by Li Cunxin
The officials measured our proportions: our upper body and our legs, our neck length, even our toes. I watched a few of the students being tested before me, and they cried out and winced. One of the officials came over to me and bent both of my legs outward. Another official held my shoulders to stabilize me and a third pushed his knee against my lower back, at the same time pulling both of my knees backward with great force to test the turnout of my hip joints. It was so painful it felt like everything would break at once. I wanted to scream as well, but for some reason I didn’t. I had a stubborn thought: I didn’t want to lose my dignity, I didn’t want to lose my pride. And I clenched my teeth.
By the time they’d finished testing everyone, only one boy and one girl were selected to go to the next level. I was that boy. I was excited but frightened. I didn’t know what was going to happen. The officials mentioned ballet, but all I knew about ballet was what I’d seen in the movie The Red Detachment of Women. I had no idea what ballet was all about.
The audition was a hot discussion topic both at school and in our village over the next few days. At first my parents didn’t pay much attention. There was no way in the world anyone in our family could have any artistic talent. Several of my brothers and my classmates teased me. “Show us a ballet step! Show us a ballet step!” But they knew I had no idea. For me, the most exciting aspect of it all was not the ballet but the possibility of going to Beijing to be near our beloved Chairman Mao; the possibility, however unlikely, of getting out of my deep well.
I went to the commune office a few weeks later to go through the next level of audition. This time they sent notices to parents beforehand, asking candidates to come dressed with underwear.
This audition was much harder. The girl with the big eyes from my class didn’t pass this round: she screamed when they bent her body backward and was disqualified for inadequate flexibility of her back. Then it was my turn. One teacher lifted one of my legs upward, two others held my other leg steady and straight. They kept asking me if it hurt. Of course it hurt: it was excruciating! But I was determined to be chosen, so I kept smiling and replied, “No, it doesn’t hurt,” as they lifted my leg higher and higher. Be strong! Be strong! You can bear the pain! I kept telling myself. I did bear the pain, but the hardest thing was pretending to walk normally afterwards. They had torn both my hamstrings.
After the audition at commune level we went through to county, city and provincial levels. Each time there were more children who auditioned and each time more were eliminated. During the physical examination at the county level, the scar on my arm from the burn I received as a baby nearly disqualified me. One of the teachers from Beijing noticed it and referred me to a medical examiner.
“How did you get this scar?” the doctor asked.
I didn’t want anyone to think of my niang as irresponsible, so I told him I’d cut my arm on a piece of broken glass and that the cut had got infected.
“Do you have any funny sensations, like itching on rainy days?”
“No, never.” I looked straight into the doctor’s eyes. I prayed he wouldn’t eliminate me. I prayed for my niang’s sake. She would be so sad, feel so guilty, if I was disqualified because of this scar. She didn’t need to suffer any more.
After the examination, as I was putting my clothes back on, I overheard the doctor talking to a tall teacher from the Beijing Dance Academy. The teacher’s name was Chen Lueng. He was the same gentleman from Beijing that Teacher Song had tapped on the shoulder that day at my school. “That boy’s scar will definitely get larger as he grows,” the doctor said. My heart sank. My only chance of getting out of my deep well was gone. I would be disqualified. I made up my mind never to tell my niang it was the scar that did it. The scar was from an accident. My niang was the best mother with the most loving heart. No one should take that reputation away.
When the physical tests were completed, we were tested for other abilities: our response to music, our understanding of Chairman Mao’s ideology. They also checked our family background three generations back. Chairman Mao’s communist theory about the so-called “three classes of people” was crucial when selecting us. All three classes had to be represented—peasants, workers and soldiers. Children whose families were associated with wealth and education anywhere in the past three generations were classified as class enemies and were disqualified. Madame Mao wanted to train us to be faithful young guards, so our backgrounds had to be pure, safe and reliable.
The final hurdle in the selection process was for the officials to meet my family. They wanted to meet everyone: parents, brothers and grandparents, to check out their physical proportions. I was nervous that they might have a problem with my niang because she was short, but her larger-than-life personality, and my dia’s good figure, saved the day.
