by Ji-Li Jiang
“Let’s go home together after class,” An Yi called as we separated at the third floor. “Meet me downstairs.”
I stopped at room 301. This was my classroom. I paused nervously, wondering about my new classmates and my teachers. Would fate be kind to me? I peeked into the doorway. There were already quite a few people sitting at their places. I looked at the seating chart on the blackboard and went straight to my desk. My deskmate, a plump girl with long pigtails, smiled at me and nodded.
My heart was pounding. I looked around the class. There was no one I knew. I scanned the seating chart again. None of my former classmates were in this class. No one in this class knew about my class status! I could make a new start and just be a person like everyone else. I wanted to laugh out loud. Instead I smiled broadly at my new deskmate.
The classroom was much more spacious than my classroom in Xin Er Primary School, and brighter. Facing the street were three big windows, and I could see the trees and housetops across the way. The desks and chairs were made of iron and painted orange. The huge blackboard was made of real slate. It gave off a sharp sound when you tapped it, and it would not need to be painted regularly like the wooden ones we had in primary school.
As I was still surveying the room, a slim man walked in. The class immediately quieted down.
“I’m your homeroom teacher. My name is Zhang Xin.” As soon as he started speaking, the students murmured to each other. We were all delighted. His voice was so gentle and his face was so young. He was sure to be an easygoing teacher. He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote two characters, “Zhang Xin,” in the corner of the blackboard. The rustling stopped at once, and the room became dead quiet. His writing was beautiful and powerful, and the lively and vigorous flourishes in his calligraphy awed us. His handwriting and his voice revealed two completely different personalities.
Besides introducing himself, Teacher Zhang spoke only three sentences: Welcome to class four; he would teach us English; and we would spend the whole first two weeks in Political Study, reading Central Committee documents and Chairman Mao’s works. The day ended with that. It was far less exciting than I had imagined. What a strange teacher, I thought. Full of contradictions and stingy with words. I had thought that he would at least give us a tour of the school.
I waited for quite a while before An Yi’s class was over. She was overjoyed because Du Hai was not in her class either.
It was a beautiful fall day. Even the two plain buildings looked particularly pleasant. The parasol trees lining the sidewalks were straight and tall and seemed to smile at us in the bright sunshine.
For more than a year I had waited at home, bored and depressed by all the news of fighting, and by the struggles at Mom’s and Dad’s work units. Now all that was over. Finally I was in junior high school. Though it was not as large as Shi-yi, not as elegant as Shi-yi, I was excited beyond words.
The lovely November sunshine crept into the classroom, shining warmly upon the beautifully written but boring English words on the blackboard.
DOWN WITH IMPERIALISM!
DOWN WITH REVISIONISM!
DOWN WITH THE NEW TSARS!
Teacher Zhang moved his homemade bamboo pointer slowly along these sentences. Over and over, we repeated after him. Some read quickly, some slowly, some at a high pitch, and some low. It was a thoroughly unpleasant chorus. When we read, “Down with the new tsars!” someone deliberately dragged out the English phrase and turned it into Chinese, niu-zha-zi, beef crackling. The whole class burst out in laughter, and others gleefully imitated him.
I glanced at my deskmate, Chang Hong. She was busily writing a speech. I rested my chin upon my hand and sighed.
This was the sixth English class of the term. In the first class Teacher Zhang had told us that in order to integrate all aspects of our study with the revolution and to prepare for war, we would learn military and political terms first. When he started with “Lay down your arms and we will spare your lives,” we were quite interested. Now, after six periods, we had learned “Long live Chairman Mao,” “Long live the Chinese Communist Party,” and “Long live socialist China.” We had learned “Stand up,” “Sit down,” and “Hands up.” Today we were learning “Down with.” It was boring, and we knew that if we did not learn grammar instead of just phrases, we would never learn English.
I watched two sparrows twittering and hopping merrily among the naked branches outside the classroom window.
