A Cowherd in Paradise

by May Q. Wong

  Ah Dang had had such high hopes when his family first came to Canada. He had planned to be a real father to his son. Ah Gay Sieng, his own adoptive father, had been denied the opportunity, having lived away from home for so long. Then when father and son were finally reunited in Canada, Ah Gay Sieng was struck down by illness and they were separated yet again. Ah Dang had planned to spend time with his own boy, watching him grow, teaching him the ways of a man. But the early years in the restaurant had been harder than he expected, and there was never enough time to spend at home. Now the boy was almost grown and he felt like a stranger.

  Ah Thloo told him Ah Wei was staying out at night with his friends. Their neighbour’s son, Ah Wei’s best friend, had a level head, but Ah Dang did not know anyone else in the group. He knew about being a boy; he could be up to anything.

  Ah Wei was apparently interested only in comic books and loud American music—what a waste of money. Ah Dang heard enough of that nonsense at work. He should be able to expect peace and quiet in his own home, but the boy was using the hi-fi in the living room, and the so-called music blasted through the house all afternoon. The situation blew up one day.

  “Turn that noise down!” Ah Dang shouted.

  Ah Wei emerged from his bedroom next to the living room. Ah Dang noticed the sullen look, but the boy did turn the volume down, if only by a fraction, and retreated to his dark den.

  Ah Dang relaxing while reading a Chinese newspaper, circa 1960s.

  ROBERT WONG, MONTREAL

  “I said turn it down ! I can’t even hear myself think. How can I read my newspaper?”

  No response. Was the boy deliberately ignoring him? Furiously, Ah Dang lifted the needle arm, whipped off the record, and snapped it in two. Now it would be quiet. Ah Wei ran out at the sound of the breaking record, glared at him, and stomped out of the house, slamming the door. He was reacting like a disrespectful Canadian boy! Ah Dang fumed. Now it really was quiet. Ah Thloo had stayed in the kitchen throughout the incident, but his daughter had been watching from the couch, gazing at him with sadness.

  It felt as though all his encounters with his son ended this way, in unresolved anger and silent recrimination from his wife and daughter. If he didn’t do something soon, Ah Wei would be irretrievably lost in his foreign ways. Maybe it was time for the children to go to China to be reeducated. It was certainly time for his son to meet the girl with whom he had been corresponding over the past year—at least he had been obedient on that account. Also, Ah Thloo could see how their eldest child was faring and Ah May could meet her sister and Ah Ngange. Ah Thloo agreed it was for the best.

  Ah Dang had to stay in Montreal to work. He would miss his little girl; she was his constant source of affection. Perhaps Ah Thloo would see his sacrifice and stop blaming him for their elder daughter’s refusal to come to Canada. He bought three one-way tickets. He would let his wife assess the children’s educational progress and determine how long they should stay.

  • • •

  AH THLOO, AH WEI, AND AH MAY: CHINA, 1966–1967

  Who could have anticipated the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, which began in 1966? To launch the campaign, Chairman Mao Zedong swam across the feared Yangtze River. This feat, additional evidence of his superhuman abilities, cemented his cult status.

  Student activists, aged nine to eighteen, acted as Mao’s agents of social change. An estimated thirteen million urban youth volunteered as Red Guards, and from August to November 1966, they were transported free on trains and housed in Beijing, to attend eight rallies in Tiananmen Square.

  Their fervour, stirred up by Mao’s simplistic slogans—“Learn Revolution by Making Revolution” and “Seizure of Power”—was unleashed on his political opponents and “suspicious” citizens. Their common bible was a little red book, Quotations of Chairman Mao, and their common cause was to attack the “Four Olds—old ideas, old culture, old customs, old habits.” The students were given little direction, leaving much room for misinformation, misinterpretation, and mistakes.

  The Red Guards, identified by their armbands, roamed through the streets with impunity, like the bandits and thugs of old. Schools were closed, books were burned, and cultural institutions were ransacked. An unaccounted fortune was lost from the wanton destruction of cultural artifacts. Traditional scholars, professionals, and others were publicly humiliated, tortured, and beaten in “struggle meetings,” where victims were forced to “confess” in front of jeering crowds. For a people who value hoo mien, to have face, these public meetings were sometimes harder to bear than their physical pain.

