correct papers, as she went down to the middle of the notebook, the hearts of those whose names began with H, L, M, or N would pound. Her method of checking oral exams was truly unique! She didn't call out names first; instead, she tilted her chin and looked down to see whose names were within the range her pen had just glided over. She observed the students' expressions—those who knew the answer looked cheerful, while those who didn't sat still like mice or looked visibly dazed and shifty—only then did she call out their names...

When returning assignments, teachers often give general feedback on the quality of the class's work this semester and praise those who have improved and achieved better scores than in previous tests. Once, Ms. Thanh Yen My, my literature teacher, gave me a 4, below average on a 10-point scale. Besides writing it in the grade box of my essay notebook, she added in class: "I can't believe someone as good at writing as you would go off-topic. I felt very bad giving you a below-average grade. But students, going off-topic in an essay still has many opportunities to be corrected, but going off-topic in life is difficult to undo."

Many of the science teachers' lessons, such as Mr. Chu's Math, Mr. Thu's Physics, and Mr. Hung's Chemistry, also contained humanistic elements, teaching us the first steps to becoming good people. Mr. Nguyen Ba Chu, who taught Math but also wrote poetry, once said: "A group of students in classes A, B, and C must be concentric circles, united, loving each other, and helping each other to learn and progress." Ms. Ngoc, who taught Biology, said that a teacher always wants the tree they cultivate to not bear rotten fruit. To achieve this, there must be a combined effort of both teacher and students. A good teacher must ensure that students learn properly.

Unlike students in the provinces and cities, the students in this mountainous region are different. Many come from impoverished families, causing teachers great concern. Each day in the classroom brings a range of emotions. Often, teachers leave the classroom with heavy steps, tears welling up in their eyes, out of compassion for the poor students. But there are also tears of dissatisfaction, because the lessons, which the teachers spent countless hours preparing, along with the meaningful stories they wanted to convey, haven't resonated with the students. Some students' minds are preoccupied with farming.

I still remember the words of Mr. Nguyen Van Tu, the principal, at the closing ceremony of the final year of Van Quan High School: “Life is a very long journey; the time you spend in school is just the beginning. The life you are about to enter is very diverse. Some of you will go to vocational schools, some to universities, some to the army, some to return to the fields… But the value of each person lies in having their own unique qualities. The first choice for each person is to know their strengths and weaknesses and become themselves, not to conform.”

Among my friends, I remember Tien "the girl" the most. He was from Hanoi , and when the US launched its bombing campaign across North Vietnam, Tien and some friends evacuated to my hometown, where we studied together throughout high school. Once, on his way back from Hanoi, Tien bought several notebooks with white paper and covers depicting scenes of student life. He gave me one with a drawing of three graceful young women, each representing a distinct region of Vietnam: North, Central, and South. I used the notebook he gave me to copy my favorite songs and poems in purple ink and kept it in my backpack from the day I enlisted. Occasionally, I would flip through the pages and feel a surprisingly sweet emotion when reading a poem he wrote, about a schoolgirl romance that blossomed while we were sheltering in an A-shaped bunker next to our classroom, whenever there was an air raid siren.

Months and years passed relentlessly, and yet more than half a century had gone by. One August day in 1970, after two years of fighting, my unit granted me leave to visit home before I went to the Military Culture School in Lang Son to study for the university entrance exam, continuing my studies. I carried down the stacks of old books placed on the mahogany wood beam that still hung from the rafters of my house. Seeing these books again filled my heart with nostalgia, as if I were rediscovering my childhood. Turning the pages, yellowed like autumn sunlight—they were witnesses to a bygone era, silently expressing my efforts on my academic journey. It was also a journey of many years, gradually absorbing knowledge under the socialist school system. These old books were instrumental in helping me pass the university entrance exam.

Remembering the past, especially my school days, is a gentle gift for my twilight years. That quiet, pure, and innocent feeling awakens within me whenever I see my grandchildren chattering excitedly on the first day of school.

Source: https://daidoanket.vn/vo-cu-lat-trang-10291018.html