A few weeks ago I went to 706 Youth Space to give three public lectures. The course was originally planned to have five sessions, but I decided not to continue with the last two. Any students who participated and would like to continue the exchange are welcome to stay in touch with me through the blog, Weibo, email, and so on.
As for the background and aftermath of starting the course and the strike, let me explain here.
I had not previously known much about 706 Youth Space. I went to give the lectures because I received an invitation from Zhou Ruixuan. I checked the organization’s positioning online—spontaneous pursuit of knowledge, open exchange—and felt that I largely agreed with it, so I accepted. At the time I thought Zhou Ruixuan was one of the core members of the organization, but apparently she wasn’t; later, when I was teaching, I never saw her again…
Although I’ve been very busy lately, the lectures already had ready-made material, namely my first book, *A History of Scientific Culture*, which I am trying to publish. Basically, I just make one PPT each week, and it doesn’t take much effort or thought.
In addition, before the course began there was an approval step. I went to 706 and had a talk with Wang Dapeng, the student responsible for the public lectures, and I should have received fairly high recognition. What I mainly talked about then was the issue of “the mechanization of force,” which was the content of the fourth lecture I had not yet begun to give.
Then the time was set—7 to 9 p.m. every Wednesday—and I wrote the introduction and outline as required, and provided a theme image (the seven liberal arts). Up to that point, everything had been quite pleasant.
The first flaw appeared in the promotional text they posted. It seemed that the email I had sent was pasted in without even being looked at—phrases like “the attached file is the featured image” were just copied in as well. After I joked about it, they replied, “Because your email was written so well.” Now that I think about it, that was rather suspicious; it was more likely that they had pasted it in almost without looking at all.
There was also this passage in the promotional text: “…The speaker for this session, Zhang Zhan, saw 706’s activities and proactively communicated with us, hoping to share his thoughts and reflections with everyone. We hope everyone will enthusiastically sign up or recommend young people suitable to be speakers.”
This passage was obviously from the previous round of promotional materials, and had again been cut and pasted without even being looked at. At the time I felt Brother Zhang Zhan must have been rather depressed, but now that I think about it, this kind of carelessness was equally disrespectful to me.
Later, in the materials on their Renren page, they had already deleted the Zhang Zhan passage, but the “attached file is” part was still not removed.
Even if I were the self-recommended Zhang Zhan, such wording would still be somewhat off-putting. Because no matter what way the connection is made, in the final analysis the 706 organizers are the “host,” while the speaker is after all a guest lecturer. Even if it began with the speaker taking the initiative to come forward, once the relationship is established, shouldn’t 706 still adopt the posture of the inviter?
In the later sessions, I also truly felt that I was always the “active” party; it seemed as if I had completely been the one volunteering myself for the lectures, while they generously provided the venue.
Of course, that is basically the truth. I was indeed very willing to share my thoughts with these friends who spontaneously pursue knowledge, and 706’s provision of so much space and time for me was certainly generous.
However, perhaps because my first class did not go especially well, the organizers at 706 afterward did not even show me the courtesies of passivity.
There were reasons why the first class “didn’t come off well.” First, the subject matter of this lecture was ancient Greek science, and it contained the most questions, as well as the deepest ones. Moreover, the last four lectures were basically adapted from a single paper of mine, whereas the four sections of the first lecture were based on at least four separate pieces of writing, including material written from seven years ago up to the most recent. Since I also did not spend too much effort preparing for the delivery, the talk may have lacked fluency.
Still, I personally felt that the first lecture came off reasonably well. After all, it was the first session, with some element of establishing a baseline and laying groundwork. Things that listeners could not yet digest would, through further discussion and later developments in the course, gradually be sorted out.
The organizers attended the first class as audience members, and they also had the privilege of hosting and filming. Yet the course, originally scheduled from 7 to 9, was ended by the host’s direction before 8:30. At the time I didn’t think much of it; now that I think about it, maybe he just couldn’t bear to listen any longer.
In fact, for a course like this, the first hour is my lecture, while the second hour is for questions and discussion. That second hour of active participation is the more important part. All listeners, whether they didn’t understand or were dissatisfied, can express that during the exchange. If, after further questioning, I still failed to explain it clearly, then it would count as me not teaching well; otherwise, not understanding is not entirely my responsibility.
Later the organizers told me that someone had said they hoped I would be a bit more lively in my delivery and not read the PPT too much. That is probably a fair suggestion, but I would still hope that people could communicate directly with me. If they don’t want to interrupt in class, at least they could contact me by email. In the absence of communication, it is hard for me to arrange the pace of the lectures in a targeted way; I can only first throw out my own train of thought in one go, and then see what kind of reaction it stirs up.