  Thousands were torn from their families and banished to distant and remote parts of the country to “reeducate” themselves through hard physical labour. Others were imprisoned or killed, or just vanished. Few families were spared, not even Ah Dang’s.

  When Mao finally admitted that the Red Guards were out of control, he sent the People’s Liberation Army to round up the students for exile into the countryside. The Cultural Revolution was declared ended in April 1969. However, the overzealous army, and the notorious political manipulators known as the Gang of Four, continued the witch hunts, and committed additional atrocities over the next seven years.

  By the end of “The Ten Lost Years,” more than one million people had been victimized, of whom more than four hundred thousand died, many by suicide. A swath of mentally and physically broken people was left in the wake of the systematic cruelty inflicted throughout this period.

  Ah Thloo, Ah Wei, and Ah May were unwittingly there to witness its beginning.

  • • •

  The first stop on the way to China was Hong Kong, where Ah Thloo’s goddaughter, Ah Ngan Jean, met them at the airport. The women had a happy, if tearful reunion. Ah Wei and Ah May greeted Ah Ngan Jean enthusiastically; their mother had read her cheery, annual letters to them, but they recognized her from her photographs. In person, she looked like a movie star, with full lips, big eyes, coiffed hair, and a slim figure. Ah May also knew her as the sender of made-in-Hong Kong Disney paraphernalia as gifts; she already loved Ah Ngan Jean.

  The next few weeks passed in a whirlwind of meeting family, sightseeing, eating, and shopping. Day and night they were bombarded by life in the island city. Even behind the door of their hotel room, every sense in their bodies continued to experience the residuals left by the flashing neon, blasting horns, diesel fumes, loud voices, glittering gold, pushy vendors, shiny jade, wet streets, smooth silks, medicinal herbs, tall buildings, armed guards, rich houses, poor shacks, rotting vegetables, fresh meat, live foods, impressive vistas, extreme crowding, lush gardens, and the most delicate and delicious dim sum they had ever eaten.

  The train trip from Hong Kong to Guangzhou, China, was memorable for the anxiety-ridden delay at customs. The Wongs’ Canadian passports were confiscated and the polite, armed officials disappeared with them while the family was made to wait at the station. Communication was difficult, as Ah Thloo did not speak Mandarin and the officials did not understand her dialect.

  Since the revolution, the borders between China and the world had been tightly barricaded and closely monitored. Canada did not officially recognize the People’s Republic of China or establish diplomatic relations with its government until 1970. Few tourists visited—in fact, the Wongs were among the first. If anything had happened to them, no diplomatic assistance would have been available; they were on their own.

  Perhaps it was dangerous, and hindsight showed how precarious the political situation in China was in 1966. However, Ah May’s parents, especially her mother, had faith—faith in God to keep them safe and faith in the government of the People’s Republic to treat former peasants like her with respect.

  Moments before the train was scheduled to leave, the documents were returned to Ah Thloo, and she and her children were finally allowed to board. They never knew the reasons for the delay. It might have been the normal process and it might have been a customs issue; they carried a lot of extra goods.
In addition to their luggage from Canada, in Hong Kong they had bought bicycles, a sewing machine, blankets, electric fans, bolts of fabric, bags of dried foodstuffs, and myriad other useful household items for the extended family in China. No Chinese person ever made a social call empty-handed. Seasonal fruits were acceptable gifts, but Ah Thloo knew from Ah Lai’s letters that many manufactured household items were difficult to obtain. The Wongs were ready to see anyone and provide a practical item for his or her enjoyment.

  When they arrived in Guangzhou at last, Ah Thloo’s youngest brother, Ah Choo, met the family at the station. Her head only reached up to his neck. His features were just like hers but elongated.

  Ah Thloo, her brother Ah Choo, and Ah May eating dim sum in Guangzhou, 1966.

