Last week, educational influencer Zhang Xuefeng passed away suddenly from a cardiac arrest at the age of 41. On Saturday, huge crowds thronged the streets near a funeral home in Suzhou to pay tribute to the “entrance exam guru” who had advised so many young people and their parents—particularly those from rural and working-class backgrounds—on the path to academic and career success.

Zhang provided his advice to prospective students and their parents via online streaming, public speeches, and paid consulting sessions. The once-impoverished rural student worked tirelessly to become an in-demand tutor able to command high fees for his advisory services, an owner of three related businesses, and an online influencer with over 30 million online followers. Zhang’s approach was not without controversy, however, and he had his fair share of both supporters and detractors. Some critics dubbed him “utilitarian” for frequently urging students to eschew their own academic and career interests, particularly in the liberal arts, in favor of pursuing only majors that would lead to stable, well-paying jobs after graduation. Others countered that Zhang’s pragmatic advice was simply a reflection of a broader “utilitarian” mindset prevalent in Chinese society. “Education didn’t become ‘utilitarian’ because of Zhang Xuefeng,” argued blogger Citizen Jin Jianguo last fall, in an essay that was later censored on WeChat. “Rather, in a society that universally venerates utilitarianism, Zhang Xuefeng emerged as a response to the times.”

Zhang was also one of a number of online influencers hit with multiplatform bans last October, amid a Cyberspace Administration of China (CAC) campaign to clean up internet content that might “maliciously incite” polarization, pessimism, anxiety, and other negative sentiments. The bans highlighted the increasingly difficult task, even for a savvy online influencer such as Zhang, of navigating censorship-related “red lines.” At the time, there was a rampant speculation about what might have prompted the ban: some posited that Zhang had overstepped with his performatively patriotic pledge to donate 100 million yuan were China to invade Taiwan, while others claimed it had more to do with Zhang’s lucrative online business model that seemed to profit from stoking parental anxiety about their children’s futures. Still others suspected that Zhang might have been targeted for his frank recognition of socioeconomic inequalities, and the many ways in which poorer or rural students without wealth or connections were at a huge disadvantage in the job market.

CDTC editors have archived 14 recent articles about Zhang’s life and death, career and legacy. At least four of these have been deleted from WeChat, and one (“Zhang Xuefeng: The Opposite of Idealism”) remains visible and can be commented on, but cannot be shared, liked, or saved on that platform. One of the deleted pieces, a short article by Yuan Yi, expresses privacy concerns about alleged copies of Zhang’s hospitalization records being shared on social media. Another censored article, by blogger Lao Xiao, describes Zhang as a sort of “spiritual pacifier” and suggests that students might be better off without his educational bromides. “When the only valid belief is that ‘choosing the right major equals a stable future,’ education is transformed from a nurturing soil to an ‘all-or-nothing’ gamble,” writes Lao Xiao. “Forcing children to abandon humanities and social sciences and dive headfirst into fields they don’t relate to may deprive them of opportunities to define themselves, unleash their creative potential, and better understand the world.”

A now-deleted WeChat article from current-affairs blogger Wei Chunliang, “Zhang Xuefeng, You Have Become the Memory of a Generation,” offers a fairly balanced assessment of Zhang’s legacy. Wei writes that while he has no desire to pen a hagiography, if a person’s value is measured by how many others they helped during their lifetime, then Zhang certainly deserves some recognition and gratitude. Toward the end, Wei mentions a speech in which Zhang—who himself hailed from a small county in Qiqihar, in China’s far northeastern province of Heilongjiang—spoke frankly about the slim chances of a Qiqihar University graduate making it into the corporate big leagues. A portion of Wei’s article is translated below:

I wasn’t a big fan of Zhang Xuefeng. I disagreed with many of his views, and found some of his rhetoric overly sensationalistic. But reading his obituary just now, I find myself thinking it’s a shame he’s gone.

Because whether you liked him or not, you have to admit that when it came to bridging the information gap, Zhang Xuefeng did more, and did it better, than the vast majority of educators out there—especially for kids living out in the sticks or studying at second-rate high schools.

Even in their final year of high school, many such students had no idea that, instead of relying solely on their gaokao score to get into university, they could apply to [pilot university-recruitment programs like] the Strong Foundation Program. They didn’t realize that high-profile majors at certain universities weren’t always as hard to get into as they had assumed, nor were they aware of how to avoid the pitfalls of choosing the wrong school or the wrong major.

They were like frogs trapped at the bottom of a well, able to glimpse only a tiny patch of the sky above.

The most important thing Zhang Xuefeng did was to lower a rope into that well, offering them a way out.

He didn’t mince words. During one of his livestreams, he told a parent: “If that were my kid and he insisted on studying journalism, I’d knock him senseless and sign him up for something else!"

He had no qualms about shattering illusions: "Unless your family’s loaded, that isn’t the major for you."

Such advice seems harsh, even cruel.

But the thing is: he was telling the truth.

Teachers wouldn’t say such things, nor would parents. Only Zhang Xuefeng, with each barbed pronouncement, was willing to burst those unrealistic bubbles.

He was variously criticized as an opportunist who made his living via media while knocking the media as a profession, a utilitarian who turned education into a mere cost-benefit calculation, and an alarmist who stoked anxiety [among students and parents].

But for kids whose families lacked resources, connections, or even a single relative who had ever attended university, Zhang’s "utilitarian" advice satisfied their most pressing need.

Was it that these students and their parents lacked idealism? Not at all. It’s just that idealism won’t pay the rent or put food on the table, so it wasn’t something they could afford.

Those from elite families might have looked upon Zhang Xuefeng’s advice as common knowledge, but for rural students at non-elite schools, his every word helped to save them time and money, and to avert costly trial and error.

As I’ve said before, Zhang Xuefeng had a strong working-class sensibility.

I remember seeing him on a televised speech competition in 2017 talking about the importance of education. He said that while nearly all Fortune 500 companies claimed it made no difference where their recruits graduated from, they would never recruit from, say, Qiqihar University. "When they say things like that,” said Zhang, “They’re all lying." [Chinese]

A now-deleted article from WeChat account Yaya’s Room, titled “Rest in Peace, Teacher Zhang Xuefeng, and May Schoolgirls Never Have to Listen to Your Paternalistic Lecturing Again,” focuses on the often stark gap between Zhang’s advice to male and female students:

My simple view is that anyone’s life, be they from the humblest of backgrounds, is worthy of introspection and consideration. Others may offer them advice, but may not make decisions in their stead. But Zhang Xuefeng’s advice often crosses the line. The advice he “provides” to parents (that is, strong-arms them into accepting) deprives children of their right to choose, which is detrimental to their personal development. He also prioritizes financial exigency over students’ actual interests, which results in overly utilitarian choices (choices that are rarely sustained in the long run, and even if they are, result in a diminished quality of life.) These are all things I oppose.

What I find most objectionable is Zhang Xuefeng’s view on gender. This is mainly reflected in his educational advice to female students, which frequently includes the phrase: "Find a boyfriend." In short, regardless of whether or not a girl is seeking relationship advice, Zhang Xuefeng will “offer his two cents” on the subject of love and marriage—the gist of which is to tell her to “find a boyfriend” and “follow him wherever he goes.” Zhang never gives this kind of advice to male students.

As is abundantly clear, Zhang Xuefeng’s advice to many young women is that you don’t need to work hard to develop your career, you just need to find a man who is willing to support you. In his eyes, women’s roles within the family are as wives and mothers, and he hopes that women will internalize these roles and plan their lives accordingly. [Chinese]