In any case, objectively speaking, the effect of the first class was not ideal. The evidence is that by the second class most of the listeners were newcomers, while by the third class there were somewhat more “return customers.”
By the second class, there was already no greeting or participation from the organizers, of course the upside was that I made full use of the two hours and was not interrupted. The discussion in the second hour was extremely lively and received quite good feedback.
I ate dinner and then went over for the second class. I arrived quite early and sat alone in the small room where the lecture was to be given, while the organizers were chatting about something in the outer room. That was normal enough, of course, but I overheard someone say: “Isn’t anyone going to keep the speaker company and chat with him?” Clearly, they had noticed the problem: having someone come over to say hello, pour a cup of tea, and say a few words really is the proper way to receive a guest. But in the end, still no one came in. If not for that remark, one could understand it as an oversight or lack of refinement, but since someone had brought it up and still no one took the initiative to greet me, it can hardly not be understood as chilly treatment.
By the way, just before the second session was about to begin, a girl who looked like an organizer or an acquaintance came in and expressed contempt for my advisor. She said Professor Wu was only handsome, but otherwise terrible, especially in his private life, which was “very chaotic.” Faced with this kind of attack, I was too lazy to rebut it. A romantic and gifted man like Professor Wu, having merely remarried once, how could that be called “chaotic”? Then what concept should be used to describe those entangled with five, six, seven, or eight women?
Of course, there is no need to argue about such things; just teach the class properly. On the one hand, the content of thought has nothing to do with private life; on the other hand, the force of thought ultimately reveals a person’s virtue. If there are any prejudices or opinions, there’s no harm in speaking after the lecture is over. Yet she, like the other organizers, did not come in to listen.
This time I felt somewhat neglected, so I posted a complaint on Weibo. The 706 page admin explained that the two main organizers were both very busy, and although no apology was offered, I could understand it.
Between the second and third sessions, the organizers never contacted me at all again. They only reposted a preview on Weibo on the evening of the lecture day—“Third session, tonight!!”—which stood in sharp contrast to the richly promoted other activities. Of course, for a single continuous, niche course, I cannot ask for too much, but the key issue was that this third class involved something that should have been notified in advance: 706 was moving, and my lecture was the last one at the original location. At that time the room had basically already been emptied out; there were not even enough chairs for the audience, only a few floor cushions left on the ground. The outer room was even more of a mess. Once you entered, you would first be startled and think: Did I come to the wrong place, or has this been canceled?
When the class began, I learned that the audience members also knew nothing about this.
Of course, I did not mind teaching class in such an environment. In a certain sense, it was also quite memorial. However, in a situation like this, giving notice in advance was something entirely possible and entirely proper—not only to me, but also to all the friends who came to attend: today we are moving, the environment is a bit messy, and no one is receiving guests, so please bear with us. We would of course gladly accept that. But when it was fully possible to inform people in advance, and especially when I had already complained about being snubbed by the organizers before (this is crucial), to be suddenly thrown into such a bad environment with no mental preparation at all—how am I supposed to understand that? Was it meant to give me a warning and put me in my place?
I went to give the lectures not for fame or profit, but that does not mean I was desperately forcing my way in to speak. I had no demands whatsoever. As long as someone had said one more sentence to me beforehand, or afterward even half a sentence like “sorry,” or even “we deeply regret it,” I would have accepted it. But the 706 organizers’ attitude of treating me as if I were nothing, I truly could not endure. Of course, even after I declared a strike, I still did not hear even a single word of “regret”; instead they said: that was exactly our intention too (the original words were not quite so blunt).
Whether I actually lectured well or not is another question—after all, the organizers only heard the first class, which was interrupted, and the feedback they received was indirect (whereas I myself could obtain direct feedback in class). The decrease in audience size may not have had nothing to do with 706’s passive publicity either. Even if, to take a step back, I really did teach terribly and only a tiny niche group was interested, does that mean I deserved to be treated with such coldness? Are the ideals of openness and freedom just for show?
Then I can only respectfully remind speakers like Zhang Zhan, who volunteer themselves, to think twice before proceeding. If you teach well, that is one thing; but if the result is poor, or if you fail to make it into the organizers’ field of vision, then you may end up receiving this kind of “a hot face pressed against a cold backside” treatment.
Don’t blame me for being petty. As an intellectual, one always has a bit of pride; at least let me vent a little on my own turf~
Translated from the Chinese original with AI assistance. The original text is authoritative.
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