“How can you say that? We don’t… But you cannot think that way…” These words rang out across the back of my mind as I closed my eyes with a mental sigh. This was the main takeaway from my English class last year. We were supposed to embrace a “diversity of thought and appreciate differing perspectives”. However, this ideal, instilled by my previous English teacher, fell short of realization. In fact, it fell all the way down to the Mariana Trench.

This pretentious paradox had quickly become less of an annoyance and more of a genuine frustration. When reading The Underground Railroad, we had a discussion around the character of Ridgeway, the slave catcher. While my classmates were interpreting that chapter from the perspective of the cruel institution of slavery, I approached this topic on an individual level to analyze the psychology behind his character and his evil actions. “I believe that Ridgeway found his purpose in life through slave catching, however evil it might be, and…” Before I even finished speaking, my ideas were met with severe backlash. I was suddenly facing an army of outraged critics all staring me down, their overly sensitive minds twisting my words beyond logic as they identified me as an opponent to be taken down. “Are you justifying slavery?” one of my classmates asked, interrogating me like some sort of criminal. As my peers were now intent on demonizing me, I quickly realized that this was turning into madness. 

Discussions in English class kept devolving into a shaming festival. Not only were my classmates unwilling to accept other ideas, but they were also actively dismissing and harming anyone who voiced them. This reminded me, in an ironic way, of Ridgeway himself. My classmates had seemed to view this “noble act” meaningfully, believing that they were about to eliminate an enemy who threatened their comfort bubble. I shook my head and frowned. From that point on, I remained silent, for the silence of non-communication seemed like the only appropriate means of conversation in this unfortunate situation.

A long time ago, on a day in fourth grade when I first learned the game of chess, I was still memorizing how each piece moved: the Queen was the epitome of power and freedom, zooming across the board in any direction like a hero from ancient legends. The Bishop was a silent sniper, lying low and taking out enemies when they were least suspecting. The Rook was a lesser Queen, yet still important enough to attract attention, and powerful enough to storm through enemy defenses. The Knight, a short-ranged mobile combatant, who leaps across enemy lines to stir up chaos long before the more powerful pieces can be unleashed. Lastly, the King was lazy and slow like the stereotypical monarch, hauling his heavy crown around to evade his foes. In my mind, everything makes sense except for the frontline pawns.

The pawns struck me as incredibly odd. They were not only the most numerous pieces on the board, but they also had the most rules tied to them. They could only capture other pieces by sliding sideways, but they could also only advance forward. Why are pawns, the supposed spearheads of my marching forces, so limited? Without the protection of the other pieces, every single one of my pawns was taken within a few turns. Their powerlessness was frustrating to me, so I came to view them as stupid and weak. 

It was then that I realized that English class, and by extension the whole school, was a metaphorical chess board. The students were being educated as the supposed “stewards of a better world” according to the school’s values. Yet in truth, we were guided along by our teachers, not critically thinking but rather adopting the teachers’ ideas. Pawns, the purported frontline soldiers doing most of the work, were in fact, extremely powerless on the chessboard. Likewise in a twist of irony, students who were supposed to lead discussions were now confined to the rules of the chessboard of English class, while the teacher was the one who set up interactions. 

I recently read The Three Body Problem by Cixin Liu, in which a quote really struck me: “Should philosophy guide experiments, or should experiments guide philosophy?” It was a critique of the chaos during the Cultural Revolution, but it also perfectly described the situation in my English class. The discussed ideas did not stem from the text, but preferly the text was used to locate predefined ideas! Discussions were repetitions of themes already laid out, and all that the students had to do was search for them in the text instead of interpreting the reading for themselves. Was this true critical thinking? I disagree, it was the mindless marching of pawns, orchestrated by the only chess player in our class: my previous English teacher.

I kept hoping that one day, a light of hope would shine on that old chessboard, scattering the confining grid of files and ranks. A day where pawns do not see each other as enemies on a battlefield, nor are confined to the rule of their mighty king. A day where pawns would not become locked in a hostile yet pointless impasse, but rather go around to hear the other’s perspective. A day where pawns can finally set aside their differences and step out from their comfort bubble. That new game of chess would be defined not by conflicts, misunderstandings, or the iron fist of tyranny, but instead by a collaboration from all the chess pieces and even the chess player. A place where truly all voices can be heard, where everyone is allowed to speak their own truth without fear. A classroom is defined by an intellectual exchange of ideas more willingly than a recitation of acceptable thought.

This year, as I left my old classroom to join a new English class, it was the spark of a pleasant surprise. A classmate and I were working on a presentation just before Thanksgiving break. He had to write a paragraph about a key theme in the short story “A First-Rate Material”, but he just could not think of any. He was truly stuck, yet at that moment an idea came to me, “Hey Tom, I think a potential theme could be the way that the main character viewed their purpose in life, and how it changed throughout the story. Look here…” After I was done talking, his eyes then lit up, and he asked me if he could use that theme for his analysis. It was the first time that I felt my ideas were finally appreciated in English class, and I nodded with a smile. The presentation was ultimately a great success, brought together by our entire group. It's almost unbelievable that our group of pawns from last year was able to change so much just by casting aside our scrutiny, and it seemed like that day I had been wishing for was finally arriving.

I could almost imagine the discussion about Ridgeway going in a completely different direction if it was held this year. The same pawns on a new chessboard would lead to a completely different game. It would not be a shaming festival anymore, but rather my peers would take my words for what they truly were, and at least consider my thoughts. If they are confused, they will ask questions, instead of shouting in mockery. I would also speak up instead of remaining silent…

But of course, I knew that I could not just remain an idle pawn. If the chessboard were to be remade, this small spark of hope would need to become the blazing sun. This was also when I looked back upon pawns in a different light. As stubborn as they were, pawns also never give up or turn back. Their insistence and drive propel them forward until they reach the opposing end, transcending the game’s rules and becoming the all-powerful Queen that can move wherever it desires. I would not be just a regular pawn, but a chess player who marches forward with strategy in mind. I’ve already begun my journey to the other side, talking with my new English teacher multiple times while making sure the class discussions are more open to interpretation –​​ even uncomfortable, challenging interpretations – and thought-provoking discussion of ideas.