  ROBERT WONG, CHINA

  Ah Choo greeted everyone warmly, hugging his sister and patting his nephew on the back and his niece on the head. Ah Thloo also appeared happy to see her brother. Ah May did not expect anything different, not knowing, at the time, the history of his abandonment of her mother and sister during the war with Japan. He took them out to meals. After eating, he and Ah Thloo alternated paying, after the obligatory verbal and physical tug-of-war for the bill.

  Ah Choo lived alone in the city, where he worked in construction, following in the footsteps of his father, Ah Poy Lim. By the time Ah Choo was ready to enter university, the economic situation in China had deteriorated to such an extent that his father could no longer afford to pay the fees. Instead, Ah Poy Lim took his youngest son with him wherever there were construction jobs, teaching the boy about building—the use of materials and tools, and the art of creating, and reading architectural plans—and passing on his knowledge and skills. Now Ah Choo was a construction foreman.

  Ah Wei in Guangzhou, sporting his Mao hat, 1966.

  MAY Q. WONG, CHINA

  Ah Choo’s wife and family lived in his parents’ house in the village. While Ah Thloo and her family were in Guangzhou, he spent as much time with them as his work allowed. He missed his own children, who were about Ah May’s age, so he took his nephew and niece under his wing.

  Ah Thloo also took the children to meet her eldest sister, Ah Ngay Day, who lived with her son’s widow and the grandchildren, in a fourth-floor apartment with no elevator. Ah May noticed that this aunt was also taller than her mother, but they had the same smile that lit up their eyes. Catching up on family news and exchanging photos, Ah Ngay Day gushed with delight at seeing the most recent photo of her new grandson in Montreal, the child of her youngest daughter, Ah Yee.

  The three Wongs stayed at the official Overseas Chinese Hotel, close to the harbour. As they awaited the arrival of Ah Lai and her family in the hotel room, Ah Wei and Ah May watched their mother, who could not sit still. She rearranged the snacks, fidgeted with the embroidered antimacassars on the chairs, and jumped up at the slightest noise in the hall. They had never seen her act this way; they sat quietly, not knowing what to expect. When she opened the door to a tentative knock, the simultaneous screams of “Ah Maaah!” and “Ah Nuuui!” could be heard through the whole building. The youngsters did not understand the words that followed—both women were blubbering with hysterical happiness.

  Ah Wei looked at Ah May with raised eyebrows. “What a sissy,” he said, referring to his elder sister’s sobbing. The nickname stuck. “Sissy” was the term they used whenever they referred (not unkindly) to their elder sister. When addressing her out loud, of course, they called her Ah Day.

  Ah Lai’s reaction to Ah Wei was the same—he was enveloped in a close hug, after an exuberant shout of “Ah Hai,” Younger Brother. The last time she had seen him she could still piggyback him; now he was the taller than she was. Thinking about the last time they were in Guangzhou together, she started to cry again, but by the time she got to Ah May, she had had a chance to collect herself.

  “Ah Day,” Ah May said dutifully.

  With a smile that rivalled the neon lights of Hong Kong, Ah Lai exclaimed, “Ah Moy!” and welcomed her little sister to the family and to China.

  As the Canadian family was introduced to Ah Lai’s family, Ah May developed an immediate crush on her sister’s movie-star-handsome husband, Ah Haw One, and everyone fell under the spell of their adorable daughter, Ah Bing Fuy. Ah May even let the three-year-old play with her prized doll from Canada. Ah Lai, now a medical doctor, and her university professor husband had taken a special leave to meet and escort the Wongs back to their home near Wuhan. But first, they planned to stay a few days in Guangzhou and then travel with their Canadian relatives to the family hamlet. Citizens were not allowed to stay in the Overseas Chinese Hotel, so Ah Choo offered Ah Lai and her family his small apartment while he moved in with a friend.

  • • •

  Guangzhou has many public gardens, full of elegant old trees and tall pagodas. The Wongs’ first glimpse of the Cultural Revolution occurred in one of the most beautiful of these gardens. As they strolled by a particularly ornate pagoda, surrounded by a group of Red Guards, they looked up several storeys. More students had crowded into the building and a number leaned out the windows, holding large, beautiful porcelain vases in their hands. In response to challenging shouts from below, the hands opened wide, dropping the antiques onto the gravel. A roar of triumph followed each vase as it shattered, spraying shards of fine pottery in a thousand directions.