Days passed, weeks passed. No news from Beijing. The hope in my heart gradually dimmed with each passing day. I felt disappointed, then devastated. I became quiet. I shrank into my own cocoon. I kept looking at my scar, convinced it was the sole reason that I’d missed out. I wanted to cut my arm off to rid myself of the scar. But still, I didn’t blame my niang. It wasn’t her fault. It was just my unfortunate fate.
Everyone in my family had also given up hope by now. I could tell they felt sorry for me, because they all went out of their way to be nice. This only left me feeling sadder.
Then one day, just as my dia was going back to work after lunch, a group of village, commune, county and city officials suddenly came into our small courtyard, for our door was always open. They had broad smiles on their faces. My parents offered them some tea. Some sat down on our crowded kang, others just stood around. Eventually one of the officials asked my niang, “Which of your sons is Li Cunxin?”
My niang pointed at me.
The city official turned back to my niang. “Your lucky son has been chosen for Madame Mao’s Beijing Dance Academy.”
I was stunned. We were all stunned. A whole month had gone by! How could this be? My mother was speechless, but her face smiled like a full-bloomed flower. “Thank you! Thank you!” was all she could say.
My dia poured more tea for the officials, and then more, and then still more. His face was filled with pride.
When all the officials had left our house, all my dia said was, “I’d better get to work. I’ll see you tonight.” But he looked at me in a strange way, as though he was seeing something new.
After everyone had gone, my niang and I were left to ourselves. She looked at me for a long time, lost for words for the first time in her life. Finally she said, “My lucky boy, I’m so happy for you. This is the happiest day of my life!”
“I don’t want to leave you,” I said.
She looked at me with a slight frown. “Do you want to stay here and eat dried yams for the rest of your life? My dear son, this is your lucky chance to escape from this cruel world. Go, go and do something special with your life! Become someone other than a peasant boy. Don’t look back! What is here? A leaking roof, your brothers’ smelly feet and an empty stomach?”
“Stop it!” I said. I put my hand over her mouth. Happy tears welled in her eyes. She pulled me close and hugged me tight. I heard the loud beat of her heart, as though any minute it would jump out with joy.
She hugged me for a long time. I was too afraid to move. I wanted us to stay like that forever. My entire body melted under her warmth.
“What about you?” I eventually asked. “Can you come to Beijing with me?”
“Do you want me to come and wipe your bottom, silly boy?” she replied with a chuckle. “You are the lucky one. Don’t you think your brothers would love to have a chance like this? No, I can’t go with you, but my love will. I will always love you, with all my heart. I know you have your secret dreams. Follow them. Make them come true. Now, go and play with your friends.” She gave me a gentle push, but just as I was disappearing into the streets, she called out. “Don’t forget to come back and help me push the wind box!”
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sp; A few days after this, we received a letter notifying me that I had been awarded a full scholarship and that I was to leave for Beijing in four weeks, just after the Chinese New Year. For the reopening of Madame Mao’s new Beijing Dance Academy, fifteen students had been selected from Shandong Province. Fifteen from over seventy million people. Twenty-five students from Shanghai, three students from Beijing and one student from Inner Mongolia were also selected. It was February 1972 and I had just turned eleven.
The whole village came to congratulate my parents. There would be one less mouth to feed and now at least their sixth son had some hope of escaping from the poor living conditions and of making a decent life for himself.
Several of my niang’s lady friends gathered on our kang one day, shortly after this, to sew, gossip and drink tea as usual. One of the ladies said to me when I walked into the room, “Jing Hao, take off your shoes, let me see your feet.”
I was puzzled, and hesitated to take off my smelly shoes.
“Ah ya, come on, don’t be shy,” my niang urged me. “You can’t be a dancer if you’re shy!”
