When the crowd brought me back onto the ground, I slipped away to the side and ran toward the back door of the building. Something cold stuck to my socks, but I didn’t stop. Soon my socks were soaked and I could no longer feel my toes.
It was much quieter at the back door, and the line was short. Only a man in an army uniform and two women stood in front of a long table set outside the shop. Small cardboard boxes sat in a row on the table. I joined the end of the line. A tall salesman in a long brown plastic apron was reading out his list. His yellow rubber gloves were soiled with blood.
“Comrade Sin, two jin.”
“Coming!” I recognized the person who answered, a large uniformed man with thick caterpillar eyebrows. He was Gao’s father, who had come to our school last week to announce Chairman Mao’s new instructions.
Cut down on consuming and be hungry heroes for the sake of the Cultural Revolution.
Comrade Sin took a step forward and handed one bill to the man.
The salesman handed him a small cardboard box.
“Thank you!” Whistling loudly, he walked past me. Meat and eggs peeked at me from his box.
No wonder Gao grew plump while the rest of us turned into matchsticks. At the back door, his father didn’t even have to use his ration tickets. I wouldn’t mind being a hungry hero either if I could eat meat and eggs. A few more customers arrived and stood in line behind me.
“Comrade Fong, one jin.”
“Here!” mumbled a woman through a mouthful of bread. Her head was wrapped in a thick red scarf. As I watched her handing the salesman one bill, I admired her black nylon gloves. I longed to have a pair of warm gloves like that.
“Comrade Mong, one jin.”
No one answered.
“Comrade Mong!” He studied the short line.
My head spun. From the front of the store, I heard someone scream, “No more meat! No more today!”
Had Mother ever reached the meat counter? I fumbled as I slipped the small ration ticket from the elastic band and hid it in my pocket.
“Comrade Mong—”
“Here!” I handed the salesman my paper money, focusing on his stained apron.
“Are you Comrade Mong’s daughter?” The salesman stared at me.
I held my breath and nodded. My face burned with shame. If Father could see how Mother hopelessly fought in the crowd, would he forgive me for lying?
The salesman wrapped a piece of meat in a dried lotus leaf and dropped it into my basket. The meat felt as heavy as a rock. I tried to move my feet, but they didn’t feel like they belonged to me. I told myself, You can’t fall. If he notices you’re not wearing shoes, he’ll be suspicious and take away the meat.
Slowly, I turned and took a couple of steps.
“Come back, come back!” the salesman called from behind.
Should I run? Before I could decide what to do, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.
“Your change.” The salesman handed me a bill. “Wake up, little girl. Next time send your father.”
The crowd broke into laughter. Squeezing out a smile, I put the money in my pocket.
Would they still laugh if they knew I was the daughter of their class enemy?
When I returned to the front of the shop, people were complaining in small groups.
“I got here at eight last night,” said an old man wrapped in a dirty blanket.
“Each day they take away more at the back door. We haven’t had meat in two months,” said a short pregnant woman.
“What’s the use of having ration tickets? We still can’t get any meat.” A young man threw a rock to the side of the street.
“Ling, where have you been?” Mother walked toward me, her basket still empty and her sweaty hair clinging to her face. Three buttons on her now-muddy Mao jacket were missing.
The memory of Mother in her silk dress, dancing with Father, came to mind.
“Mommy, I got meat,” I whispered as I held back my tears.
Aunt Wu joined us. “How did you do that?” She took the basket from me. My lost shoe was in her hand.
With a proud smile, I handed her the ration tickets and change. “You don’t need tickets at the back door. And meat costs less.”
Aunt Wu’s face spread out like a crumpled chrysanthemum. “Smart girl!”
With tears in her eyes, Mother pulled me into her arms and hugged me tight. “You are growing up, my dear.”
At that moment, I decided I would try harder to be strong and protect her, even if I had to fight or lie.
We divided the meat with Aunt Wu.