When I was little, I had dreamed about attending junior high school. I had heard about the spacious classrooms, the tall buildings, and the huge, well-equipped gymnasiums. It was fascinating to think about all the things you could learn there: Galileo’s acceleration experiment, the dissection of rabbits, and making materials change state in a test tube. Junior high schools seemed to be wonderful and mysterious palaces.
Now that I had entered the palace, I was disappointed. All the classes except for mathematics were completely uninteresting. We had no textbooks, only hastily compiled mimeographed handouts. English class was a bore. Politics class was actually just the familiar Communist Party history. Physics, Chemistry, and Biology had been replaced by Fundamentals of Industry and Agriculture, because of Chairman Mao’s instruction to “combine education with practical experience.” One day the teacher had brought the wrong handouts to class. He had prepared a lesson on raising pigs, but he had mistakenly brought the handouts titled “The Close-Planting System of Rice Growing.” He stood awkwardly on the platform for a minute or two, then dismissed the class. The poor teachers! Trained in the traditional sciences, they were totally lost when trying to teach us about pigs or paddy fields.
I heard a roar of laughter from the back of the class. Probably someone had told another joke. I raised my head and saw Teacher Zhang standing with his back toward us, reading all by himself, “Down with imperialism.” A boy sitting in the last row threw something to another boy halfway across the room. Pudge was hunched over crocheting a tablecloth under her desk. Four-Eyes had taken his glasses off, rested his head on his desk, and begun to snore loudly.
The bell rang. I put my pencil box into my desk and stood up to stretch.
“Attention, please.” Teacher Zhang rapped his pointer on his desk. “Next period will be a study hall. You can study Chairman Mao’s works by yourselves.” He had to speak loudly to be heard. He was probably as tired of reading newspapers and Central Committee documents as we were, so he had decided to let us while away the time by ourselves. It was disgraceful.
A boy in the front row turned around and made a face at the rest of the class.
Suddenly a voice asked, “Teacher Zhang, since it’s self-study, can we go home to do it?” The whole class fell silent. We looked around and saw Bai Shan’s tall, thin form standing beside his desk. He looked straight at Teacher Zhang, with his face as frank and sincere as usual.
Teacher Zhang stared back at Bai Shan. At first he looked a little uncomfortable, but after a few seconds of silence he said calmly, “You can go home if you’re sure you’ll study.”
Bai Shan unhurriedly put his things in his schoolbag and said, “I’m sure.” He left the classroom with his unfashionable blue rayon jacket fluttering as he walked.
The class exploded in chatter.
“What kind of attitude is that? It’s insulting to Chairman Mao.” Chang Hong was quite indignant.
“He said he would study at home.” I disagreed with her. I understood his anger about the English class. In fact, I admired him, and I was glad that he had the courage to do something about it.
I remembered our last Physical Education class. As a part of our preparation for war we were supposed to practice crawling under wires and climbing over wooden obstacles. When the teacher had asked the boys to get the gym mats, the boys had just looked at each other without moving. Without respect, what could the poor man do? At this embarrassing moment, Bai Shan had caught the eye of his two best friends. The three of them had moved toward the mats, and all at once the rest of the boys
followed them.
I found him a very interesting boy.
A cold December drizzle was falling as I stood in my place and listened to the loud blare of the prelude music for our daily exercises. I rolled up my collar and stuffed my hands into my pockets, but I could not stop shivering. It seemed that winter had come overnight.
Though my eyes were fixed on the back of the head lined up in front of me, Grandma’s worried voice still echoed in my mind. “Your dad has been sent to political study class.”
For the last week or two, Dad had been coming home very late every night. Sometimes even before he ate, he and Mom would go into the bathroom and shut the door while they talked. We heard their muffled voices discuss bad news: Uncle Zhu had been detained by the theater while they investigated his suspected counterrevolutionary activities. Aunt Wu had been detained too, even though her only crime was having had relations with other men before she married Uncle Tian.
