by Karoline Kan
* * *
I started at Lutai No. 2 Primary School along with Li Chun, whose father had paid a 6,000 yuan extra fee to enroll him, thus gaining him entrance but still not overcoming the fact of his exclusion from taking the gaokao, the college entrance exam. The gaokao was more competitive in Hunan than in Tianjin or Beijing, where there were fewer students and more quality universities. But the Li family was happy for now. We were both in Xiangju’s class.
Everything about school life was new. I set off at 7 a.m., when only street peddlers were about with their carts piled high with apples, cabbage, and shrimp. Carts selling breakfast goodies grew more frequent the closer I got to school. People in the township were too busy to eat the morning meal at home. Misty clouds rose from bamboo steamers smelling of dumplings, and cooks ladled batter onto griddles to make savory pancakes.
At school, a big red welcome banner decorated the gate. Two older students guarded the entrance, standing erect and wearing red sashes across their chests. Whenever a teacher approached the building, they would snap a salute, right hands raised high above their heads, and shout, “Good morning, Teacher!” As the days went along, I noticed they were also placed there to enforce rules. Whenever they noticed a student who was not wearing a name badge, or a student who was not wearing the red neckerchief, they would stop them and note down their name. The teacher in charge of that student’s class would get a deduction from their yearly bonus. Xiangju always became furious when any student from her class broke the rules. She would call the student’s parents and have the child sent home. The parents would bring Xiangju gifts, a basket of fruit or coupons that could be used at the supermarkets to make up for it. They didn’t want the teacher to dislike and fail their child.
One day I forgot to wear my red neckerchief, but as Mom’s best friend, Xiangju didn’t call; she came to our house after school.
“I had so much trust in Chaoqun, and thought she would be the last one to disappoint me,” Xiangju complained. “I’ve told the headmaster so many good things about her, saying that although Chaoqun is from the village, she can be as good as the Lutai kids…But today I was deeply sorry.”
“It’s my fault; I should have checked everything before she left home,” my mom said with a strained smile. I knew she was furious with me.
I hated to see Mom apologizing for things that weren’t her fault. Although Xiangju had been helpful to us, I was fed up with her arrogant attitude, as if she were a god and we should be forever thankful to her. To avoid making the same mistake again, I purchased an extra neckerchief and kept it in my schoolbag.
The school was a collection of low buildings, similar to our hutong. Around 750 students from ages seven to thirteen were distributed among eighteen classrooms for six grades.
Our classroom was by an old willow tree in the corner of the schoolyard. Inside about forty students took their seats at tightly packed rows of wooden desks. The blackboard at the back of the room had been decorated with drawings of flowers and animals. This was where announcements would be posted and model students praised.
Four big, bold characters had been written above the front blackboard: civilized, united, industrious, and progressive. Xiangju said it was the school motto. The national flag—five yellow stars on a red background—was displayed between the characters. On the first day, our assignment was to memorize the motto. We were told we’d soon be tested on all the things we learned about our school and country.
“You see the five stars of the national flag?” she asked.
“Yeeeesss!” we said in unison. We were instructed to answer together, no matter what the question. The trick was to drag the word out for as long as possible. The teachers encouraged it. They liked our answers to be clear and unified, almost military-like. When we had to read out loud, Xiangju would count us in: “One, two, three, start!” If our reading became disjointed, she would make us begin again and again and again until we ended sharply together.
“The big star is the Communist Party, and the four small ones represent the people of all fifty-six ethnic groups, as well as the four social classes. One edge of each small star faces toward the big star. This means the people of all fifty-six groups are united under the leadership of our Communist Party. Understand?” Xiangju asked, looking at us expectantly.
“Underrr…stooood…”
Portraits of famous politicians, scientists, artists, and scholars were placed around the classroom, each with their own quotation:
There is no such thing as a genius. I spend the time other people spend drinking coffee, writing.
—Lu Xun, writer and essayist
Study for a prosperous and rising China.
—Zhou Enlai, the first premier
of the People’s Republic of China
Xiangju told us to learn from these famous men, to bear responsibility and to make a contribution to our country. Reciting these quotes was just the first of hundreds of sayings I had to memorize throughout my education. Flags, patriotic quotations, male portraits, and mottos adorned the walls of every classroom I saw until college.
Xiangju also made us memorize the pupil’s principles: twenty clauses of dos and don’ts and regulations. We had to repeat them one line at a time:
Love the country, love the people, and love the Chinese Communist Party. Study hard and make progress every day…
“Love the country, love the people, and love the Chinese Communist Party…” We tried to keep up, but the lines were too long for us to remember in one go, as we had no idea what it all meant. We had only the vaguest notion of who “the people” were. The principles might as well have been written by aliens. Even Chinese characters were still a mystery to us.
