by R Yang
"It's not fair! I can sing and dance better than he can! I know more ancient poems, long ones as well as short ones. I've learned several classical essays by heart too. How come nobody asks me to recite them? Maybe they think poetry is not for girls. Girls are only interested in mothering dolls and cooking in a toy kitchen. But Father should know better! He should know I'm not that kind of girl! For instead of buying me those stupid dolls, didn't he himself teach me those classical poems and prose? And Mother taught me so many songs. Why didn't she suggest I sing a few of them? At this moment even they've forgotten me. When Lian was applauded by those loathsome guests, their halfhidden smile showed they were so proud of him. In the past I was the one they'd been so proud of!"
At the time, of course, I was quite unaware of Chinese traditions: how important it was for families to have sons and how little any daughters mattered. Nor did I have an inkling that our guests, who talked about communism so enthusiastically, were also complying with social conventions: a considerate guest should admire the host family's sons. Paying compliments to their daughters, on the other hand, was tricky. Sometimes it would make the host family suspect that the guest was making fun of them. What he or she really suggested was that the hosts had wasted time and money making investments for other families. So wise guests avoided the pitfall.
If someone had explained all this to me, even if I might not have understood it completely, I would have known that Lian's popularity had something to do with history. But instead what people told me was that in new China women were liberated; men and women were completely equal; women held up half the sky ... So there must be something wrong with me that I was not as popular as Lian. Or maybe there was something wrong with Lian? Yes! It was he, not I, who was to blame!
From then on, endless fights broke out between the two of us. At first we yelled at each other. Later we used our hands and feet. In my opinion, Lian was vain and arrogant. And he had no respect for his older sister. For that, I wanted to teach him a lesson and make him behave himself. But my parents just wouldn't back me up.
My father in those days had a theory-if a sibling ever got into a fight against another who was five years younger, the older sibling was definitely in the wrong. She should humor and take care of her little brother or else she would be punished!-Lian soon found this out and he wasted no time taking advantage of it.
Behind my parents' backs, he provoked me constantly by pulling my hair, pushing me from behind, messing up my things, calling me names ... When I retaliated, he fought back like a wildcat. Then, as soon as he heard that one of our parents was coming, he dissolved into tears instantly. What a born actor he was! (In 197z he even got an offer from People's Art, the leading theatrical company in Beijing, after a single audition. It was a pity that Father intervened, not knowing that Lian had such talent for acting!) So he never failed to give my parents the impression that he was a helpless little lamb, about to be torn apart and devoured by a ferocious tiger, which of course was me. (And it so happened that I was born in the year of the tiger and Lian in the year of the lamb.)
Only I knew the truth. But I disdained explaining it to my parents who were arbitrary and biased against me anyway. I would rather let them punish me. I would never beg them for mercy or anything! I became stubborn. I became obnoxious. I knew I was obnoxious, and that was my choice! I despised the sweet little girl I used to be when I was in Switzerland. In fact I even hated the fact that I was a girl. I refused to play girl's games. Instead, I joined the boys in climbing trees and getting onto roofs. I could play the boy's games better and run faster than most of the boys. But still I was not one of them.
I remember once I played hide-and-seek with a group of boys in the big yard. When it was my turn to seek, for a long time I couldn't find anybody. At last I figured out that the boys were all hiding in a men's room. "Those treacherous and shameless boys! They are all my enemies! Trying to take advantage of me? I'll teach you a lesson!" With such angry thoughts churning in my head, I went home, found a lock, and locked up the men's room from the outside. Revenge! Revenge! After that I was happy and I went home to have dinner. Later I did not inquire how the boys managed to get out of that stinking place. Since they lost face, none of them wanted to mention it either.
But my real enemy was not among these boys. It was Lian. The hatred I had for him simmered in my heart day and night. He was a needle in my eye, a thorn in my flesh. I just had to do something about him!
Saturday came. Lian was back from the kindergarten. The whole family sat down to have dinner. The sight of Lian turned the delicious food Aunty made into mud in my mouth. Look at him! He was the star again, talking joyfully and endlessly to others at the dinner table and deliberately ignoring me. I ate my food in silence, let myself be forgotten for a while. Then I lifted my head and announced: "Lian will die before he is five years old!"
These words interrupted whatever small talk that was going on. There was a moment of dead silence. Then, bang! The bomb exploded! Mother jumped up and yelled.
"What? You cursed your own brother? You want him to die? How wicked you are! You vicious girl! ... "
She was so angry that her voice shook and her features changed. In the past, people believed that bad words had the power to bring about misfortunes. Could it be true that Mother, who was a Communist Party member and believed in materialism, also believed in such things? As for Father, he hit the table with his fist so hard that all the bowls and dishes jumped up. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me away from the dinner table. In another room, he forced open my hand with his strong fingers and beat me on the palm with his own hand.
Actually the beating was more scary than real. It did not hurt. But that was not important. The important thing was that for the first time Father had lifted his hand against me! In the past he and Mother had cherished me as a lustrous pearl on the palm of their hands. He had never touched me with a little finger. In this sense the beating marked a turning point in my life, a rather unfortunate one it was. But I asked for it anyway.
