The Curriculum Nobody Talks About

Most schools pride themselves on their exam results. They talk about certificates, rankings, and grades. Foon Yew was different. It never needed to brag about academics, because its real curriculum was hidden. It was not written in any textbook, but lived in the sweat of fundraising, the tension of class competitions, and the pride of preserving a legacy.

While other schools measured success by test scores, Foon Yew quietly built entrepreneurs. We did not just sit in classrooms. We walked into wet markets to persuade vegetable sellers, into restaurants to negotiate with business owners, into neighborhoods to sell coupons, and into wealthy businessmen’s offices to ask for permanent endowment. This was not schooling as usual. This was training for life.

The reason this hidden curriculum existed was simple. Foon Yew, like all Chinese independent schools in Malaysia, followed its own system. Because it stood outside the national education structure, it did not receive regular government funding. Instead, it survived on tuition fees, alumni donations, and community fundraising. What looked like a challenge became its greatest strength. Scarcity bred resourcefulness. The Global Entrepreneurship Monitor reports that emerging economies with less institutional support often produce higher rates of necessity-driven entrepreneurship compared to developed countries with stronger safety nets. Foon Yew proved this long before research confirmed it.

If loving your country is called patriotism, then what do we call loving a school? For us, it was proven not by slogans, but by effort. Students poured themselves into the school with time, creativity, and sweat. That was the hidden curriculum.

Story and Struggle

When I was 18, I thought I was invincible. At Foon Yew, life was a constant juggle. Six days of heavy academics, full-day schedules, competitions, sports, and on top of that, fundraising to keep the school alive. Yet I never once thought of it as a burden. Selling vegetables at the wet market, persuading restaurant owners to let us take over their stalls for a day, chasing down wealthy businessmen to become “永久贊助人” by giving tens of thousands, all of this felt like conquering the world. It was entrepreneurship before I even knew what that word meant.

We were not given instructions. No principal or teacher dictated what to do. The legacy was simply handed down, year after year, and we kept it alive. Each class designed its own banners, came up with new creative campaigns, and competed fiercely to out-raise the others. It was not branded as “gamification,” but that was exactly what it was. Real-world learning, long before the word became fashionable.

I remember vividly one afternoon when, after my kids finished their ice creams during our alumni visit, a group of students ran up and begged me, “帅哥，请把垃圾给我们!”—“Handsome brother, please give us your trash.” I was startled. Why would they want my rubbish? Their reply humbled me: “If you throw it in the public bin, it is wasted. If you give it to us, we can recycle it for the school.” That moment crystallized the spirit of Foon Yew. Nothing wasted, everything redeemed. Even trash became value. That is entrepreneurship at its purest.

But nostalgia carries irony. At 18, standing tall against the brick wall at the school gate, I marked my height with liquid paper, proud of how grown-up I was. I felt ready to face the world, to conquer anything. At 38, walking back through the same gates, I saw the mark still there, unchanged, but I was changed. Students called me “uncle,” some still playfully called me “帅哥,” but to me, they looked like babies. At their age, I thought I was an adult. At my age now, I saw how little we knew back then.

David Brooks calls this the journey from the first mountain to the second mountain. The first mountain is about ego, conquest, achievement. That was me at 18. The second mountain is about service, relationships, legacy. That is me at 38, realizing that the bigger I become, the smaller my ego must be.

The Harvard Study of Adult Development, the world’s longest-running study on human growth, found that this shift happens universally at midlife. People move from self-focus to generativity, from chasing personal success to investing in the next generation. I felt that shift the moment I stood in front of those students.

It reminded me of Nelson Mandela. At 27, he was militant, aggressive, ready to fight and conquer. By 70, he had become reconciliatory, humble, ready to serve a nation. Bigger impact came from smaller ego.

That is the hidden curriculum of Foon Yew. At 18, you are trained to think big. At 38, you realize the real measure is how much you can give. And at 60, the only question left will be: did you live in a way that leaves no regrets?

Lessons Beneath the Surface

When I look back at my Foon Yew years, I see three invisible lessons that shaped me.

No Entitlement. Without steady government support, the school’s survival depended on its people. Every student knew they had to carry the weight. Entitlement had no place in our vocabulary.

Mission Driven. Fundraising was never just about money. It was about preserving Chinese education and cultural identity. That mission gave every effort meaning, and meaning sustained sacrifice.

Resourceful and Creative. Scarcity forced us to be inventive. We had to design banners, invent campaigns, and persuade people to give. Israel’s youth military service does the same for their nation. Y Combinator applies the same principle of scarcity to startups. Creativity is not born in abundance. It is forged in lack.

Foon Yew carried a paradoxical genius. Like China, it had collectivist discipline that united thousands. Like India, it bred diversity and entrepreneurial hustle. In combining both, it created students who were loyal to a cause yet inventive in approach.

Even the trash recycling story carries this lesson. Value is not only found in what is shiny and new. Value is created when you take what others throw away and redeem it for purpose. That is entrepreneurship. That is legacy.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

Now the real question. How do we design hidden curriculums for the next generation?

At 18, I thought being bigger made me stronger. At 38, I discovered that the smaller I became, the more ready I was to serve. At 60, I do not want to look back with regret.

Maxwell’s Law of Legacy reminds us that a leader’s lasting value is measured by succession. Family business studies show that only 30 percent survive to the second generation, and only 3 percent to the fourth. Foon Yew has already surpassed those odds, sustaining for over a century without government funding, built on documentation and culture. That is leadership without title. That is legacy without command.

The liquid paper mark on the school gate still stands. At 18, it was proof that I was tall enough to conquer the world. At 38, it humbled me. At 60, it will not remind me of height, but of legacy.

Because the hidden curriculum of Foon Yew is not about how much you achieve at 18. It is about how much you multiply at 38. And whether at 60, you can say with conviction: I have lived a life without regret.