Before we left that day, Xiongjun’s mother handed me two yuan. “For your next bus fare. Make sure you leave earlier next time or I’ll have no one to help me make the dumplings,” she said.
At first I refused to take the money, but she insisted. “This is the best two yuan I have ever spent. Take it!”
Along with the Bandit, Xiongjun became one of my closest friends. I formed a strong relationship with each and every one of the Chong family. Everything the Chongs made for Xiongjun, I also received a share of, and I continued to visit them regularly throughout the next few years. They unofficially became my adopted family.
I went home to my own family in Qingdao for the Chinese New Year holiday that year, and this time I went with much improved grades. Chinese New Year had always been my favorite time of the year, but now it was even more special because it was my one chance to see my family and friends once more. My family could never visit me in Beijing. Just one return train ticket was equal to half my dia’s salary for a whole month.
I brought back some Beijing sweets and a bag of jasmine tea from the Chongs as gifts to my family, and the marbles were an enormous hit among my brothers and friends. “They are the most beautiful marbles I’ve ever seen!” Jing Tring cried with excitement. He flew outside and proudly showed them to all his friends. He even placed them under his pillow that night.
My family shared the sweets and tea with some of their relatives and friends, and they were deeply touched by the Chongs’ generosity. In the end they had only enough tea left for one pot to have themselves, on the eve of Chinese New Year. My niang declared that this was the best tea they had ever had.
My holiday month at home went by too fast. My parents and brothers showered me with love and affection. Their lives hadn’t changed much from the year before, but I did notice some friction between my second brother, Cunyuan, and my parents. A few days before I was to leave for Beijing, my parents made Cunyuan write a thank-you letter to the Chongs to express their appreciation for looking after me. Cunyuan had to rewrite it several times because my parents weren’t satisfied with the words he used. Two nights before my departure, just as our niang sat on the kang after dinner, Cunyuan read his latest version.
“And if you don’t like it, write it yourself!” he said, annoyed.
“It’s better than the last one,” my niang said, “but it’s still not deep enough. Can’t you say something like, ‘We are so touched by your generosity that we could have kowtowed for you if you were here,’ but without actually saying that?”
“Why don’t you cut your heart out and send it with Cunxin to show them?” Cunyuan was growing angry.
“I would if someone else could wipe your bottoms for you when I’m not here anymore!” she replied.
“If you really want to show the Chongs your heart, why don’t you give Cunxin to them, like you did Cunmao?”
“Watch your tongue!” Our niang gave him a stern look.
“You would give us all away before Cunxin. He is our family’s crown jewel,” Cunyuan continued.
“You are all my treasures,” our niang said. “I love each one of you. I would rather die than give any of you away!”
“Hnnng!” Cunyuan was sounding bitter, disgruntled.
“Hnnng what? Have I done any less for you?” our niang asked him.
“Yes! You let your other sons go and pursue their futures! Except me! I can’t even marry the person I love!” Cunyuan was shouting now. “Why should I be kept at home? Why can’t you let me go to Tibet?”
“Haven’t we explained to you before? We need you here,” our dia waded into the conversation.
Cunyuan looked at our dia and hesitated. Our dia’s words were indisputable in our family. They represented a certain kind of finality.
But Cunyuan was too emotional and wouldn’t let it go. “So, I’m the one being sacrificed! Why don’t you just say that I’m the least important of all your sons!”
“Can you repeat what you’ve just said?” my dia asked calmly. I could tell he was trying hard to contain his rage.
“I said ...”
Whack! Dia reached over and slapped Cunyuan on his face with such enormous force that I feared his jaw might break.
“I dare you to repeat such ungrateful things about your niang!” Our dia then leaped off the kang and charged at my second brother.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Our niang stood between them. Cunyuan was holding his face, stunned. A moment later he came to his senses and fled.
Our dia was still raging with anger. “I can’t believe we have such an ungrateful son!” Niang was sobbing by this point. “What have I done wrong with him? What have I done wrong?”
We sat there in shock, soaked with sadness. I was deeply upset by Cunyuan’s accusations against our niang. I couldn’t believe he was so angry. I couldn’t understand why. But I did feel sorry for him. I had heard about the central government wanting more young men to go to Tibet, and Big Brother Cuncia had suggested to our parents that Cunyuan should go. I’d thought the whole issue had been resolved by now.
My niang was upset and teary all through the next day.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked her when the two of us were left alone.
“Ever since your big brother wrote from Tibet a few months ago,” she replied.
“Why don’t you let him go?” I asked again.
“He has just started working. We need his income for us all to survive. How can we lose him so soon after we have lost your big brother to Tibet? We just can’t afford to! The best thing for him would be to marry that nice, steady girl your big aunt introduced him to.” She sighed.
“Couldn’t he send money back from Tibet?” I asked.
“Have we seen a single fen from your big brother in Tibet? He can’t even feed himself from what the government gives him!”
We both fell into silence. Now I understood.
“You are the luckiest person with enough food to fill your stomach,” my niang continued, “and now the Chong family likes you!” Then she became more serious. “Never forget where you come from,” she said. “Work hard and make a life of your own. Don’t look back! There is nothing here except starvation and struggle!”
