Keep the Award or Take It Away
By Wen Gao
March 31, 2026
When I was five years old, I was the first one to run across the finish line.
I stood there, waiting for the cheers and the prize I was sure were coming. But I waited for a while. Nothing happened. Then I noticed a crowd gathering at the far end of the playground. I ran over as fast as my small legs would take me. There was a man who was handing the last “gold medal” to a kid who had just walked up. It was not real gold, of course. It was just a piece of gold foil torn from a cigarette pack, shaped into a circle and sticking onto a round cardboard. Under the hot sun, for 5-year-old me, it sparkled like the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I shyly reached out my sweaty little hand, and the man patted the empty box. He held out his palm to show me they [the awards?] were gone. I could smell the faint scent of tobacco on his fingers. “All gone, kiddo,” he said. “Next time, come a little earlier.”
I just stood there, sad and disappointed. To adults, this was probably just a silly game to keep us busy. They were just handing out some trinkets; they did not care who had won the race. In my five-year-old head, the world was not supposed to work that way: winning a gold medal should be based on merit, not “first-come, first-served.” That kind of casual generosity is far more heartbreaking than a direct rejection. Rejection at least implies that I am still within a logical system, only that I was “not good enough.” But this casual distribution told me that my all-out sprint, in the eyes of the adults who gave out prizes, was nothing more than a trivial matter to be dismissed at will. The man with the empty box had no malice toward me; he simply did not care, or he thought we were just a bunch of gullible kids. This “not caring” is a quiet diminishment to a participant who had given everything to the race and thought she would get the prize.
For many years after that, it stayed with me. It was a regret I could not quite let go of. Even today, I could go out and buy a hundred cigarette packs. I could sit down and make myself countless “gold medals” out of that foil. The weight of that loss, the first true disappointment of my life, I still can feel so clearly as I am writing it down. I think a lot about “what if.” I could have had it. I had run the fastest race; I had done everything right. If I had known a little bit more information, I could have gotten one as well.
I learned my lesson, believing that if I had only run faster and shown up in front of parents and teachers, I could have forced them to acknowledge my merit. I did not want to be the child left reaching for an empty box; I wanted to be the one the gatekeepers could not ignore. I was always a competitive person from a very young age, as you can tell by how much a simple race at five years old has consumed me. As I grew, I worked hard on my studies, and it paid me back. I earned the “Model Student” certificate with the big red flowers on it. I fought for the chance to represent my class and speak in front of the entire school. I thought that by standing behind the microphone, under the national flag, I would finally be seen with my achievement. My worth would be beyond anyone’s casual dismissal with this validation.
Monday morning, the entire school stood under the national flag.1 It was the most solemn, sacred moment of the week for the whole school. I walked up to the stage with my head held high. I got the “Model Student” certificate. I was so full of hope and joy because the teacher was going to hand me my award in front of everyone as a representative. Everyone there would know how good I am, and I could make my own speech.
I took the certificate, and the applause faded. Then, the teacher began the introduction. The very first sentence was: “Even though Gao Wen comes from a poor family, she…” In that heartbeat, the air left my lungs, I felt like I was standing naked in front of hundreds of people. I could not look at my classmates; I felt like every pair of eyes was stinging me with pity. It felt like being the top student did not even matter anymore.
Every award winner carries a multitude of stories that “inspiration” cannot capture: stories of exhaustion, doubt, personal struggle, and joy that we cannot see as audiences. When I see someone on that stage today, I clap for them with a fierce sincerity. I am not only clapping for that “hero,” I am also clapping for the parts of their journey that remain unseen.
I was being used as a “success story” to shame others: “If even she, with nothing, can do it, why cannot you?” They did not need Wen, the complex individual with her own narrative; they needed a “hero from the slums” to validate their ideology of struggle. They needed a way to say that the system is fair, that poverty is merely a backdrop for inspiration, and that the institution is generous for “allowing” someone like me to rise. I was the evidence of their virtue. They consumed my struggle to nourish their collective conscience, leaving me with a piece of paper that felt more like a receipt for my stolen privacy than a reward for my merit. Even now, years later, when I look back at that moment, I still feel a deep, lingering resentment. To be honest, I have already moved on from the guys who broke my heart or treated me like trash, but from this experience, I cannot.
Years later, as an adult, I am getting a more nuanced understanding of recognition. I now recognize that every award winner carries a multitude of stories that “inspiration” cannot capture: stories of exhaustion, doubt, personal struggle, and joy that we cannot see as audiences. When I see someone on that stage today, I clap for them with a fierce sincerity. I am not only clapping for that “hero,” I am also clapping for the parts of their journey that remain unseen. As if I am clapping for my five-year-old and ten-year-old selves.
I have also learned to decouple my effort from the award itself. Recognition is complex, often mixed with merit, institutional needs, and fair randomness. If I produce something of value and receive no “gold medal,” I am no longer discouraged by not getting any recognition. I know the work I have done. I know the growth I have experienced. The “gold” is no longer in the cigarette box or on the certificate.
The award, at its core, is a system rewarding itself. When it finally recognizes you, it simply means the world has finally caught up to your pace. When it is missing or distorted, it is because you have run so far that you have reached a wilderness beyond their [the system’s?] narrative. Achievement is already there. It is built into our bones and into our brain. An Award is nothing more than a bonus, a little something extra. It is March now. In China, we have a saying: “When the spring thunder claps, all things grow. (春雷响，万物长).” People often romantically think it is the thunder that wakes up the spring. But the truth is, long before the first crack of thunder, everything was already deep in the silent soil, pushing down roots, sprouting, and gathering strength. The thunder does not create the growth; it just announces to the world that the growth is already happening.
I respect external validation for what it is. I also continue to run toward my own version of greatness. Of course, my enlightenment comes with terms and conditions: If an award happens to come with a hefty cash prize, please notify me immediately. I may not care to let the system define my soul, but I am more than happy to let it subsidize my lifestyle. It can buy coffee and books.
1 The Speech Under the Flag (Chinese: 国旗下讲话; pinyin: Guóqí xià jiǎnghuà) is a common part of the flag-raising ceremony in kindergartens, primary schools, and middle schools in the People’s Republic of China since the 1990s. The speech is given by teachers, model workers, advanced figures, and outstanding students in front of their classmates.