Dad smoked in the bathroom as he paced up and down. Whenever Mom opened the door, the heavy odor of tobacco rolled out. Other times he would sit at the desk without a smile, writing silently while cigarette smoke filled the apartment.
I knew that Dad’s political study class, like mine, studied Chairman Mao’s works and Party Central Committee documents. But unlike mine, the purpose of his class was to make the participants confess their mistakes or crimes. Only people whose mistakes were very serious were sent to these classes.
What mistakes had Dad made, other than having a landlord for a father? Could he really be a rightist after all? 1 clenched my fists in my pockets. The family problems seemed to grow on my back like a tumor, and whatever I did, they just grew worse.
The music stopped. “Now let’s begin our Morning Benediction. Please get your Precious Red Books ready.” A familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
My deskmate, Chang Hong, was standing on the platform. It was her turn to lead the morning exercises again. She was wearing her favorite green army uniform, and the belt around her waist made her look even plumper than usual. Even from the last row I could see her glowing red cheeks. She was a celebrity now, newly elected to the Red Guards Committee, one of only nine people elected by all the Red Guards in the school. Ever since she had joined the Committee, I had felt myself pulling away from her, even though I admired her more. She was nice enough—frank, sincere, and sympathetic. But as a child from a black family—a black whelp—I felt awkward around a Red Guard leader.
“Now let’s sincerely and wholeheartedly wish long life to our great leader, great teacher, great commander, and great helmsman, Chairman Mao.” Her emotional voice blared from the loudspeaker, and I reached into my pocket for my Precious Red Book.
It was not there.
I had forgotten to put it back in my pocket after I had washed my jacket yesterday. And standing right behind me was the head of the school, Chairman Jin, who had repeatedly stressed the importance of the Morning Benediction. If he found out that I had forgotten to bring my Precious Red Book, would he give me trouble? Would he criticize me in front of the entire school? I froze. I couldn’t decide whether to wave my hand without the Precious Red Book or to put my hand down.
Something red flashed in front of me and the plastic cover of a Precious Red Book was in my hand. In relief I clutched the cover, which looked just like the red book from a distance, and waved my hand three times. “Long life to Chairman Mao! Long life! Long life!” I shouted with my classmates.
I looked gratefully at my rescuer. To my surprise it was my classmate Sun Lin-lin. Her thick glasses reflected the light as she looked to the front. She repeated the chant, waving her coverless Precious Red Book as if nothing had happened.
I never would have guessed that Lin-lin—so quiet in class that I hardly knew she was there—would be so sharp. If I had been in her position, I thought, I would never even have noticed the problem, let alone come up with such a quick solution.
As soon as exercises were over, I turned to Lin-lin and put the cover in her hand. “Thanks a lot! You really saved my life!”
She made no answer, just shook her head slightly and smiled shyly.
“Chairman Jin was right behind me. I was scared out of my wits.”
She still said nothing, but she did smile a little more broadly. With her short, naturally curly hair and her light-yellow corduroy jacket, she looked like a little doll, a lovely doll with glasses.
The classroom was quiet. Everyone was paying close attention to Teacher Li’s low voice. It was always a relief when Math class started. Teacher Li was over fifty years old, and her hoarse voice was not very loud, but when she stood before the class, she seemed so intent and serious that we had to listen to her. We were impressed by the fact that she had been teaching for almost thirty years and had been a Model Teacher year after year, and by the rumor that she had never married, and had devoted her whole life to her teaching. The fact that she insisted on using her own lecture notes with added quotations from Chairman Mao instead of the mimeographed handouts made us respect her even more.
“Generally speaking, the results of this test were better than the last.” Teacher Li cleared her throat and unconsciously brushed her right sleeve with her left hand. After years of doing that every time she used the blackboard, she did it now even when there was no chalk dust there to brush off. “Five students failed, and two, Bai Shan and Jiang Ji-li, got one hundred percent.”
“Wow, a hundred again. That’s great!” Chang Hong cried out, and slapped me heartily on the back.