I reluctantly took off my shoes. The lady took my feet in her hands, like a doctor examining a seriously sick patient. Suddenly she shouted with excitement, “Look at this, I was right! Look, just look at his three long toes! I knew his feet would be different. This is the reason he was chosen! These three long toes will help him to stand steadily on his pointe shoes.”
All the ladies, including my niang, nodded their heads and praised her wisdom. As I was putting my shoes back on, another lady added, in a more serious tone, “I heard it is very painful to stand on your toes. You must have a high pain threshold.”
“Yes,” a third lady said. “I heard dancers often get bloody toes from standing in their pointe shoes all day long. It must be like binding your feet and standing on top of them!”
I couldn’t imagine my toes growing together and walking on my heels like Na-na used to. I began to worry. Eventually I had to tell myself not to think about it until I had at least tried on the pointe shoes. Then I’d know.
News of my selection spread quickly throughout our commune. Our usually quiet village sprang to life. People began to talk about me. “A smart kid.” “That boy was born with a lucky look.” I was embarrassed by all of these comments. I especially felt uncomfortable with my niang’s friends’ constant examinations. Besides my three long toes, they were convinced that my double-folded eyelids, which made my eyes appear larger, were a factor too. It was true that many of my friends in the village had eyes that looked smaller than mine, but now people would stop me in front of my friends and examine my eyelids. One of my niang’s friends even believed that the teachers of the Beijing Dance Academy had specific roles in mind for a dancer with a scar on his arm.
Our Chinese New Year was extra special that year. My eldest brother was home from Tibet. Everyone gave me firecrackers as gifts. It was a joyous time.
A few days before New Year’s Eve, however, one of my “double kicker” firecrackers went wrong and exploded in my hand. It nearly tore off my whole thumbnail, and blood gushed out from under it. My parents immediately worried that this could jeopardize my chances of going to Beijing, so as an extra precaution they took me to the hospital to get my first tetanus shot, an expensive luxury. If it wasn’t for Beijing, nobody would have bothered. “Put some dust on it,” my niang would have said.
My last dinner at home. Nine of us sit around the food tray. My niang has cooked a delicious meal. She’s made an egg dish with bits of dried shrimp, and Chinese cabbage with a few pieces of pork. We also have a cold dish—marinated jellyfish—and she has used her precious flour to make some mantos. My dia and my older brothers drink rice wine while everyone talks enthusiastically about my bright future.
I am quiet. I can’t eat much, despite the good food. My stomach is too full with anxiety and dread. I am too afraid to look into my niang’s eyes because if I do I know my tears will flood out.
As soon as dinner is finished I announce that I am going to my friends’ houses to say good-bye.
“Why don’t you do it tomorrow?” my fifth brother, Cunfar, says.
“I won’t have enough time tomorrow,” I lie.
“Stay! We can play your favorite card game,” Cunfar persists.
“Why didn’t you show Jing Hao this kind of passion before?” my fourth brother, Cunsang, says, which makes everyone laugh.
“Speedy return if you want to go tonight,” my niang says. “You should get some good sleep in your own familiar bed. Who knows if you can stomach the luxurious life in Beijing.”
I quickly slip off the kang and go outside.
“Who couldn’t stomach a luxurious life!” I hear my second brother say as I hurry into the darkness. I have no intention of going to my friends’ houses. I just want to be alone. I walk through the usually scary, dark narrow lanes between the houses and I pass my friends’ places but don’t go in. You should be happy, I keep telling myself. And I am, deep inside, happy about this God-given opportunity, but I am overwhelmed by the sadness in my heart as well. I don’t want to leave my niang, my dia, my brothers and my friends. Already I feel so alone. I can’t imagine how alone I will feel in Beijing. I look up at the stars, and even they are few and distant tonight.
Eventually I wander home. All my older brothers have gone out. My parents have already spread the quilts on the bed and are waiting for me.
“How are your friends?” my niang asks.
“Fine,” I reply. I look at her eyes for the first time that night. They are moist.
“Sixth Brother, can I sleep on your side tonight?” my little brother, Jing Tring, asks.
