Mao's Last Dancer

by Li Cunxin

  His face turned from red to green and back to red. He sat back down.

  “I know I haven’t been good at your classes and my dancing standard is poor,” I continued, “but I was very homesick then. Now my attitude has changed. I want to be a good dancer. I hope you’ll give me a chance and judge me by my future work.”

  He was speechless.

  After what seemed a very long time he said, “I’m sorry that I called you something I shouldn’t have. I won’t in the future as long as you work hard. Any other issues?” he asked.

  “No.” I stood up and just as I was walking out he asked, “Cunxin, are you going to be able to do your split jumps in the exam?”

  “I will,” I replied.

  I ran down the stairs three at a time. I felt light. I wanted to fly into the air and sing happily like a river bird. I ran to the teachers’ section of the canteen and saw Teacher Xiao waiting in line to collect his lunch. I gently tapped him on his shoulder. I smiled at him and he smiled back. We both knew what we meant.

  My confrontation with Teacher Gao was the first time in my life that I had really faced a problem and tried to solve it. The problem was like a real tiger before I confronted it and a paper tiger once it was solved. My confidence began to grow.

  By the beginning of June, every class was preparing for our midyear exams. Academy officials would attend these exams—and there was intense competition among teachers, especially in the ballet department. The third and fourth years were especially crucial because teachers would select students as their “talents” to spend most of their time and attention on. The exams were always nerve-racking, with twenty or thirty teachers and school officials, plus thirty or forty students, all sitting in front of us. In this third year, however, and for the first time in my ballet exam, some teachers began to notice me, especially Zhang Shu, the head of the ballet department. I felt good about myself in that exam too, and Teacher Xiao came to me afterwards and said, “Cunxin, well done, I’m proud of you. Your diligent work for the past six months has paid off. I hope you’ll keep it up.”

  After lunch that afternoon, after I had confronted Teacher Gao, while everyone was taking their naps, I quietly slipped into one of the studios and started to practice my split jumps for our Beijing Opera Movement exam. I had such problems with this step. Even the Bandit couldn’t figure out what was wrong. We had to jump into a split on the floor and bounce right back up again, without using our hands. Half of the class could do it and the other half couldn’t. I couldn’t. But I had to. I’d given Teacher Gao my word.

  I limbered my legs on the barre and started to practice. After a number of fruitless tries I suddenly discovered something. Even before I started jumping into the split, my hands were already subconsciously preparing to protect me. My lack of self-confidence didn’t give my body a chance. So I tried putting my hands behind my head when jumping into the split. My body kept falling to the side, so I turned my front leg out and my balance was corrected. Next I turned my attention to bouncing up from the split position without using my hands. This was far more difficult to overcome. Every time I did it I would feel nothing but pain in my hamstrings and I couldn’t find the right leg muscles to get me up again. I simply had to use my hands.

  After many tries I still hadn’t made any progress. But I kept telling myself, “I’ve given Teacher Gao my word! I’ve given him my word!”

  The pain in my hamstrings increased and so did my frustration. I was angry with myself. I nearly gave up several times. Out of total desperation, I hit my thighs with my fists. “Stupid you! Why aren’t you smarter?” I screamed at myself. “Why can’t you figure this out?”

  Just hitting my thighs didn’t seem to be enough, so I went to the barre and banged my hand on it. The barre shook and vibrated in protest. “Yes, you might be able to help,” I said to the barre. I held onto the barre with both hands and did my split jumps underneath. At first, I used my arms to pull me up from the split position. Gradually I relied on my arm strength less and less. Eventually, muscle by muscle, I discovered which muscles in my legs were useful and when my hands were finally off the barre I had made my breakthrough.

  I was overjoyed. I ran to the center of the studio and jumped into the split and bounced up again, into the split and up. I jumped and bounced and jumped and bounced like a madman. Even the hamstring pain was bearable now. I couldn’t believe I had done it.

  In my soaking-wet practice clothes, I flew down the stairs and quietly slipped back into our dormitory without anyone noticing.