Xiangju shortened the sentences. “Repeat after me: ‘Love the country…’”
Xiangju was known for being strict but competent. All the students were afraid of her, including me. She had big eyes and a powerful voice; three seconds of her gaze could make you quake, and her deep, thunderous voice always echoed. I never told my classmates that Xiangju was a close family friend whom I called Aunt. I did not want them to think I was special or set myself apart in any way. The school encouraged students to work diligently and in synchrony. In addition to reading in one voice, we’d do our morning warm-up exercises to recorded counting broadcast over the loudspeakers. We stood in six lines—three for boys and three for girls—stretched our legs and arms, shook our heads and moved our shoulders, and jumped. A team of students from higher grades inspected us and wrote down a score for each class in a notebook. To earn a higher score, the students had to lift their arms and legs to almost the same height. Again, the score was related to our teacher’s annual bonus.
Every morning, we would do eye exercises to music. Following instructions from a poster on the wall, we had to close our eyes and massage acupuncture points around our eye sockets to protect our eyes from disease. Teachers kept close watch in case any of us opened our eyes during the exercise. Cheaters got a lash with the cane on their shoulder, back, arms, or even on their head.
* * *
Collectivism has a long history in China. Historically and in accordance with the ideology set out by the great Chinese philosopher, Confucius (551 to 479 BC), the country’s interests are more important than a family’s, and the interests of a family should be put ahead of the individual’s. Confucians believe that, if necessary, one should restrain his personal desire to achieve the goals of benevolence and righteousness in the society. Such ideas were encouraged by feudal dynasties, which in turn helped the feudal rulers to consolidate governing. When Confucius’s doctrine worked, people tended to think collectively for the greater good, and to obey the empire’s rulings without disturbance.
The Chinese Communist Party adopted collectivization from the Soviet Union. Although it crushed most other traditional Chinese ideologies in its first thirty years of ruling, collectivist ideology happened to be useful, and was tolerated and even encouraged. Individualism was equated to bo
urgeois liberalization—the opposite of Mao’s goal. In Communist China, people were made to be proud of sacrificing their personal interests for the good of a unified nation.
Though China made progress in its various industries—including defense, mining, railway, and manufacturing, it ignored the needs of its citizens for such things as food, clothes, and individual freedom. The emphasis on collectivism led to many tragedies, and the notion of overtaking the West led to ultra-leftist ideas. The goals were too ambitious and too broad, and most of the time were impractical. In addition, to criticize or challenge the “shared goal” was regarded as reactionary and just about treasonous.
With the launch of Reform and Opening Up in 1978, China began to allow not only private enterprise but also sought foreign investment and engagement with the West. Yet despite early successes, some party leaders believed the policy helped cause a lack of belief in socialism and Marxism, and distrust of the party in general, as well as a noticeable economic divide between rich and poor. This crisis peaked in the late 1980s when officials—from the top of government to the village chiefs—began more openly taking bribes and also to embezzle funds. For example, while the children of government officials had power and plenty of resources for their future, college graduates who had no connections could not find jobs.
In the spring of 1989—the year I was born—people, mostly young college students, protested peacefully in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square and other big cities, calling for freedom of the press and government accountability, among other goals. They wanted a degree of democratic reforms.
On June 4, fifty days after the protests had begun, the government sent in the army and their tanks to quell the demonstrations—in a confrontation that soon became violent with the military, who were armed, overwhelming the square. Several hundred to more than two thousand people, mostly students, were killed. The exact number is unknown; the authorities have never given a full account of the casualties, and the unwritten rule—in one of the most glaring examples of self-censorship—forbids anyone from talking about it, much less writing about it, in an attempt to sweep away its memory. Though in places like Hong Kong and Taiwan, memorial services and public vigils are held every year on the June Fourth anniversary.
The party attributed the breakout of the protest to the lack of “education,” or belief in a proper Communist ideology. The younger generation, who by then had been influenced by Western literature, music, and film, had begun talking about democracy and freedom. As a result, the party launched a patriotic-education campaign in schools and colleges that continues to this day with the aim of re-establishing political beliefs and loyalty to the Communist state. Many of my schoolbooks were full of articles about loving the country and admiring the party. In an almost brainwashing method, they made me believe if I was not a patriot and party lover, then I was committing the most serious crime.
Our “education” was delivered in history, political science, and even Chinese-language classes, where I was constantly told to be loyal, that only the party could make Chinese people’s lives better and protect China from the threats of hostile countries like Japan and America. In addition to celebrating China’s history and traditions, we were told there was still work to be done but that we had overcome our shortcomings against the West; China mustn’t be disturbed by Western-style democracy, which would destabilize our society—all this was taught to me in primary school. Our “education” was indoctrinated into our mentalities and to question it was wrong and, even more, unacceptable.
* * *
Every Monday, we held a flag-raising ceremony where we sang the national anthem. It was the most important part of the week. Chatting was forbidden, and we were instructed to look serious. Volunteers from the upper grades noted down the class and name of any student caught talking or laughing, as well as those whose uniforms were not up to par. I stood straight and looked at the flag with as much honor as I could muster. Xiangju said if I behaved well, she would recommend me to hold the flag the following year. My parents would be proud of me. I was eager to prove to my teacher that, although I was from a village, I could be one of the best students in the class.
