“For the best band, we’ve chosen the best students and the best teachers,” Teacher Wang continued.

Mr. Wang, whom parents addressed only as “Teacher,” (a sign of respect common here) stood before a giant white screen on which he projected a power point full of instrument images. “I’ve chosen your kids, one by one, out of a thousand kids.” Mr. Wang was referring to band C, the third in the school which trained the youngest students, some of whom would eventually rise through the ranks to band B and on to A, at which point they would perform at overseas gigs.

“I’ve looked at their teeth, at their arms, their height, everything, very carefully,” Teacher Wang said. “We don’t want anyone with asthma, or heart problems, or eye problems. And we want the smart kids; the quick learners.”

“Your kids were chosen not because they want to play this or that instrument, but because they have long arms, or the right lips, or are the right height, say for the trumpet, or the drums,” he said.

Seated across from me at a school desk, a father in China’s blue Public Security Uniform with silver-and-black insignia on his shoulder appeared to be listening carefully. Yet as he fiddled with a pen, took notes, leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, stared down, crossed his legs at the ankles, I wondered if he was entirely “there.” Chinese police attend a lot of ideological meetings at which matters such as the rejuvenation of the great Chinese nation or control of ethnic minorities are freely discussed. Likely he was proud his child had been selected for Band C. But perhaps he was also a bit bored, I thought.

I, however, was spellbound. During my years in China I’d learned about ideas on a person’s “quality,” or “suzhi,” — concepts that are widely accepted here but would probably discomfort liberal parents elsewhere.