Cunyuan didn’t come home for the next two days. I was worried. I knew our parents were worried too. He came back on the morning I was to leave for Beijing. He looked terrible, as if he had not slept for the two days since he’d run away.
Everyone was quiet at breakfast that day. “Take care, be good. Listen to your teachers. See you next year,” my dia said to me before he left for work. Soon after, Cunyuan rode off on Dia’s bike and told me he would be back in time to take me to the train station.
Nearly two hours later he finally arrived home and handed me a small brown paper package. “You can open it when you’re on the train,” he said.
I recognized the wrapping paper from the only county department store and I knew he would have ridden all this time to get there and back.
When it was time for me to leave, my niang walked outside to the gate with us. “Write as soon as you arrive or I’ll be worried sick!” she said. She turned to Cunyuan. “Be careful, especially on the narrow roads. Just stop if you see a truck coming.”
“Why do you care?” Cunyuan muttered under his breath.
“Niang, I’m going now,” I said to her, trying to defuse the tension.
She didn’t say anything. Tears welled in her eyes. I hesitated. Maybe I should have asked her sewing friends to come.
Cunyuan wanted to leave earlier than was needed, so I sat on the backseat of my dia’s bike and waved at my niang, at my brothers, relatives and neighbors. I tried hard to fight back my tears. Maybe it was the distraction of Cunyuan’s situation, but I felt slightly easier leaving home this time. Cunyuan rode away as fast as he could as though this would release his anger and frustration.
Once we were on the main road, I asked him how he was. He didn’t reply. He just pedaled harder. About
halfway to the station he hopped off the bike and said, “Let’s talk.”
Now I understood why he wanted to leave home so much earlier.
“I’m sorry you had to witness this unpleasantness,” he said as he pushed the bike off the road. It had been a crisply cold morning when our dia had left for work, but now it was midmorning and the sun had made it warmer. The train wasn’t scheduled to arrive for at least another two hours, and we were about half an hour away. Cunyuan took out a small bag of tobacco, rolled a cigarette and sat crouching against a concrete power pole.
“Are you all right?” I asked, trying to find something to say.
No answer. He puffed his cigarette furiously. I could tell from the movement of his chest that his emotions were like a rough sea. All of a sudden he dropped his cigarette, hid his face in his hands and sobbed. I didn’t know how to comfort him, so I just rushed up to him and held his shoulders.
“Why me?” he said. “I should never have been born!”
I felt helpless. There was nothing I could say.
Eventually he lifted his head. “Why won’t our parents listen to me and let me go to Tibet? Why won’t they let me marry the person I love? What have I done to deserve such treatment? What is my future here? Should I be satisfied to work in the fields for the rest of my life? Tibet is the only opportunity I have to do something with my life. At least I could get a government-sponsored job and see what’s out there! Look at our big brother, look at you, and then look at the rest of us!”
“I wish I could give you what you want. Can’t you talk to them again?”
He shook his head. “I’ve tried so hard to convince them both about Tibet and my marriage. They don’t want to lose another laborer in our family.” He rolled another cigarette, then continued, as though he was talking to himself. “I dived into the dam on the Northern Hill one day last summer. I thought of staying under the water and never coming up. Maybe I will have a better life in another world.” He sighed. “Why do we have to live in this world? There is no color in this life! I wake up early every morning before the sun is up, I go and work in the fields. Under the burning sun, in the pouring rain, in the freezing snow and with an empty stomach, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year, no Sundays off, no free days. I only come home to sleep. My dreams are the only comfort I have, and most of those are nightmares. Often I am too tired even to remember my dreams. I’m twenty-four years old! There is no end to this suffering!”
I crouched beside him and listened in shock and with an ever more saddened heart. I wished I’d had a magic cure for all his problems, but I knew there was none. Millions of young people were going through the same agony and despair all over China.
“Let’s not talk about my situation anymore,” he said at last. “How are you coping at the academy? Are you happier there this past year?”
“It’s getting better. But I still miss home. I even miss the harsh part of life sometimes,” I replied.
“But surely there is nothing here you would miss! I’d give anything to be in your position.”
“Why don’t we swap?” I teased, trying to cheer him up.
“The Beijing Dance Academy would laugh their teeth off if they saw my bowed legs! But to see Beijing would be a great privilege. Go back and work hard. You have the opportunity of a lifetime. Your brothers can only dream of it.” After a brief pause, he asked, “Do you still like cricket fights?”
I nodded. Why, suddenly, would he ask me about cricket fights?
“Remember how great you feel when your cricket is victorious. Have you ever put yourself in the shoes of the losing cricket?”
I shook my head.
“Sometimes I feel like I am the losing cricket and I cannot escape. Life is the victorious cricket, chasing me around until it hunts me down and slowly chews me up. Did you ever have this feeling?”
Again I shook my head.
“I always imagined that as long as I could fight, I would be able to find a way out, but I’m not sure anymore. I’m fighting against life, the life I was given, but not the life I desire.”
I was speechless, silenced by his despair.