After that, I was beaten from time to time. Sometimes Mother and Father beat me because I did bad things or I was stubborn. Sometimes they did so out of the conviction that I was a bad girl and I was always up to some mischief.
I will never forget the wrongs they did me! For example, one evening my parents attended a political meeting that lasted till almost midnight. While they were away, I read a book in their room and then fell asleep. A gust of wind must have shut the door. It locked automatically. When my parents returned, they wanted to go straight to bed and sleep. But they found the door of their room was locked from the inside.
They must have knocked and shouted for a long time before they woke me up. After I opened the door but before I could open my mouth to explain, Father seized my hand. He beat me on the palm and shouted: "How come you have become so vicious? Do you intend to lock me and your mother out for the night? Let me tell you this is my home! The next time you try such tricks on us, I'll beat you even harder. You bear that in mind!"
Of course I knew that: this was his home, and Mother's home, and Lian's home! It was not my home! I hated the fact that I was still a child. I could not work to support myself. I had to depend on my parents. I had to eat their food, wear their clothes, and live under their roof. That was so humiliating!
But I must add that usually my anger for Father would not last very long. Each time after he punished me, he would come into my room to reason with me. By so doing he gave me a chance to defend myself. If I could convince him that he had punished me wrongly, he would apologize for his mistake and promise that in the future it would not happen again. Only then would I allow my tears to flow. The tears were burning hot, for I had held them back for so long. I was determined not to weep in front of my enemies.
If I could not convince Father that he was in the wrong, then it was his turn to try to convince me that I had done something wrong. However after he made his point he would always add that he had been too
impatient; beating people was wrong and he did not mean to be so harsh; actually he and Mother both loved me very much.
Each time I heard Father say so I was moved. But I did not really believe what he said, that is, that both he and Mother loved me. Mother, I had given her up a long time before. I found that she seldom made up her own mind. Although she was better educated and had more talent than Father, she simply worshiped him and took his opinion to be her own. Thus when Father said that I was a wicked girl, she said I was indeed hopeless. When Father beat me, she said I deserved the punishment, every bit of it. Her opinion of me would never change as long as Father did not change his. In our family, Father was the boss. Mother was nothing! She was unable to help me out. Nor was she willing to do so!
Looking back on those years, I realize that I was like a paper tiger too. On the outside, I was tough and aggressive. I had teeth and claws all over me. Everybody said I was a tomboy. "Play crazy, run wild." "No heart, no lungs." (Insensitive and thoughtless.) What did they know about me? Inwardly I was full of doubts about myself. I was confused. I was scared. Nobody knew how miserable I had been.
Sometimes I would weep in my quilt at night. I imagined that I was poor Cinderella: In the past, my father and mother both loved me and I lived like a princess. Now I am under the authority of a cruel stepmother. I am made to live in the ashes, while my ugly stepsisters are wrapped in silk and satin. They are dancing in the royal palace; I am slaving away in the kitchen ... All this is happening because my real parents are dead. People have buried them beneath the nine springs. They are watching me helplessly. They are weeping for me ...
Rehearsing such sad stories in my mind, I found their taste both bitter and sweet. Having doubts about myself at the age of eight or nine, however, was like hell. What if my parents were right and I was indeed a vicious girl? Why did I hate Lian so much that I divided the whole world into two camps: those who liked him were my mortal enemies; those who did not admire him might be my allies? Besides, there was something else that was troubling me. What if I was stupid? For I was not doing well at school. The Chinese texts we studied in grades three and four did not interest me. The characters I wrote often had prob lems: a dot was missing here, a little line was misplaced there. I just could not remember them as well as others. Father used to joke about this, saying that I had a "flowerpot head." A flowerpot had a hole in the bottom. It could not hold things. Just like my brain.
As for my calligraphy, it was strange to think that in two years no matter how hard I tried to practice, I never got a single 5 (A) or even a 4 (B) from that old master. The best grade he gave me was a 3+ and the worst was a 3- thanks to his kindness, which would still allow me to pass. Eventually I realized 3 was what I would get from him. I accepted my fate and stopped trying.
If I did not do well in Chinese and calligraphy, I could at least laugh at myself. But when it came to arithmetic, the only thing I wanted to do was to hide myself and weep! At the time, we were learning the mixed four fundamental operations: addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. My classmates seemed to have no problem comprehending them. After the teacher explained the new material, I saw many of them raise their hands, offering to solve the questions on the blackboard. I seemed to be the only one who was lost, unable to make head or tail of what the teacher said.
Class after class, it went on like this. Even today I remember vividly what I felt, the panic, the shame, the helplessness, the sudden urge to cry ... I tried to hide behind my classmates' backs, my eyes avoiding the teacher's eyes. The mere thought that she might pick me to solve the next question set my heart fluttering and my cheeks burning. The fifty-minute class was as long as a hundred years. Perhaps I was indeed stupid and Lian was much smarter?