  In the exam that afternoon, after I successfully completed the split jumps, Gao Dakun’s face showed utter disbelief, and I smiled to myself in triumph.

  My improvements and small achievements over the next few months were like winning battles in a war. I worked harder not only in Teacher Gao’s class but in all my classes. Teacher Gao treated me with respect and he never called me “the boy with the brainless big head” again.

  From then on my confidence grew and grew. My exam grades improved remarkably. Teacher Xiao gave me a “good” grade and even Gao gave me a much-improved “above average.” But I knew there was still much more to do. I wanted to be among the top students in my class. I wasn’t sure how long this would take, but I knew I would get there eventually. I had the bow-shooter’s image from Teacher Xiao’s fable stored firmly in my mind, and I was determined.

  That year we experienced one of the worst autumns in Beijing since our arrival in 1972. Because of massive fuel shortages over the years, virtually every tree in and around Beijing had been cut down and the strong winds blew up the treeless soil on the outskirts of the city, covering the ancient capital in dust. We called it Beijing Dust and once the strong winds started to whirl we would avoid the streets as much as possible. If we had to go out, we wore small white face masks to shield us from the dirt. Some people wore sunglasses too, but I could never afford a pair of those. When Xiongjun and I returned from his family on Sundays, our face masks were always covered with dust and pollution. But we had to wear them, or by the end of the day we would be coughing up thick black mucus.

  The next Chinese New Year holiday, on my trip home, I visited my fourth brother, Cunsang, on his battleship. It was February 1975. He had been in the navy for a year and was well liked by his superiors and his fellow sailors. He was stationed in Qingdao that year, and the commander of the ship asked the chefs to cook me a delicious meal. I had to earn it, though, by performing for them on the big metal deck. They applauded everything I did, but I could tell they were bored with my pliés and arabesques: the back flips and the martial arts movements were much more interesting, and they were so impressed when I told them I had seen Chairman Mao and even met Madame Mao in person.

  After lunch Cunsang and I sat on the edge of the ship’s deck with our legs dangling over the side. It was a beautiful winter day, with the sun warm on our heads. I asked him if he enjoyed the sailor’s life.

  “No, I hate it,” he said simply. He missed home, especially his girlfriend, Zhen Hua, and couldn’t stand being apart from her for much longer. He was now only two years into his standard four-year service. He told me that his political mentors in the navy wanted him to apply for Communist Party membership. They’d said promotions would follow but that he’d have to stay longer than the four years before he would be considered for such enhanced privileges.

  Cunsang told me he would not serve beyond his four-year term. He wanted to marry Zhen Hua as soon as he retired from the navy. Then, all of sudden, to my great surprise, he leaned forward and dived gracefully into the sea. The deck was far, far above the surface of the water. He called out for me to dive down too, but when I looked over the edge I froze with fear. Eventually one of Cunsang’s sailor friends brought me a pair of shorts and a white cotton vest for me to change into, then lowered me down to the freezing water with a rope. Within minutes my teeth started to chatter uncontrollably, and my lips had turned purple. Cunsang had to ask his colleagues to pull me up, but h
e swam on for another half an hour. I sat on the deck, shivering, wrapped in towels—and Cunsang never mentioned his unhappiness again.

  Teacher Xiao went to Qingdao too for a few days that New Year’s holiday, and paid a surprise visit to my family, driven by the desire to know his students’ families better. Our third year was now completed and Teacher Xiao had been teaching me for one and a half years.

  He arrived at our house one day just as we were about to have lunch. The special New Year food had virtually been depleted, and there was no time or money for us to go shopping. Our dia was home for lunch that day, and our parents were embarrassed to serve what was left to my teacher. “Can you wait for about half an hour, so I can prepare you a better meal?” my niang begged.

  “Please, Auntie, this is not what I’m here for, and I’m so hungry.” Teacher Xiao hopped onto the kang and sat between Cunfar and me, legs folded like us in the lotus position. “The reason I came unannounced was so that you wouldn’t have to prepare a special meal just for me. I want to eat what you normally eat. This way I can truly experience what your life is like.”