We arrived at the station, and soon the rattling train slowly rolled toward our platform. A couple of my friends popped their heads out of the windows looking for me, and my brother passed my bag in to them.
It was time to part. We just stood there and looked at each other. There was still much that I wanted to say. I wanted to hug him but I couldn’t possibly—it wasn’t the thing to do for the opposite sex in China, let alone the same sex. “I’m going now” was all I said as we stiffly shook hands.
As the train moved away I could see him wiping tears from his face. I stuck my head out the window and waved. He just stood there, like a statue, until we moved out of sight.
I squeezed onto the bench seat beside my friends. I answered my friends’ questions about my holidays, but my brother’s aching voice kept echoing in my ears. Suddenly I remembered the parcel he’d given me. I took it out and untied the brownish strings. It was a box of sorghum sweets with a note attached, roughly written. “These are for your friend Chong Xiongjun’s family,” Cunyuan had written. “They represent your six brothers’ mountain-weight of gratitude and our sincere thanks for their kindness in looking after you . . . Please forgive me for the last two days. What I want in life can only remain a distant dream. I beg you to forget it ...”
I lost control then. I tried to stop the tears but the harder I tried the more they welled up and I covered my face with my handkerchief.
“What’s wrong?” Several of my classmates became very concerned.
I didn’t know what to tell them. “I just want to be left alone,” I said.
I found myself trying to answer Cunyuan’s unanswerable questions. I thought of the dying cricket trying to escape from his tormentor with neither the will nor the physical condition to do so. I felt sick. I felt an enormous swell of compassion for my poor, trapped brother.
My grief for Cunyuan continued to overwhelm me all through my journey back to Beijing. “There has to be a solution! There has to be a solution!” I kept telling myself. But I knew there was none. Poverty itself was his problem, and I began to realize how enormously privileged I was to have gotten out of Qingdao. For my brothers it wouldn’t matter how hard they worked or how long they persisted, little would change in the end. They would most likely be in the same situation, twenty, thirty or fifty years from now.
When the sun set and the stars began to appear I felt exhaustion overwhelm me. I asked my friend Fu Xijun to swap seats with me so I could sit against the window.
I knew now, with sudden shock, that I could never go back to the life I used to have. I would always miss my parents’ love and my brothers’ company, but I knew deep in my heart that my future now lay ahead, not behind. This trip home had once and for all stripped off the fantasy of the ideal countryside life I’d always thought was possible. What my second brother was going through in his mind was far worse than the lack of food, the starvation. His soul was dying. If I hadn’t gotten out I too would have faced the same fate.
I fell in and out of sleep throughout that trip back to Beijing. We kept swapping seats so each of us could have a turn leaning against the window, but for the last three hours of the trip I was wide awake. I thought about the year ahead. I was looking forward to facing the challenges. A mysterious voice sounded in my ears: “Cunxin, you are privileged. You are lucky. Go forward. Don’t be afraid and don’t look back. There is nothing back there, only your family’s unconditional love and that will always propel you forward.”
But now, for the first time, this voice wasn’t my brother’s voice. It wasn’t my dia’s. It wasn’t even my beloved niang’s. This voice was my own.
13
TEACHER XIAO’S WORDS
In the spring of 1974, when I was thirteen, the Beijing Dance Academy was invited to go to Tiananmen Square to hear our beloved Chairman Mao speak.
This wa
s an opportunity beyond my wildest dreams! I was so excited I didn’t sleep at all the night before. I’d only ever heard Chairman Mao’s voice over a loudspeaker in our commune or on a radio at the academy. I had memorized so many of his sayings from his Red Book and I had four large volumes of his communist theories by my bedside, the guiding principles of my life. I was so lucky to be born in the time of Chairman Mao, our living god, and now I was going to see and hear him in person!
Suddenly a sense of shame overwhelmed me. I hadn’t been good enough to deserve this honor! I twisted and turned all night. I kept repeating in my head the first words I had ever learned at school. “Long, long live Chairman Mao.” When I was a little boy I truly believed he would have goddesses accompanying him and there would be clouds surrounding him, just like a real god.
I woke up very early on the morning of the rally. I had extra energy. I was dressed in my best Mao jacket and ready to leave by six o’clock.
The bus journey to Tiananmen Square took us nearly an hour. No motion sickness for me that day. We could hear an extraordinary noise as we got close—loud drums, cymbals, trumpets, instruments of all kinds mixed in with the exuberant, feverish shouting of propaganda slogans. We were led by security guards, wading through a sea of red banners, an ocean of people. It was like an enormous carnival. A joyous celebration.
The organization must have been meticulous. There were police everywhere, and they strictly controlled our every movement. Clearly no mishaps would mar this nationally publicized demonstration, a demonstration of a people united in their devotion to Chairman Mao. Everyone was assigned a location—there was no seating, but packing millions of people into Tiananmen Square took time, so various groups were there to play music and entertain us. The excitement was contagious. Emotions were at fever pitch. I had never been in a crowd where people were so open and friendly. This was the happiest moment in all of our lives. And, reinforcing our sense of Mao’s godliness, it was a brilliant, sunny day.