How We Learned to Be Disciplined—and Came to Discipline Others in Turn 我們如何學會被規訓，並以規訓他人為善？

In the Chinese-speaking world, sentences often end before they are truly finished. And yet, listeners understand. That’s the efficiency of language—and the subtlety of power.

在中文語境裡，很多話不需要說完，聽的人就已經懂了。這是語言的效率，也是權力的暗示。

“You shouldn’t do that.”
“Be considerate of your parents.”
No explanation needed, no room for reply.

一句「不應該這樣」，不需說出理由；一句「你要體諒父母」，也不需給出討論空間。

Beneath such phrases lies an entire apparatus of discipline: a structure that defines what is proper, normal, praiseworthy—and, by contrast, what is deviant, questionable, or excessive. This system wasn't designed by any single authority, but rather trained into all of us. And the cruel twist is this: once we learn to “read between the lines,” we also learn to write them. We graduate from being disciplined to becoming the disciplinarians.

那些話語之下，其實藏著一套完整的規訓結構——
它告訴你什麼是正常的、正確的、值得肯定的；也默默標示出偏差、例外與可疑的存在。
這套結構不是某個人設計的，但我們每個人都在其中受過訓練。更諷刺的是，當我們學會如何「聽懂」，也就學會了如何「說出」。從被規訓者，變成了規訓他人者。

“It's for your own good” is less a gesture of care than it is a syntax of command.

「為你好」往往不是一種關心，而是一種命令的語法。

In this context, ethics are not deliberated; they are implied, repeated, presumed.
“Just listen to your elders.”
“Parents would never harm their children.”
“A woman’s place is at home.”
These aren’t arguments. They don’t need to be. Their power lies precisely in not pretending to persuade. They bypass reason and activate something far more potent: shame, guilt, fear.

在這種語境裡，倫理並不是被討論出來的，而是被暗示、被複誦、被預設的。
所謂「長輩說了你就聽」、「父母不會害你」、「女人還是要顧家」——這些話不講道理，卻比道理更有力量，因為它們不假裝自己在說理，而是直接啟動羞恥感、內疚感、恐懼感這一整套情緒機制。

Discipline does not aim to make you understand. It aims to make you internalize.

規訓的目的不是讓你明白，而是讓你自覺。

Once internalized, discipline becomes self-policing. You begin to question yourself—am I being too selfish? Too extreme? Am I giving off the wrong impression? Eventually, surveillance is no longer necessary. The judge has taken up residence in your own head.

而一旦「自覺」了，你就會開始審查自己、矯正自己、壓抑自己。你會開始懷疑那些偏離常規的選擇是不是「太任性」、「太極端」、「會給人壞印象」。最終，你不再需要外部監管，因為你已經內建了那個看不見的裁判。

You see this machinery at work in every corner of the internet. A creator who leaves her political stance ambiguous is instantly interrogated: “How can you be so heartless?” “Why don’t you make your position clear?” A woman writer speaks honestly about her ambivalence toward motherhood, and the verdict arrives not as dialogue but as decree: “You’re unfit to be a mother.” No one is interested in her struggle. They want to know why she has failed to perform the right emotions, take the right position, strike the right tone.

你可以在任何一個留言區裡看到這種規訓的熟練運作。
當一位創作者選擇在作品中保留自己的立場空白，立刻就有人質問她：「怎麼能這麼冷血？」「為什麼不說清楚你支持誰？」
當一位女性寫作者在公共場域中表現出對母職的矛盾，留言往往不是提問，而是判決：「你不配當媽。」
沒有人真的在乎她的掙扎，他們在乎的是她為什麼不選擇正確的情緒、正確的立場、正確的語氣。

That is the nature of discipline. It doesn’t seek to know you—it asks that you conform to a template. Deviation is not curiosity; it is error.

這就是規訓：它不是試圖了解你，而是要求你符合一個模板，並把不符合視為一種錯誤。

The most insidious form of discipline is the one that comes disguised as kindness.
“We’re just reminding you.”
“We only want what’s best for you.”
“Think of others, won’t you?”
But this so-called kindness demands submission, silence, self-correction—not freedom.

規訓最陰險的地方在於，它不以暴力的面目出現，而總是披著善意的語氣：「我們只是提醒你」「我們是在為你好」「你要多替別人想想」。但所謂的善意，是讓你收斂、讓你沉默、讓你修正，而不是讓你自由。

And often, it’s not the state, the elders, or the institutions that enforce it most zealously. It’s us.

有時候，最熱衷於規訓的，往往不是體制、不是長輩、也不是權威，而是我們自己。

We leave anonymous comments. We caution the young with the smugness of “someone who’s been through it.” We wield the language of “rational debate” to smother feeling. We believe we’re speaking truth, offering goodwill—but in fact, we’re parroting a grammar long taught to us, a structure we’ve absorbed and now willingly replicate.

我們用匿名帳號去留言，用「我是過來人」的語氣去告誡年輕人，用「理性討論」的語言去消音別人的情緒。我們相信自己在說真話、說善意的話，卻沒發現那其實只是別人教會我們的語法，一種我們早就學會、甚至樂於複製的結構。

Because the real allure of discipline has never been order. It is power—the intoxicating sense of superiority that comes with saying: I know better. I see more clearly. I am safeguarding society.

因為規訓的真正吸引力從來不是秩序，而是權力——那種「我知道你不知道」、「我比你清醒」、「我在為社會把關」的優越感。

Discipline grants us, if only for a moment, the illusion of authority in a world where we otherwise feel powerless. I may not be able to change the system—but at least, I can correct you.

它讓我們在一個權力極度不對等的社會裡，暫時獲得一種錯覺：我也能發號施令，我也能規定誰對誰錯。我雖然無力改變世界，但至少能「矯正」你。

And so we suffer under control, even as we sharpen our own tools of control. We resent being silenced, even as we practice silencing others.

於是我們一邊在體制裡受苦，一邊在網路上伸出指頭。
一邊痛恨被控制，一邊反覆練習怎麼控制別人。

Can we escape this system? Perhaps not yet.

要怎麼逃離規訓？也許我們暫時還沒有辦法。

The grammar of discipline is already embedded in our daily lives. It’s in the slogans, the polite phrasing of “just a suggestion,” the rhetorical kindness of “it’s for your good.” It can be stifling without ever being brutal, suffocating while sounding entirely reasonable.

因為這套語言早已滲進我們的日常。它寫在標語裡，藏在「理性討論」的語氣裡，安放在所有「為你好」的語句裡。它讓人難堪，卻不一定殘暴；讓人窒息，卻往往說得通情達理。

So perhaps the first step is not to reject it outright, but to recognize it.

我們能做的，也許不是立刻拒絕它，而是先學會辨認它——

To notice the commands hidden within casual remarks.
To notice when gentleness becomes a tool of suppression.
To notice when we, too, begin speaking in that same voice.

辨認那些話語中沒有說出口的命令，那些看似柔和卻讓人沉默的善意。
辨認自己在什麼時候，也開始用這套語言要求別人。

This, perhaps, is the task of writing: to carve a pause between every command and every act of obedience; to softly ask, in the face of every “you should”—why? For whom?

寫作的意義或許就在於此：在每一次命令與服從的中間，留下片刻遲疑；在每一種「這應該」出現的時候，輕輕問一句——為什麼？為誰？

And if we can hold space for that small act of refusal—for that tentative “I’m not sure”—then perhaps we have already begun to dismantle the first layer of discipline.

如果我們能為那一點點不服從保留空間，為那句「我不確定」留一點餘地，也許就已經開始拆解規訓的第一道結構。