by Weijian Shan
The criticism against my bourgeois outlook on life was a wake-up call for me and taught me a painful lesson. I began to wonder how I could win more people over as friends. With the women’s platoons, it would be difficult and risky to even try, given that contact between the sexes was frowned upon. But I could improve my relationship with the boys. If I achieved that, the company leaders would not be able to isolate me.
* * *
As the criticism against me subsided, I started my own public relations campaign.
I thought hard about how to become more popular and decided I had to spend more time socializing. I wanted everyone to see me not just as a nerd but as one of them.
Time spent socializing meant time taken away from my studies. That was a big sacrifice because I already felt I had too little time to read. Most people on the farm did not go to the fields to work, but I worked every day. Since farm labor, no matter what kind, was never light, I would be exhausted after work. After dinner I had only a few hours to myself before bed. Yes, time was precious to me.
And yet I regarded the sacrifice as necessary. I decided to use one hour every day, no more and no less, to improve my social relationships; I called this my “socialization hour.” I would simply wander into a room, sit down, chat with a few of the guys, and tell a story or two. When the time seemed right, I would say goodbye and go to another room. I went from one room to another in rotation. This way, I made sure that I got to as many people as possible.
But that was still not enough. How could I stand out? How could I impress the women’s platoons so they would not regard me as the nerdy one and remember me when the election time for college came? Women, as Mao put it, held up half the sky, so I needed their support when the occasion called for it.
I hit upon an idea.
Sports were popular on our farm. There were matches between platoons in volleyball and basketball almost every day after dinner, weather permitting. When there was a match, almost everyone, boys and girls alike, came out to watch, though the sexes did not mingle. Good athletes were popular and everyone knew them.
It would be much easier if I’d been a basketball or volleyball star. But I had no experience in either sport and had little chance of learning now. In fact, no team would allow me to play with them, as I would probably cause them to lose the game.
Then I thought of something different.
I had noticed that while there was a volleyball match almost every day, there wasn’t anyone who seemed to know the precise rules of the game, and there was never an official referee when teams from different platoons played each other. That, I had realized, was my chance.
I wrote a letter to my father in Beijing, asking him to send me a book explaining the official rules of volleyball for international competitions. When it arrived, I spent many nights studying and memorizing it, until I was well versed not only in the rules of the game but also in the hand signals used by professional referees. Volleyball was one of the most popular sports in camp. Many boys participated. And while none of the girls played because it was considered unfitting, they always watched and giggled on the sidelines.
One day, as a game was just about to start, the teams asked for a scorekeeper. I immediately volunteered. The players just laughed at me. Because I had never played, they doubted my scorekeeping abilities. “Let me give it a try,” I pleaded. “Maybe I can do it.” Without an alternative, they agreed, and the game started.
I strictly applied all the rules of the game in refereeing. My decisions were precisely executed, complete with hand signals that really surprised and pleased the crowd. I was immediately accepted as the official referee for platoon-level volleyball matches. From then on, I was invited to be the judge whenever a serious game was played. I received much attention. And, to my satisfaction, I was becoming popular.
I would have been more popular if I also picked up basketball refereeing. But that much running around would have exhausted me, especially after a day of work. I decided to stick with volleyball. I was more noticeable (and it was less tiring) to sit in my referee’s chair, high above the net. I loved it when some player fouled with a light step out of bounds during a serve. Then I would blow the whistle and give him a penalty. He often would protest, but I would overrule him. The eyes of the crowd were on me as I delivered my decision. Then the onlookers would back me up with testimonies of what they saw. My authority was accepted and respected. It felt great.
I could feel people becoming friendlier toward me. I was also respected for being a hard worker; although most people did not work, they respected those who did. It took strong will and determination to stand the cold, the heat, and the hardship to go to the fields every day, and people knew that. With my newfound popularity, I felt sure I had an advantage over other contenders for a chance to go to college next year. Ironically, thanks to the campaign against my bourgeois outlook on life, most people now knew that I loved to read and study and could infer that I was probably better qualified for college than others.
When the time finally came for the annual college selection process, in early summer of 1974, there was a big surprise.
In the previous year, I had led a small protest movement over the college candidate selection process. The official line was that candidates had to be “recommended by the masses around them,” through an election, but, in truth, the company leaders made the decision. We demanded a change and lobbied for a true election. The protest had fallen on deaf ears.
We were resigned to the idea that 1974 would be a repeat of the previous year. Still, everyone was curious to see who would be the lucky ones chosen. It was like announcing a lottery number, although not everyone had an equal probability of winning.
On August 15, 1974, at a company meeting, Instructor Zhang announced that an ad hoc committee would be formed to lead and supervise the selection of candidates for college this year. He then read four names. The committee would consist of the head of the logistics unit; the head of Platoon No. 6; the political instructor himself; and me.
