What a Typical Taiwanese High School Schedule Looks Like (Yes, There’s a Semiconductor Class in 10th Grade)
The alarm goes off at 6:10, and I already hear the shower running. My son, Ethan, is a 10th grader at a public high school in Taipei. He has to be at school by 7:30 for morning homeroom, and last week I taped his weekly timetable to the fridge—partly for my own sanity, partly so I can actually keep track of which days he has the dreaded “semiconductor lab” block.
Taped above his schedule is a list of subjects I never studied at school: “Basic Electronics,” “Digital Logic,” and the one that threw me off the first time I saw it—”Introduction to Semiconductors.” That’s right. My kid is learning about chip design in the same year he’s supposed to be memorizing Chinese classical texts and solving quadratic equations.
A typical day runs something like this: 7:30 to 7:50 is homeroom, where attendance is taken and announcements are made. Then classes start. For the next eight hours, he moves through a rotation of Chinese literature, English, math, history, chemistry, and physical education. There’s a five-minute break between each 50-minute period—just enough time to sprint to the bathroom, refill his water bottle, and complain about how heavy his backpack is.
Lunch is at noon, and it’s a two-hour block. That sounds generous, but the first thirty minutes are usually eaten up by cleaning duty. In Taiwanese schools, students are responsible for sweeping the classroom, wiping the blackboard, and sorting recycling. It’s not optional. Ethan’s class has a rotating roster, and last week he was assigned to the hallway bathroom. He was not cheerful about it.
The remaining ninety minutes are split by many students into eating, napping at their desks, and doing homework. Ethan has a group of friends who hang out in the classroom during lunch. Sometimes they play card games or watch videos on their phones, but more often than not, they’re copying notes or quizzing each other for the next subject.
Then the afternoon continues. By 4:20, the last official class ends. And that’s when things get interesting.
Because for many Taiwanese students, the school day doesn’t end at 4:20. A huge number of 10th graders go straight to evening study halls or cram schools—what we call “busiban.” They’ll have another two to three hours of math, English, or science drill. Some of them don’t get home until 10 p.m., and then they still have homework.
Ethan doesn’t go to a busiban. That was a decision we made together, and it’s created a slightly different rhythm for our household. On most days, he’s home by 5:00. He eats a meal, tells me something about his day, and then buries himself in his desk until dinner. His homework load is what you’d expect: two hours on a light day, three or four if there are essays or lab reports due.
But the semiconductor class is what keeps surprising me. When he first brought home a small circuit board and a bag of resistors, I assumed it was a vocational elective. It’s not. It’s a required course for his “industrial technology major” tract—which is a common choice in Taiwanese high schools. In the 10th grade, these majors get an introduction to topics like materials science, transistor basics, and simple chip fabrication. It’s not dive-right-in to advanced physics; it’s more about exposure. The goal is to let students figure out whether they want to pursue an engineering path before they’re stuck picking a college major.
I asked Ethan what they actually do in class. He leaned back in his chair, feigning exhaustion, and said, “Today we drew the cross-section of a MOSFET.” When my blank face didn’t change, he pulled out his notebook. There was a diagram of a silicon layer with doped regions labeled n-type and p-type. It looked like a map of an extremely tiny city. He explained how a voltage applied to the gate can control the flow of current. It was coherent. He did an accompanying hand gesture that looked like a faucet turning on and off.
That moment reminded me of something I’ve been learning as a parent in Taiwan: the education system here is big on practical, hands-on discovery—much more than I expected. The semiconductor class isn’t about making them into engineers at fifteen. It’s about demystifying the technology that surrounds them. When Ethan points at his phone and says, “That chip inside literally has billions of transistors,” he’s not just reciting a fact. He’s applying a lesson from the classroom.
One Tuesday, he came home with a small LED circuit he had soldered himself. It blinked in a pattern that he had programmed using an Arduino-like board. He showed me with a straight face, then cracked a smile when I applauded. It’s not straight A’s or a prize-worthy engineering project. It’s just a teenager feeling capable with his hands and logic.
What I’ve learned from this schedule, and from the many conversations with other parents, is that the intensity isn’t all bad. Yes, the hours are long. The pressure is real. But there are rhythms that help.
For parents confronting a schedule like this—whether you’re new to Taiwan or just trying to support your child—there are two things that actually make a difference. The first is asking better questions than “How was school?” Ask, “What did you make or build today?” or “What was the most hands-on thing you did in class?” These questions invite specific answers, and they signal to your child that you’re interested in their learning, not just their grades. The second is to protect some unstructured time. For Ethan, that’s a 45-minute bicycle ride around the neighborhood after dinner. It’s not a lot, but it breaks the long stretch of sitting. When he comes back, he’s noticeably more focused.
I also tried to learn a bit about his semiconductor material myself. I looked up a simple explainer about how chips are made. Now, when he mentions things like “etching” or “wafer,” I can nod and ask one or two follow-up questions. It doesn’t make me an expert, and he knows I’m not. But it turns a routine homework conversation into a shared discussion.
Still, there are days when I look at his timetable and feel a knot in my stomach. Wednesday is his longest day: eight periods plus a two-hour evening study hall because his class teacher offers extra help. He’s tired. I’ve seen him fall asleep at his desk, head resting on an open textbook. My instinct is to tell him to rest, and I do. He usually resists, insisting he has to finish one more problem set.
The schedule is what it is. There’s no dramatic fix, and I don’t have a neat answer about whether he’s doing too much or too little. What I do know is that last week, he left his semiconductor notebook on the kitchen table. I flipped through it. Notes, circuit designs, and a few doodles of cartoon dogs. On one page, he had written in the margins: “Transistor speed depends on size. Smaller is faster.” Then, a line below: “Like me after lunch when I skip dessert.”
I closed the notebook and smiled. The schedule will only get busier, and the questions will get harder. For now, he’s making space for his own jokes inside a very full week. That feels like enough.
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