“Yes,” I reply. For the first time I am happy about that. I wish I could put him and the rest of my family in my pocket and take them to Beijing with me.
Tonight, as Jing Tring is sleeping, I look at his content and peaceful face. Suddenly I feel a rush of brotherly affection for him. I wish I’d been kinder to him. I wish I’d taken time to enjoy his company more.
My niang has made me a black corduroy jacket to take to Beijing, but I know my youngest brother loves that jacket. I know my parents don’t have enough money to make him one too, so in the middle of the night, I pretend to get up for a wee, and quietly take my new jacket out of my bag and tuck it inside one of the papier-mâché clothes boxes—Jing Tring will find it there after I’m gone.
The morning finally arrives. I’ve had a restless night and I wake with the first sound of the rooster’s call. My dia rose earlier, to pack my belongings in two string bags. They are net bags, loosely woven, so you can see clearly what is inside. Many of my relatives, friends and neighbors have given me presents: souvenirs or some local specialty food such as dried shrimp. The shrimp has a strong “dead fish” sort of smell and it makes the bags stink.
Some of my classmates and friends have chipped in to pay for us to have our photos taken together. They also give me a beautiful diary with many pictures of Chairman Mao in it. The photo means a lot to me because my parents can’t afford to waste money on such a luxury. We have very few photos, and only one family photo—a black-and-white one of my niang and all her seven boys. There is also my niang’s handmade quilt, a thin futonlike mattress, two small hand towels, a metal washing basin, a metal mug, some clothes, apples, pears, and a Qingdao specialty called “sorghum sweet,” a soft candy made from the grain. My niang has also packed some dried snakeskin. No one has noticed that I have taken out the new corduroy jacket.
After he finishes packing my bags, my dia quietly hands me five yuan. “I wish I could give you more, but this is all we have. Be good. Don’t let the Li name down.” He leaves for work, saying he’ll try to make it back for lunch so he can see me one more time before I leave.
My niang is busy making dumplings this morning, as a special treat to send me on my way. I want to stay with her for every remaining minute, but I can’t. I know if we look at each other we will not be able to control our
tears. So I walk around the village, bidding farewell to my friends. I ask several of my niang’s friends to come to our house after lunch to keep her company. I don’t want her to be sad and on her own. I go to my na-na’s grave and to our ancestors’ burial place and kowtow. I want to smell the earth, the air, to remember the surroundings and take everything in. This village has been my life for my whole eleven years. Even the things I hate about it are suddenly not so bad. My heart feels as though it is hanging in midair. I return home for lunch.
My niang has made many dumplings for my last lunch and although they are my favorite, I can’t eat even one. A hot ball of emotion is plugged in my throat. All six of my brothers are at the table. Everyone pushes their bowl of dumplings in front of me, but still I eat nothing. I want to say something special to each of my brothers, but few words are spoken. Time seems to run so fast and before we know it, it is time for me to go. Now I have to say good-bye to my niang and my brothers.
My brothers take my bags outside. My dia did not make it back for lunch. I look at my niang for the first time today and we both burst into tears. We can say nothing. We just hold each other. Then some of her friends come into our house, as I had asked them to, and I go quickly into the street.
My oldest brother, Cuncia, is to come with me as far as Qingdao City, and as a special honor our village has provided us with their only tractor to take us there. The admission letter from the Beijing Dance Academy said that all fifteen students chosen from Shandong Province are required to meet at a dormitory where we will spend the next eighteen hours before we embark on our train journey to Beijing. As the tractor pulls away from our house, three of my brothers run after us in the dust, crying and shouting good-bye. I can no longer hide my emotions; I sob and sob, all the way to the city.
The tractor journey takes us over an hour. The ride is bumpy, but I don’t really notice. Finally we reach our gathering place, a kind of dormitory divided into six rooms. Everything smells moldy and dusty, and the rooms are dark with only small windows. It feels foreign and unwelcoming. Nothing feels right. I am shy. I already miss my parents and brothers.