PART THREE
BRIDGE BEHIND MAO
Late Spring 1976–Fall 1976
Angry Tiger
As time went on, I took over all the shopping duties. Mother seemed happier and less tired these days, but she forbade me from trying back-door tricks again.
“It’s too dangerous, and we can’t afford more trouble,” she often told me.
I made no promises to her. By myself, I did whatever I could to get food for us.
When spring came, I found a safer way. I followed a group of old women from the market to a village at the edge of the city. There the villagers were selling eggs, rice, and vegetables. They were glad to sell to us, since they could charge us more than they could the government. The first time, I eagerly filled my basket with rice cakes, tofu, and carrots. But on the way home, I realized I had made a mistake. The bamboo basket grew heavier with each step. The older women were long gone, carrying their food in homemade cloth backpacks.
By the time I dragged the full basket home, my clothes and shoes were wet from the fog, and blisters covered my palms. That night, I sewed myself a backpack from Father’s old jacket. I didn’t show Mother my palms.
By the time my blisters turned to calluses, I had become skilled at bargaining and trading. In the village, I learned the easiest way to get the best deal was to wait until the old women bargained down the price, then haggle with the farmers for an even lower price. I usually paid less than the old women.
Using the ration tickets I’d saved, I could get soap on the black market, along with toothpaste and sometimes even brown sugar.
After one incident at the market, I learned to get hold of the goods I wanted before showing my ration tickets. A big-eared boy who was half a head taller than me offered to trade a small bag of peanuts for two of my egg ration tickets. I was so happy to see the plump peanuts. Without thinking, I took out my ration tickets hidden inside my shoe. The boy grabbed them and ran. With one shoe in hand, I chased him for two long blocks. When I caught up with him, I grabbed him by the back of his collar. I screamed and yelled and hit him with my shoe until he gave me the bag of peanuts.
That night, Mother and I enjoyed peanut and red date soup. With a smile on her face, Mother told me this soup helps the blood’s circulation. I nodded and pushed down the urge to tell her how getting the peanuts had already made my blood run.
All summer I often wondered what Father would think if he saw me fighting and yelling at the market.
In the fall I began my last school year with Teacher Hui, our homeroom teacher. She had tried to protect me from Gao and his gang. Once, after Gao spat on my chair, she kept him standing in the back of the classroom all morning. When she heard Yu call me “bourgeois girl with long hair,” she told Yu the length of someone’s hair had nothing to do with a person being bourgeois.
Since the beginning of the semester, we had had no textbooks. Teacher Hui taught us reading from the central government’s newspaper, The People’s Daily, and the red book. In the afternoons, when she attended the teachers’ political study, the Young Pioneers ran the classroom, and now Gao and Yu were in charge.
All the girls in my class had cut their hair in Jiang Qing’s style, above their ears. Teacher Hui and I were the only two who still kept our hair long. I’d overheard her tell another teacher that she curled her bangs by heating an iron poker on the stove and rolling the bangs around it. I want
ed to try it, but I had no bangs. Mother said I was too young for them.
This year I was finally able to make two braids the same size and weave in the loose strands. I was proud of my long hair. With everyone in the city wearing baggy Mao jackets and looking the same, I thought that with my long braids no one would mistake me for a boy.
One rainy morning, I walked into the classroom with my clothes half soaked. Gao stood behind Teacher Hui’s desk. Despite all the meat and eggs his father fed him from the back door, he had only grown wider. The name Gao meant “tall,” but he stood there like a big round steamed bun set on a pair of duck feet.
“Everyone, look at the poster!” Gao commanded, sniffing his runny nose. Eyeing the big piece of white paper pasted to the middle of the blackboard, he puffed up proudly and read, “Chase out the bourgeois teacher! Get educated by the working class!”
I knew better than to ask where Teacher Hui was.
Yu blocked my way with her leg as I walked to my seat. I jumped over it and ignored her. A big green gob of spit lay in the middle of my chair.
