GENERALLY it's my job to escort my son to and from school. But this Monday my wife went to pick him up.

Since she had grocery bags to manage, the eight-year-old had to carry his schoolbag on his own back - usually I shoulder his burden. The bag was so heavy that the boy was hunched over as he plodded along.

I sensed a pang of guilt when I saw that.

But no sooner had he been relieved of his heavy load than both he and his mother began to accuse me of neglecting his studies during the past weekend, for he almost failed a dictation test.

During the weekend my sister visited us from Beijing.

Though my son shifted the blame to me, he was not let off easily. He lost his much-treasured 30-minute TV time that day. I guess the daily drudgery of schoolwork is much sweetened by anticipation of that 30 minutes.

So I found it interesting to read Luo Dacheng's article in Monday's Wenhui Daily titled "It pains me to see [my grandson] so drained every day."

"At our home, the most exhausted is not those who go to work, but my first-grade grandson who, although only 7 and a half years old, leads a life of an assembly line marked by high tension, nervousness, and standardization," he wrote.

When I was in school, the Chinese lesson, given the gems of literature created by our ancestors, should have been one of the most delightful and inspiring courses.

Now it has been reduced to bits of test items, to be scrutinized for standardized answers marked with A, B, C, and D.

Luo cited renowned poet Ai Qing's poem titled "Green," which reads: "Like a bottle of green ink upset/Green, green everywhere/And where to find so many kinds of green/Inky green, light green, tender green, crispy green, shaded green, pinkish green/Dazzling, amazing green ..."

First graders are required to memorize this 17-line poem, although they no longer have time to see any kind of green in real life.

And poet Ai Qing himself would certainly be embarrassed if he was tested on his poem today.

Luo believed 100 percent of the children are complaining about their Chinese lessons as being too tough, and during weekends nearly all the students are hopping from one tutorial to another to cram Chinese, arithmetic, English.

Luo's grandson has been so tightly scheduled during his waking hours that there is barely enough time left for the 10 hours of sleep recommended for seven-year-olds.

The grandpa tried to console the grandson by saying: "My good child, remember! If you can still bear it, grin and bear it. If you can't, let grandpa know!"

But real control lies with Luo's daughter-in-law, the mother. When the going gets too tough, the boy would throw a tantrum, shouting tearfully: "Do not drive me too hard! I do not want to study any more!"

Once the kid even exploded: "If you push me more, I will jump from the building! That would put an end to all my troubles!"

Can you imagine these scenes and words from a seven-year-old? Heart-wrenching, shocking, chilling, Luo wrote.

Compared with Luo's grandson, my son is lucky for he has yet to go to any cram-sessions but we are also coming under increasing pressure to conform.

Chinese schools have already turned into institutions that specialize in ranking the children by their scores.

Through an ingeniously devised mechanism, rankings are pegged to teachers' bonuses and careers.

The scores translate into honors for the few overachievers, slights for the majority of mediocre students, and those who "drag their feet" are resented and ostracized.

Elusive solutions

Thursday's Wenhui Daily elaborated on the plight of parents who refuse to conform to the assembly line in an article headlined "Professor fathers and their mediocre kids." A professor refuses to let homework invade his daughter's sleep hours, refuses to send her to tutorials and she is now ranked 20th to 30th in the class.

As Luo points out, this problem is nothing new.

As early as 1982, Ba Jin, one of the best known contemporary literary figures, was similarly disturbed when he saw his seven-year-old granddaughter rush to do her homework the moment she put down her rice bowl.

Although Ba Jin was one of the most prolific writers, he found that his granddaughter Duan Duan worked harder than him, and Ba went on to pen three articles criticizing the "degradation of school into cram sessions."

"Such days are really cheerless. Children Duan Duan's age should enjoy a few hours of fun in a week, share a good chat or a good laugh with a couple of pals, so as to do credit to childhood. As it is, they are climbing uphill daily overburdened with scores," the veteran writer noted.

As we can see, the writer's appeals 30 years ago did not bring about any relief.

Grandmother Bian Bian wrote in the Xinmin Evening News on June 4 of her experience on the Children's Day, as she was going home after shopping at a vegetable market.

She was followed by a strange boy about seven years old who said, "I am very good at skipping rope. Want to see?" After watching for a while, Bian was obliged to leave, and suggested he find some young kids to play with. They boy answered in a sulk, "Their parents would not let them out."

As the frolicking kids have been effectively erased from the urban scene, this already aging city appears even older.

Occasionally the monotony is broken by migrant kids. Their parents are too busy, or cannot afford to be ambitious. These kids are luckier.

As the school children's workload burden steadily worsens and learning is reduced to standardized tests, reform proposals are regularly put forward.

Lightening the school burden was even mentioned in the Premier's work report in March.

But as time goes by, I am growing sceptical that there is any chance of real reform in an educational establishment increasingly peopled by pigmies nurtured on standardized tests.

Even if there are sincere reformers, are they match for the ever-powerful commercial interests that have virtually taken over education?