I was sure that everyone was as surprised as I was. Who was I? It was well known that the company leaders didn’t like me. And nobody had forgotten about the criticism against my bourgeois ideas. Moreover, I was not a member of the Communist Youth League, and anyone worth anything in the eyes of the leadership was a member. I was the last person anyone expected to be a member of a committee of any sort. And this one might be the most powerful body ever formed in our company, because it could promote some people to heaven, which was what going to college felt like.
Quickly, a few friends and I huddled to analyze why the leaders had decided to include me on this committee. We decided they did it to dispel potential accusations of favoritism; since I was a known troublemaker, my presence would bear witness to the idea that it would be a fair selection process. I was the window dressing they needed to make the process look fair and aboveboard.
Every squad had a heated discussion about whom to select. Candidates were nominated and ballots were collected. The discussions were recorded in minutes and organized as the “views from the masses.” All the ballots and opinions were sent to the company office. The four-member committee then tallied the ballots.
The results were announced at the next company meeting. The commentaries that came with the ballots were also read out.
Cui Dehui received more votes than anyone else. He was known as a hard worker, a person we all thought would someday work himself to death. He was also a member of the Party. There were only two or three Party members among us. He was well liked, and he was also a favorite of the leaders. His chances were the best.
To my surprise, I came in second, with just slightly fewer votes than Cui Dehui. I had never thought that I would receive so much support. My public relations campaign must have worked. In retrospect, Instructor Zhang had made a big mistake. By including me in the committee, he gave me visibility and legitimized me in the eyes of the people.
Our company was given a quota
of nine places for colleges. Out of this, I ranked second. And I was present at the committee meetings for the final selection. Nobody, including the political instructor, could veto my chances in my presence. Therefore, my candidacy sailed through without major issues. I was elated. My luck might finally have turned.
But of course, it’s never over until it’s over. I was only “recommended” by the company to the regiment headquarters, which would in turn decide whom to submit to the division headquarters and its Party committee. It would be foolish to celebrate now. Anything might happen. I had learned through cruel experience that one should never be happy before a decision was made official.
Although my heart was no longer in it, I began to work extra hard. I understood that everyone was watching me. Showing signs of joy would be taken as evidence that I had not truly embraced my mission in the countryside and was just waiting to get out of here. That would provide the leaders with an excuse to terminate my candidacy. Every day, when I went to the fields with others, I would bow my head low and put on a serious face, as if I didn’t care about what awaited me. Nobody could tell that I greeted every day with nervous excitement, anxiously awaiting the announcement I felt would change my life. I worked longer and longer hours to prove my good intentions.
I waited, and waited, and waited. For several weeks, there was no news. I had no idea where that recommendation had gone. Would the regiment Party committee back me up? Usually they would go along with a company’s recommendations, since slots were already reserved for the regiment leadership’s own favorites and there was no need to grab slots from the companies. But my case was unusual. Among all the candidates recommended by the 11 companies in the entire regiment, I was the only person who was not a Youth League member. Would they automatically strike my name?
I felt my life was at a critical juncture. Yet I had no control whatsoever over my own destiny. I anguished over the thought of eventually being rejected. I felt helpless and the anxiety was killing me.
Several weeks later, Instructor Zhang called a meeting. The regimental authorities had approved the following comrades to go to college, he announced. One name after another was read. The total came to nine. My name was not among them.
I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on my head and a dagger stabbed into my chest. My stomach churned and I felt like passing out. My heart was filled with anguish. I knew that everyone was watching me, including the political instructor, who sent stealthy glances my way. He must have been feeling intense pleasure at my disappointment. It would delight him even more if I let my emotions show. I fought with my own feelings to keep my composure, forcing out a bright smile as if to say, “I am so happy that I can stay with you guys forever.” On our way back to our barracks, I congratulated those who were selected and chatted with friends, trying to look cool.
That night, I walked out of our barracks deep into the openness. It was dark. There was no moon, not even a star in the sky. I walked and walked. Tears streamed down my face, and I choked. I felt lost. When I was safely out of earshot, I started to cry aloud. Then I began to yell. I was yelling into the darkness. No one could hear me. I was tearing my lungs out, shouting and yelling myself hoarse in frustration and sadness.
I came back very late that night, but I felt better. Life had to go on; there was always a future. I vowed that I would not let myself down. I would pull together and continue to try. I dreaded the thought of getting stuck in this godforsaken place. I had already been through so much, but I would not lose myself in despair. To give up was to commit a sin against myself, I reminded myself time and time again. And I would never give up.