Aunty seemed the only one who never believed that I was bad and stupid. For that, instead of love and gratitude, I only gave her more trouble than I did others. It was almost as if I had lost my senses, and I was making a tremendous effort against myself. I tried everything to prove to her that I was indeed a wicked child. Day and night, I said harsh words to her. I made my clothes dirty as soon as I put them on. I refused to sit still when she washed my hair. (Before I went to the countryside I had never washed either my clothes or my hair.) I would not go to bed on time. I messed things up for her ... Nothing seemed to work. Then I started to steal money from her.
Stealing, I knew, was really bad! But I did it anyway. Don't ask me why. The first time, I took one yuan. The next time, I took three yuan ... It wasn't that I needed the money for anything. I didn't need the money at all. I wasted it. I remember once I bought lychee, which was an expensive southern delicacy. But I did not even like lychee. So I shared it with several classmates of mine who were not even my friends. Other things I bought were equally senseless.
In the meantime I waited day and night for the bomb to explode, as it did after I said that Lian would die before he reached the age of five. I wanted to hear Aunty say I was a wicked girl. Yet I dreaded it, knowing such a verdict from her would really be the end of me. But days went by. Nothing happened. Aunty loved me and trusted me just as before.
By and by I started to comprehend, even though by then I could not explain. Aunty's love for me was different from that of my parents. If I turned out a failure or a social outcast such as a Rightist or a counterrevolutionary, my parents would face the reality sooner or later. They would admit I was indeed no good, even though this was painful for them because they loved me. In short, their opinion of me depended on how good and successful I would be.
Aunty was not like that. I might be a complete failure, I might be found guilty by the judges, I might be rejected or condemned by the whole world, she would love me all the same. No! She would love me even more so as to make up for the "wrongs" I suffered at the hands of others. It was my side of the story that she would listen to and believe wholeheartedly. Nothing on earth could convince her that I was not the best and the smartest. Such love was blind and unreasonable. One should think that it would spoil a child. But in my case, somehow it saved me. She expected me to be the best. Shame on me if I should let her down!
When I realized this, I was like a drowning person in a stormy ocean whose feet suddenly touched a piece of solid ground. The nightmares receded. Peace slowly returned to my mind. I no longer envied others for their good fortune. They might possess gold mountains and silver mines; I had my darling little island that would never sink. In its green harbor, I could moor the boat of my heart. By its sweet springs, I would relax, rest, and regain my strength and confidence. In the past, I may have lost a home. But now I found one and it was the safest and the sweetest. I was content.
I confessed to Aunty about what I did. She took it calmly. (Father and Mother would have made a fuss, that was for sure, if they found out that I had stolen money from somebody.) Aunty merely said to me:
"If you need money, use mine. But remember this: in the future if you have to borrow money from others, make sure you do not forget and you pay them back as soon as possible. In the past, you know, I was very poor. I had to be very careful, for I did not want people to despise me. If a person has no money, that is her fate. No need to be ashamed of it. But if a person has no zhiqi, she is no good."
These words sank into my heart and stayed there, guiding my thinking and behavior ever since, even though she did not say them emphatically. Perhaps I remembered her words so well because they were illustrated by the story of her life. It was a story about zhiqi. The word is very hard to translate. It means self-respect, dignity, ambition, and the willpower not to beg others for anything. Aunty had all these and much more, such as sagacity, perseverance, and chastity.
I0
Aunty's Name Was Chastity
Aunty's name was Tian Xi Zhen. Zhen, her personal name, means chastity. She was born in 11904. Emperor Guangxu was still alive, but by then the power was in the hands of the dowager empress. Many generations of Aunty's family had been the emperor's craftsmen. Their hereditary handicr
aft was to put up mat sheds for the imperial family before summer and for special events. Such mat sheds were made of bamboo poles and reed mats, giving people shelter and shade wherever they might need them. But that was not all. In old Beijing, one mark of a family's status was whether it could afford fine mat sheds or had only cheap ones. People would notice them, compare them, and make comments. Those who lost the competition lost face.
The emperor's mat sheds, of course, were always the best, thanks to Aunty's forefathers. Her family was known among old Beijing residents by its surname, Xi, as "the Xi family of mat sheds." When the Manchu emperors were in power, the Xi family of mat sheds lived in a special quarter to the west of the forbidden city, along with other craftsmen's families.
When Aunty was a girl, the neighbors must have gossiped about her family behind their backs, saying that their ancestors did not do enough good deeds. Why? Because out of the six children Aunty's parents had, five were daughters. The daughters of the Xi family, however, were quite extraordinary. Good-looking and dexterous-qualities for which, according to Aunty, they had their mother to thank.
The mother herself was from a hereditary craftsman's family. Unlike Nainai's folk, the emperor's craftsmen were not Manchus. They had neither power nor wealth. All they had were skills. Skills were the roots of their life, the source of their pride. They were their "crops grown on iron stalks," that is, if the younger generations were able to learn them well. In such families, some skills were passed down from fathers to sons, some from mothers to daughters.