  That meant experiencing dried yams, a few pieces of leftover corn bread, pickled turnips and sorghum soup. Teacher Xiao started with a piece of corn bread.

  “Tastes good!” he said, out of politeness, but my niang took this to heart and immediately started to pile pieces of corn bread in front of him.

  “No, no! I can’t eat this much! Besides, I want to taste this—what do you call this?” he said enthusiastically.

  Oh no, I thought. Not those.

  “Dried yams,” my niang replied.

  Sure enough, he gagged on the first piece and had to drink a great deal of sorghum soup to wash it down. But the sorghum soup didn’t taste too good either. I couldn’t help thinking it was funny, but I didn’t dare laugh out loud.

  I showed Teacher Xiao around the village after lunch—he was shocked at our poor living conditions. “Cunxin, you must be thinking about your family constantly while you are in Beijing?”

  “Yes. I think about them when I’m eating—meat, fish, rice or fruit. I wish I could help them,” I replied.

  “You can,” Teacher Xiao said.

  “How?”

  “By working hard and becoming the best dancer you can! I have watched you over the past year and a half, Cunxin. I have no doubt that you have the inner strength to become a special dancer. Now I understand where that inner strength comes from. The strength of your parents’ character is in you. It is the most valuable quality anyone can possess. If you are ever in doubt about your own abilities, all you need to do is think of your parents and what they have gone through. Your desire to help them is your incentive to work hard.” He paused, with passion in his eyes. “Cunxin, I would dearly love to make you see ballet through my eyes. The subtleties of each step! The elegance of each movement! Ballet is one of the most refined art forms in the world!”

  “But I can’t do the high jumps or turns,” I said. “Actually, I have nothing special to make me a good dancer.”

  “Cunxin, nothing is impossible for a determined human being. Physical imperfections are easier to overcome than mental deficiencies. Remember the bow-shooter fable?” he said. “Nothing is impossible if you put your heart and soul into it! Let’s make your family proud! Become a good dancer, the greatest dancer you can be. Starting next year, I expect to see nothing less than the best from you.”

  It was true that Teacher Xiao’s fable of the bow shooter had left a deep impression on me. But from that day on it became an inspirational driving force. Whenever I met difficulties or challenges in my dancing, like the split jumps, I always went back to this fable for my basic inspiration: hard work, determination and perseverance. That day, Teacher Xiao’s words had touched me deeply, and I knew that he cared.

  14

  TURNING POINTS

  I returned to start my fourth year at the Beijing Dance Academy later that February of 1975.

  Before class one morning, Teacher Xiao called me to his office. “Cunxin, you have had a great last year. I’m very happy with your work and the progress you have made. I hope you can keep it up. Don’t let any outside influences pull you off track.” He hesitated for a moment and I wondered why he was saying all this.

  Then he continued. “I may not always be your teacher, Cunxin. There are people out there who feel that I am not good enough. Some of them have the power to replace me. There’s not much I can do.” He paused again and I could see he was holding back tears. “All I want you to know is that even if I’m no longer here to teach you, you should continue to work in the same way. I have no doubt you will have a bright future.”

  My heart sank with shock. I couldn’t bear to lose Teacher Xiao! He had been my mentor, my only mentor, the only teacher in whom I could confide. He was like a parent to me.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’ve tried to convince them. But it’s up to the academy officials. Now, go to your class. You’ll be late,” he said.

  I felt tears form in my eyes. I had been looking forward to this year’s work with Teacher Xiao. He was the teacher who had taught me to love dance. He was the one who could make me succeed.

  “Cunxin,” he added, just as I opened the door to leave, “I would like you to concentrate on your jumps this year, whether I’m your teacher or not. I’m not talking about average jumps. I mean brilliant jumps, gigantic jumps. Your turns can wait until next year.”