* * *
Soon, I learned why I was taken off the list for college. The letters that my friends and I had written to Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou had somehow made their way to the recipients’ offices. We heard of the response from Mao’s office from some people working at the regiment headquarters. The three of us never saw the response ourselves, and we never knew whether Mao read the letter himself. But as a result, his office had sent a directive to the Army Corps requesting that the issues brought up in our letter be addressed in an “appropriate way.” It further instructed that these youngsters had good intentions and their complaints should be heeded.
The leadership of the Army Corps was not amused that some of their charges had complained about them to the chairman himself. It was fortunate for them that the chairman’s office merely asked them to address the issues brought up in the letter. It could have been worse. They could have lost their jobs.
The regiment leaders were angry. But they could not say anything. They knew they were not permitted to openly punish those who had written to the chairman. But reprisals could take subtle forms, and they were patient.
It was about this time that my candidacy for college came up for approval by the regiment Party committee. I was rejected in a unanimous decision. The official reason given was my age: I was too young (at the age of 21) to go to college, they said, and they replaced me with an older person.
There was one consolation. My good friend Huang Shurong received the approval to major in steelmaking at a Beijing college. He was four years my senior, and by the following year he would have been too old to be considered. It was fortunate he was selected. Still, my dreams of going to college had been dashed. It took a while to recover from the pain.
The summer of 1975 came. The college recruitment season began again. The company leadership decided to follow the same format for candidate selection as last year. This time, I was not included in the selection committee. The political instructor did not want to take any chances.
A friend of mine, Zhang Yingjian, nicknamed Old Number Nine because he had recently transferred from Company No. 9, was included on the committee. Yingjian was the deputy leader of our platoon and a hard worker. He was chosen because he was regarded as unbiased, having just come from outside the company. To me, it was a stroke of luck that he had been selected, because he kept me informed of the committee’s deliberations.
As before, all the platoons and squads in the company nominated and voted for their candidates. The voting took place on August 10, 1975, and the results were announced the next day. Old Number Nine won the most votes. I came in second again, trailing him by a narrow margin. I received 118 ballots, 25 more than the previous year. Regardless of whether I got to go to university, I was congratulating myself for having not given up since last year’s disappointment, and for having persevered to get this far. I had seen others give up and stop working after a failure. They quickly lost public sympathy and attention. I think because I kept it up, people supported me and elected me again.
The selection committee had a meeting. The committee had grown since last year to include all the platoon leaders and some key officers of the company. The committee had another round of voting on the candidates nominated by the platoons on August 14, 1975. Nine members voted for me, and two against. Instructor Zhang counted the votes. Somehow, he dropped one of the votes in my favor so I had a tally of eight. Old Number Nine noticed and told me. He didn’t raise an objection for fear of offending the instructor and risking his own chances to go to college. I couldn’t blame him.
Mao had said that the decision-making process within the Party was that of “democracy and centralization.” The political instructor announced that the democratic process was over, and now he would “centralize” to make a final decision. He and the commander decided to remove my name from consideration even though so many voted for me.
This year, to prevent arbitrariness and abuse by the company leaders in the selection process, the higher authorities required that the file of each candidate include comments by “the masses.” The political instructor asked the squads to evaluate each chosen candidate and submit comments. After the comments were collected, a meeting was held. A representative from each squad read the commentaries aloud before the assembled group.
People had good things to say about some c
andidates, including Old Number Nine, but not others, especially those who received few ballots. When it came to Xu Anqi, a young woman who had received only a fraction of my vote count, the reviews were especially harsh. One commentary said she was seen bringing expensive cigarettes to the company leaders’ homes, suggesting that she was trying to bribe the leaders. One after another, commentary from different squads was read out.
It was supposed to be an honor to be nominated. Candidates expected to receive compliments. Instead, Xu was humiliated in public. She began to sob and quickly broke down in tears. She stood up in front of everyone and left the meeting, crying. The one who really lost face was the political instructor. But he kept his composure.
Although nothing was said about me at the meeting because I was no longer on the list, Old Number Nine told me later that many people went to Instructor Zhang afterward to complain about my exclusion. I will be forever grateful to these people for speaking on my behalf.
Perhaps because they were embarrassed by this show of support for me, the company leaders decided to make a gesture.
I was reading a book in my room one day when I was told the political instructor wanted to see me. I went there wondering what to expect. I had no idea what he had in mind. Instructor Zhang had a surprise for me. The leadership had changed its mind, he declared. I was to be an officially nominated candidate. I was careful not to show any emotion, but I was delighted to have made a small step once again toward my dream.
I learned later that this was not so much a change of heart as it was a trick on the part of company leadership to please their subordinates. They had nominated two more candidates than allowed by the quota, a total of 11 candidates for 9 slots. Therefore, I was merely an alternate candidate, and the second of two alternates at that. I would be considered only if the higher authorities disqualified two people. My chances were remote at best. But maybe, just maybe, I might get lucky this time.