Trying hard not to show my fear and anger, I took a deep breath and reached into my bag for a piece of paper to wipe it off. Someone punched me in the back. Two paper balls hit my head. I turned. Yu, Gao, and their gang stood behind me, laughing.
I remembered Mother’s words, “We can’t afford more trouble.” Teacher Hui was not here. No one would stop them. As I stood between my desk and the bench, they surrounded me. I had nowhere to escape.
Gao swaggered in front of my desk, waving a pair of scissors near my face. “You! Daughter of the American spy! Cut your hair, or we will do it for you!”
Punches landed on me, sending sharp pain all over. I was pushed and hit from all sides.
“Cut it now, now, now!” They cheered like cawing crows.
I swallowed to catch my breath and remained firm against the desk. Blood rushed to my head. I would rather have died than let them cut my hair.
My teeth ground in my dry mouth. “Get away from me, you stupid pigs!” The words burst out.
Gao spat. The thick spit hit my face and smelled like sour cabbage. My cheeks burned. “How dare you call us stupid pigs,” Gao screamed. “I’m going to tell my father!”
“Kill the bourgeois bug now!” Yu yelled.
Within seconds, more punches landed on my shoulders and head. They pulled at my jacket so hard the buttons tore off. I tried to shield my head with one arm; the other tightly held the straps of my schoolbag. Yu grabbed my braids violently and it felt as if they were being yanked off my scalp. Gao opened and closed the scissors in the air. “Let’s cut her bourgeois hair now!” His face turned dark red.
The images of Mrs. Wong’s long black hair falling on the yellow leaves and the baby doctor’s yin-yang haircut flashed through my thoughts.
No! I would not let them humiliate me. I would show them that I was not weak, and I would risk my life.
I swung my schoolbag fiercely against Gao’s head. Clunk! Clunk! My abacus hit him. His eyes grew wide in surprise and pain. Once, twice! He fell over backward, knocking down the row of benches and desks behind him.
The beating stopped. The rest of them glanced at one another. I pushed my desk forcefully on top of Gao. Like an angry tiger, I roared, “I will kill you if you dare touch my hair!”
With an ear-piercing scream, Gao cried, “Help! Help! Ling is killing me! I am bleeding.” His arms and legs thrashing around, he lay there tangled in desks and benches. Blood dripped from his nose. The scissors were knocked two rows away. Wiping the spit off my face with my torn sleeve, I had an urge to spit on him, but I didn’t.
Yu and the others stood frozen, staring at me as if I had suddenly grown three heads. They parted, moving a few inches away from me. With my schoolbag in hand, I held my head high and walked out of the classroom.
I wondered if those heroes in revolutionary movies, who’d rather die than surrender, felt as good as I did.
Too Proud to Bend
The rain had stopped, and the sun glared through wide sycamore leaves. The air was hot and humid.
I didn’t want to go home. Mother would already be back from her night shift. Wandering down Big Liberation Road—the main road of the city—I thought about all the wrongs done to me.
My braids had come loose, and a few locks of long hair danced around my face in the soft breeze. The rubber bands must have been pulled off during the attack.
People dressed in dark blue and white rushed east and west on the sidewalks. A lazy snake of cars, bicycles, trucks, and rickshaws crawled slowly along the wide street. I felt the summer heat in the air. It smelled of diesel fumes and dust. I stopped in front of the Workers & Parents Department Store. A big red sign that read CLOSED FOR POLITICAL STUDIES hung on the door. Ripping a small strip from the bottom of my torn jacket, I tied my hair into a ponytail. Mother’s worried face came to mind. What would happen to us after Gao told his father about today?
Since Father’s arrest, I hadn’t walked down Big Liberation Road. Mother said it wasn’t safe. The Red Guards had split into two gangs, the Rights and the Lefts, who constantly fought each other. When Mother and I went out, we stayed on the back roads. But today, after the fight at school, nothing frightened me. The next time they ganged up on me, I might not be able to get away, but I decided I would at least get in a few punches and draw blood.