  I nodded, with a stomachful of sadness, and ran quickly to my next class. But I kept hearing Teacher Xiao’s voice. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I didn’t know what I would do if I lost Teacher Xiao. I can’t lose him! I kept telling myself.

  After lunch I went to Zhang Shu, the head of the ballet department. He liked me, and I felt sure he would listen. “Teacher Zhang, Teacher Xiao is a good teacher. He’s the best I’ve ever had,” I said.

  He frowned. “What are you talking about, Cunxin?”

  I didn’t want to say that Teacher Xiao had told me about his possible dismissal, so instead I made something up as quickly as I could. “I heard rumors from some students that Teacher Xiao may no longer be teaching us.”

  Zhang Shu smiled gently. “Don’t worry, no decisions have been made at this point. Every teacher likes to teach talented students. Don’t be concerned. Just concentrate on your studies,” he said.

  “But Teacher Xiao is everything to me! Without him, I’d be back in the commune already. He made me like ballet! He showed me how beautiful it is. I’ll be lost without him!” I tried hard to control my tears.

  “What do your classmates think of him? Do they all agree?”

  “Yes, one hundred percent!” I replied without hesitation.

  “All right, I will take your feelings into consideration.”

  I left Zhang Shu without knowing if my words would make any difference at all, but I was determined to try anything in my power to keep Teacher Xiao. And, as the weeks and months went by, Teacher Xiao remained as our ballet teacher, and I was happy.

  With Teacher Xiao’s encouragement I worked on my jumps daily. I worked hard in class but I knew my progress was still too slow. I would never have big jumps with my flat feet, I was told by some teachers. But Teacher Xiao never lost faith and I never lost my will.

  During that year, Teacher Xiao again worked us hard on our pirouettes and I finally overcame my difficulties. I felt good about myself—now I could complete three consecutive pirouettes consistently. Then, after class one day, Teacher Xiao said, “Cunxin, I want to see you do five pirouettes from now on. No more three pirouettes!”

  I thought I hadn’t heard him properly. “Teacher Xiao, you mean four pirouettes.”

  “No, I mean five,” he replied, challenging me. “Don’t think, just do it. I would like to see you do ten pirouettes one day.”

  My mouth dropped open. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh at his madness or cry. He must be kidding, I thought. I only
just felt comfortable doing three pirouettes without fear of falling. Ten pirouettes was completely crazy.

  “Cunxin,” he said, as though reading my mind, “to be the best, first you have to dare to try! Nothing is impossible as long as you’re not afraid to achieve it. I don’t want you to be the best in your class. I want you to be the best in the world.”

  Teacher Xiao’s words echoed in my ears for days. He was talking about a standard of dancing that was far, far above me. These were things I could only dream about. No, ten was too many pirouettes even to dream about! How could a fourteen-year-old peasant boy think about being the best in the world? But Teacher Xiao’s challenge was like a new seed that implanted itself in my mind. From that day onward, I had an aim and a vision. I wanted to be the best dancer I could possibly be.

  That year, our academy was chosen to participate in an important public performance, the first for Madame Mao. We were to dance an excerpt from China’s most famous ballet, The Red Detachment of Women. I thought this ballet was brilliant—all about Chairman Mao’s army and their bravery, with the dancers doing leaps and turns with guns and flags and grenades: I loved it.

  The whole academy was ecstatic about the coming performance. Everyone was vying for a part. The role of the hero, Chang Qing, a captain of the Red Army, was given to the Bandit. I was among five boys chosen to play the peasant boy, the “little fat boy.” The name had nothing to do with his appearance, and eventually I was selected to be second cast to a slightly older boy. But still, I was just so happy to be one of the final two.

  Chen Lueng, my first ballet teacher, was the rehearsal master for this performance. One day during rehearsal he suddenly switched me and the older boy around and I became the first cast. Both of us were shocked. The Bandit was very happy for me, but I clearly saw the disappointment in the other boy’s eyes. I felt terrible. I had taken something precious away from him. I went to Chen Lueng after the rehearsal and told him that I would be happy to remain as second cast.