学期过半，我请助教从本学期教过的诗作中选出十二首，作为其中测验的出题范围。对我来说，这是一个再平常不过的教学安排。十二首诗，不算多，也不算少，既足以让学生回顾课堂重点，又不至于造成太大的准备负担。
没想到，事情却从这里开始变得复杂起来。
有学生来反映，说我在课堂上讲过，这次测验只需要准备十首诗，而不是十二首。也有人表示，我曾经提到篇幅较长的作品不会纳入考题范围。这些话，我非常确定自己没有说过。
刚好这学期我上课有录音。于是，为了确认，也为了给助教一个明确的答复，我开始翻找课堂录音。整整找了很长一段时间，反复拖动音轨，试图在一节又一节课的内容中，找到那句可能被误听、误解，甚至根本不存在的话。
结果当然没有找到。
我没有说过十首，也没有说过长篇不会考。但这件事让我感到非常懊恼。不是因为学生记错，而是因为我发现自己竟然愿意为此投入那么多时间，只为了证明我没有说过。
那一刻，我意识到，这件事情其实早已不只是“多背两首诗”的问题。
从学生的角度来看，这是一项“风险管理”任务。十首与十二首之间的差别，不在于文学价值，而在于准备“成本”。多两首诗，意味着多一些不确定性，多一点可能在考场上出现却未能充分掌握的风险。所谓测验范围，不再是课程内容的整理，而是考试边界的划定。
他们关心的，不是这首诗讲了什么，而是它会不会出现在试卷上。
于是，任何关于范围的提示——即便只是语气中的模糊表达，甚至是他们自己的理解，都可能被记住、放大，并在需要时成为一种可以据以协商的依据。
而我呢？
我本可以直接统一说明：“本次测验范围为十二首诗，以课程网站最新公告为准。”事情也许就此结束。但我却选择回到录音中去寻找证据，试图厘清到底是谁记错了。
为什么？
因为在那一瞬间，我把学生的疑问理解成了一种对我教学一致性的质疑。我担心他们会觉得我前后说法不一，担心这会影响他们对课程公平性的感受，甚至担心这会成为对我教学表现的负面评价。
于是，一项只占总成绩15%的测验安排，开始牵动更大的情绪反应。我不再是在处理一个教学细节，而是在为自己的专业性辩护。
当我终于意识到这一点时，也意识到自己其实承担了本不必承担的解释成本。
在一个高度评量导向的学习环境中，学生自然会把课程内容转化为可控的考试范围，而教师也容易将任何关于范围的争议，视为对自身教学规范性的挑战。双方都在努力降低不确定性，却也因此不断加深对规则的依赖。
文学课程于是变成了一种边界管理任务：什么会考，什么不会考；哪些需要背诵，哪些可以略过。诗不再只是诗，而是一个可能出现在考卷上的项目。
而我花时间找录音的行为，本身也成为这种环境的体现——我们越来越需要可以追溯的说明、明确的承诺，以及可供核对的记录，来维持一种被认为是公平的教学秩序。
多出来的两首诗，也许本身并不重要。重要的是，它们如何在师生之间，引发了对规则、记忆与责任的重新界定。
教学现场的日常，有时就是这样：看似微小的调整，却能让我们看见，在分数与准备之间，理解与完成之间，究竟有哪些不易察觉的张力正在发生。
2026年5月9日，新加坡《联合早报》，“上善若水”专栏
Two Additional Poems
I Lo-fen
Halfway through the semester, I asked my
teaching assistant to select twelve poems from those taught in class this term
as the scope for the midterm quiz. To me, this was a perfectly ordinary
teaching arrangement. Twelve poems were neither too many nor too few: enough
for students to review the key points covered in class, but not so many as to
create an excessive burden of preparation.
Unexpectedly, things began to grow
complicated from there.
Some students came to say that I had
mentioned in class that only ten poems needed to be prepared for the quiz, not
twelve. Others said that I had once stated that longer works would not be
included in the examination scope. I was absolutely certain that I had never
said any such thing.
As it happened, I had recorded my lectures
this semester. So, in order to confirm the matter and to give my teaching
assistant a clear answer, I began searching through the lecture recordings. I
spent a long time doing so, repeatedly dragging the audio track back and forth,
trying to locate, in one class session after another, the sentence that might
have been misheard, misunderstood, or perhaps had never existed at all.
Of course, I found nothing.
I had never said ten poems, nor had I said
that longer works would not be tested. Yet this incident left me deeply
frustrated. Not because the students had remembered incorrectly, but because I
realized that I had actually been willing to spend so much time on it, merely
to prove that I had not said something.
At that moment, I became aware that this
matter had long ceased to be simply a question of “memorizing two additional
poems.”
From the students’ perspective, this was a
task of “risk management.” The difference between ten and twelve poems did not
lie in literary value, but in the “cost” of preparation. Two additional poems
meant a little more uncertainty, a slightly greater risk that something might
appear on the test that they had not fully mastered. The so-called scope of the
quiz was no longer an organization of course content, but a demarcation of
examination boundaries.
What they cared about was not what a poem
was about, but whether it would appear on the test paper.
Thus, any hint regarding the scope—even if
it was only an ambiguous expression in tone, or even their own
understanding—could be remembered, magnified, and, when necessary, turned into
a basis for negotiation.
And what about me?
I could have simply made a unified
clarification: “The scope of this quiz consists of twelve poems, as stated in
the latest announcement on the course website.” The matter might then have
ended there. Yet I chose instead to return to the recordings to look for
evidence, trying to determine who had remembered incorrectly.
Why?
Because in that instant, I understood the
students’ question as a challenge to the consistency of my teaching. I worried
that they might think I had contradicted myself. I worried that this would
affect their perception of fairness in the course. I even worried that it might
become a negative evaluation of my teaching performance.
As a result, the arrangement for a quiz
that counted for only 15 percent of the final grade began to trigger a much
larger emotional response. I was no longer handling a minor teaching detail; I
was defending my professionalism.
When I finally realized this, I also
realized that I had taken on an explanatory burden that I did not in fact need
to bear.
In a highly assessment-oriented learning
environment, students naturally transform course content into a controllable
examination scope, while teachers also easily come to regard any dispute over
that scope as a challenge to the normativity of their teaching. Both sides are
trying to reduce uncertainty, yet in doing so they deepen their reliance on
rules.
A literature course thus becomes a task of
boundary management: what will be tested and what will not; what must be
memorized and what can be skipped. A poem is no longer merely a poem, but an
item that might appear on an examination paper.
And my act of spending time searching
through the recordings itself became a manifestation of this environment—we
increasingly need traceable explanations, explicit commitments, and verifiable
records in order to maintain a teaching order that is regarded as fair.
Perhaps the two additional poems
themselves were not important. What matters is how they prompted a
redefinition, between teacher and students, of rules, memory, and
responsibility.
The everyday scene of teaching is
sometimes just like this: a seemingly minor adjustment can allow us to see what
subtle tensions are taking place between grades and preparation, between
understanding and completion.
May 9, 2026, “Shang Shan Ruo Shui” column,
Lianhe Zaobao, Singapore.