  The family was not close enough to be injured by the sharp ceramic missiles, but from where they stood, momentarily riveted by the vandalism, they felt the tension and smelled the adrenalin-induced sweat of the mob. Even at the age of ten, Ah May was shocked at the destruction of the pieces of artwork, more outraged than afraid. The adults, however, understood the threat and hurried back to the hotel, where they conferred on what to do to secure everyone’s safety.

  The next day, at Ah Choo’s house, Ah Thloo told Ah May their decision. Her Barbie doll and all her clothes would have to be destroyed. The toy’s pale, full-figured female shape was just too dangerous to keep; it would be seen as an example of depraved foreign capitalist culture and anyone associated with such an item was in grave peril.

  “NO—not by fire! I’ll keep it hidden. I’ll never take it out again,” Ah May protested and cried. Her pleading fell on ears hardened by the wax of determination; safety was her mother’s priority.

  It was like watching a horror movie. Ah May had not wanted to witness the destruction of her beloved companion, but the process fascinated her.

  “Wow! Did you see the hair just flare up and disappear? Like woof—and that was it!” said Ah Wei.

  “Shhh, be quiet!” Ah Thloo looked sternly at him through the door. “Can’t you do this any faster?”

  Ah Wei tossed items of colourful clothing into the flames, each piece flashing briefly before turning into grey ash. The youngsters gazed, mesmerized, as the rounded breasts became tipped with smoky nipples and the torso of the doll blackened, warped, and melted into ooze.

  Luckily, no one came by to use the kitchen. Their mother’s prayers had been heard.

  • • •

  The trip back to the hamlet where Ah Ngange lived was long, hot, smelly, and dusty. From Guangzhou, the family had transferred from a crowded bus to an overnight boat, where everyone slept on its hard deck, trying not to choke on the black diesel smoke spewing from its smokestack. At the ferry dock, some young men from the hamlet came to meet the group and carry back the heavy loads. Ah Wei thought he recognized some of them as his former childhood playmates, but didn’t say anything.

  They all walked the final leg of the journey, hauling the bags with clothes and gifts along the precarious, narrow, raised dirt paths bordering the wet rice paddies. They were reversing the trip Ah Wei, his mother, and his grandmother had made thirteen years earlier. Ah May kept asking, “How much farther?” Ah Wei kept searching the distance, looking for Ah Ngange.

  As they neared their destination, it was Ah Thloo who pointed to a small, stooped figure in the distance. The person, with a
child riding piggyback, seemed to be waiting for them. The child’s feet almost touched the ground. Ah Wei recognized her at once, although she was not the same person in his memory. She is so small—how could someone shrink so much in such a short time?

  “There is Ah Ngange,” his mother said. “At her advanced age and still carrying children!”

  Ah Ngange acknowledged Ah Thloo by saying, “You’ve returned, have you?” and pointed to Ah May. “Is this aie may nui ?” Ah Ngange had used a play on her name; “aie may” was the phrase meaning “last.”

  “Ah Ngange,” Ah May said at her mother’s gentle nudge.

  Ah Ngange only nodded solemnly at her greeting but smiled warmly at their elder sister, Ah Lai, and her family, obviously delighted to see them again. Ah Fuy hid behind her father’s pant legs. While Ah Wei put his packages down, his elder sister rushed forward to greet Ah Ngange. He and Ah May exchanged an eye roll and a conspiratorial smile as their sister started to cry again.

  Left to right: Ah One, Ah May, Ah Lai, and Ah Ngange (seated), Ah Thloo

  holding granddaughter Ah Fuy, and Ah Wei, in Longe Gonge Lay, 1966.

  UNKNOWN PHOTOGRAPHER, CHINA

  Turning her attention to Ah Wei at last, Ah Ngange exclaimed, “My Gowdoy, look how you have grown!”

  Ah Wei swept up his grandmother in a hug so powerful that he lifted her into the air, even with the child strapped onto her back. Ah Ngange laughed out loud, but when her feet touched the ground again, she became serious, rearranged the child in the sling, turned around, and led the way back to the house.