Someone shouted, “Get away! Get out of the way!” Rickshaws and bicycles crowded up onto the narrow sidewalk. A few people fell off their bicycles. I dashed aside to avoid being crushed. A green police jeep with a red flag roared by. A young worker with a paint-spattered uniform cursed at the jeep before getting back on his bike.
Like those around me, I elbowed my way into the crowd. Father always had me walk closely behind him when we were in a crowd while he did the “elbow swimming.”
The city jail stood one block from the department store. It was the only building with thick iron bars outside its windows. Two soldiers armed with machine guns guarded the iron gates. A group of people stood quietly outside the entrance, each hugging a small cloth bag. I envied them for knowing that their family member was inside. Day and night I wondered where they had taken my father.
Half a block from the jail was the bookstore. A huge portrait of Mao hung from the second floor of the building. He smiled and waved his big hand.
“Stop! Stop, or we’ll kill you!” The voices came from behind me.
I froze. People around me parted.
Two Red Guards ran past me, closely chased by four more.
I jumped behind a big tree trunk.
About twenty yards away, the four caught up with the two.
“The Rights are going to beat up the Lefts this time,” said a skinny young woman in a green post office uniform.
“What’s the difference?” asked a middle-aged woman with gray hair. “Aren’t they all Red Guards?”
“Oh, who knows. Each side thinks they follow Chairman Mao closer than the other. See how they wear their armbands?” The young woman moved closer to the fight. Some people on the sidewalk hurried on without looking; others watched from a distance.
The two Red Guards, who wore red armbands on their left arms, began swinging their belts. As they cut the air, the metal clasps and buckles made angry buzzing sounds. The four with red bands on their right arms backed off a few steps. I recognized Short Legs and Pimple Face among them.
Suddenly there was a sound like a cleaver hitting a slab of raw beef. Short Legs gave out a loud scream. Blood spurted from above his eye. The two Lefts broke from the circle and ran past the bookstore. Pimple Face and two other Rights chased them for a few steps and then ran back to Short Legs. “We will get them later!” Pimple Face gasped.
He lifted up Short Legs from behind. The other two carried his legs. They ran toward the hospital. As they passed me, I saw that Short Legs’s face was covered with blood and his eyes were closed. A few kids followed behind. The crowd slowly broke up.
I had never seen a metal buckle crack open a head. How many stitches would it take to sew him up? Maybe he would die.
I would not be sorry if that happened. It had been seventeen months since they took Father away, but it still felt as recent as yesterday.
Something lay on the ground. It was the belt, the heavy buckle stained red. I hesitated, then walked over, picked it up, and tucked it into my schoolbag.
Tomorrow—tomorrow at school, if they humiliated me again, they would find out how far I would go to protect myself.
I zigzagged between people and bicycles toward Six-Port Revolutionary Road, which led to the Han River. The sun glowed on the sandy shore. I walked down the stone steps to the riverbank. A tugboat was pulling a huge barge loaded with lumber across the river. Birds sang in nearby trees. I plopped down where I used to sit with Father. Cupping my chin in my hands, I watched the river flow by. My mind flew in all directions.
Where was Father? Was it painful to drown oneself? When a person dies, does the spirit go to paradise? If so, was the Golden Gate Bridge along the way? No, no! I chased that thought away. I wanted to wear a red dress, eat ice cream, and walk on a green lawn. I wanted to live, to live for the day I could go to the Golden Gate Bridge with Father. But was he still alive? My eyes stung. I squeezed them shut.
The breeze became cooler as the day grew dark. My stomach groaned when I caught the scents of garlic fish and jasmine rice rising from the small boats. Mother should have left for her night shift by now. I walked toward home. Cars honked as they glided down Big Liberation Road. A full moon lit the busy sidewalk.
From inside our courtyard, I saw dim light flickering through our window. Mother was still home? I tiptoed upstairs and took a deep breath before cracking open the door.
Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party Page 10