Teacher Li stopped talking. The whole class turned to look at me. I wanted to give Chang Hong a big kick.
Then I saw the expression in their eyes. Every face was friendly. Chang Hong expressed her admiration openly and directly. Lin-lm’s shy smile was genuinely glad, and Bai Shan’s look was one of sincere congratulation. Even Teacher Li’s usually serious face was smiling slightly.
It felt almost like a dream from long ago. I remembered another Ji-li, one who was always praised by her teachers and respected by her classmates. A Ji-li who always pushed herself to do better, achieve more.
For once I forgot my worries and smiled with my whole heart.
Time always passed too quickly in math class. Teacher Li was closing her notebook when she remembered a note that was in it.
“Oh, there’s a message. Jiang Ji-li and Bai Shan, please stay after class. Teacher Zhang would like to speak with you.” She put the note back in her book and turned to clean the blackboard.
Suddenly I felt nervous again. Had I done something wrong? Did this have something to do with my class status?
My classmates were also uneasy. They all turned their eyes toward Teacher Li. The whole room felt tense.
Teacher Li finished erasing the blackboard and turned around, brushing her right sleeve with her left hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked in surprise.
No one said anything. Chang Hong glanced anxiously at me and twisted her pencil.
“Oh, are you worried about Teacher Zhang seeing Jiang Ji-li and Bai Shan? It’s nothing bad. He just wants to talk to them about joining the propaganda group for the blackboard newspaper, because they both have beautiful handwriting.”
The class burst out laughing. I laughed with them, at Teacher Li who had not made the message clear, at my own fears, at the whole false alarm.
I saw several classmates turning to look at me. Bai Shan’s deskmate whispered in his ear and got a joking punch in return.
Then I stopped laughing.
I remembered primary school, the praises and the honors. But what had I gotten in the end? People were jealous because I was favored. I remembered the humiliating talk with the Red Successors, the terrible accusations of the da-zi-bao. Why should I go through that again? High grades, propaganda group—and then what? When they found out about my family background, they would treat me just as Du Hai and Yin Lan-lan had. And Bai Shan and I were conspicuous enough in class. If we did the blackboard newspaper together, people would start t
o gossip about us.
Class was over. I grabbed Chang Hong’s arm as she was leaving.
“Will you do me a favor? Tell Teacher Zhang that I couldn’t wait to see him.”
“Why not?” She looked surprised.
“I have to go home and make dinner, and I have a lot of housework to do every day. I don’t have time to do the blackboard newspaper.” Without waking for her response, I picked up my schoolbag and headed for the door.
LOCKED UP
Winter vacation had started, and we children all stayed at home.
At eleven o’clock one night Mom and Dad were still in the bathroom, where they had been talking ever since Dad had come home from work. Ji-yong and Ji-yun were asleep, and Grandma was in bed reading the newspaper. I was trying to finish Jane Eyre.
Someone knocked softly on the door. I listened, and it came again: two soft taps, followed by a whispered, “Lao Jiang! Lao Jiang!” Only Dad’s friends from the theater called him that.
“Who is it?” I walked to the door and called quietly.
“It’s me, Fan Wen-chong.”
I opened the door, happy to see him. “Uncle Fan, it’s so late— Oh my!” I stopped when I saw his face. It was swollen, bruised, and bloody. Standing in the dark doorway, he looked like a monster. He swayed back and forth weakly, and as I stared, his face crumpled into tears. I turned away and ran to my bed.
The whole family was startled by my cry. Grandma was trembling as she got out of bed and pulled him Into the bathroom to wash his bruises. Ji-yong and Ji-yun huddled together at the bathroom door, while Mom and Dad went downstairs to bring his bicycle into the building before the neighbors could see it.
I huddled on a corner of the bed, not wanting to look at him again, not wanting to see his humiliation. I thought of his expressive face, handsome and vigorous. I remembered his huge success in many shows, the flowers and admirers. His students and other actors used to defer to him so respectfully. Where were his dignity and authority now? Where was Uncle Fan?