From my very first day, I was repeatedly told how glorious it was to be a Young Pioneer, although nearly every six- to fourteen-year-old in China was a member. We had to wear our red neckerchief religiously. The Young Pioneers’ prestige came from its affiliation with the Communist Youth League, an organization of students from middle school to university that operated directly under the Communist Party of China and which was a training ground for future party leaders. We were told the neckerchief was red because it was stained by the blood of revolutionary martyrs who sacrificed their lives for China’s bright future. We wore it out of respect for them and to demonstrate how much we appreciated the good life we lived as a result of their selfless acts of courage.
Our first ever history lesson was about the Opium War in 1840 and the victory of the War of Resistance against Japan in 1945. The lessons were meant to unify us, by pointing at a shared enemy for all—mainly the British, Japanese, and Americans. As a young student, I was made to understand that British people were bad long, long ago, because they stole everything that belonged to us, from prized treasures and relics looted from the Summer Palace or territories seized from us—like Hong Kong, which when handed back to China in 1997 was cause for great celebration.
I thought Americans were just strange. From what I saw and heard, they were a walking contradiction, nice but evil, romantic but cruel. I was confused. I watched films like Forrest Gump and Titanic, where everyone seemed nice—from Tom Hanks saving Lieutenant Dan in Vietnam to Leonardo DiCaprio saving the love of his life. We couldn’t get enough of these films—pirated DVDs were cheap and available in every market—or the American actors, but then our political science teacher would say things like, “The Americans’ plan is to beat us and make a mess of our country.”
In my mind, the Japanese were pure evil, and should never be removed from the blacklist, because they killed so many Chinese people in the war and still deny it, as I was told.
* * *
After Grandfather Wengui died, we visited Chaoyang to see Nainai and my other grandparents in Caiyuan Village once a month. I considered it paradise outside my new life in town. I found, though, that while Lutai was changing, and changing me, so were the villages. Uncle Lishui and a few neighbors even had a telephone installed in their homes. In Caiyuan, people wanted larger houses, so they filled in the ponds with earth and silt, and built houses over them. I was sad to see the water gone, the areas I had picked lilies and lotus flowers.
While some things had changed, other things remained stuck between the past and the future. Families still cooked on stoves heated with fires made of wood and straw, but they also had a tin of natural gas in their kitchens for special occasions.
Seeing my mother’s loving parents, my grandpa (Laoye) and grandma (Laolao), and my cousins always brought a smile to my face. Chunting was fascinated by my stories about Lutai, and I’m ashamed to admit her curiosity made me feel superior. I never told her about how inferior we were treated in the hutong. I liked being the hero when we returned to the village. While we had music, art, and English classes in the fourth grade, Chunting’s school only had Chinese and math. We had smart, sailor-like school uniforms; they had none. She did not get to go on trips to the cinema, as we did. When I spoke to Chunting about my life, I felt good about myself.
I told her about how on the way to the cinema we always stood in two long lines, wearing identical yellow hats and walking hand in hand when crossing the road at traffic lights. I enthusiastically described the films I had watched.
The movies about the war between China and Japan (1937 to 1945) look great on the big screen. I bragged, “Not like on TV. Our soldiers look awesome fighting the Japanese!” I liked to exaggerate how good the films were because I enjoyed the excited and envious looks on her and my other cousins’ faces.
We w
ent on school trips to the cinema three or four times a semester, but half of the films were about China’s war with Japan or the civil war between the Communist party and the Chinese Nationalists, the Kuomintang, who lost the war and fled to Taiwan. Actually I felt bored when I watched those films, and was always confused by the plot, which always ended more or less the same, with the Chinese triumphant. Also, I had never met a Kuomintang member in my life. The Japanese and the Kuomintang soldiers were always the bad guys in the films, and the Communist Party soldiers were heroes. After all, they’d built an independent country for the Chinese people and led them toward a bright future.
It was almost as if the directors had read our textbooks as well.
I told Chunting how the teachers made us write “reviews” when we returned from the cinema. “I always write: ‘I should learn from the heroes to be fearless and to die for our country,’” I said, reciting a sentence I had memorized from a collection of essays.
“Is that what you really think?” Chunting asked, her eyes bright with intrigue.
“No!” I snapped. “Do you write what you actually think in your school essays? My teachers say that what matters is getting the answer right, not your opinions!”
I wasn’t joking. In our exams, the standard for answering correctly was always the same. The best answers conveyed patriotism, selflessness, devotion, and grand dreams for the nation: for example, the desire to become an astronaut to bring great honor to China.
Many of my weekends were spent with Chunting and our friends in Laoye’s house. Chunting and I would sit on wooden stools; our friends on the floor. I told them that on Tomb Sweeping Day in April, we made white paper flowers to attach to the chest pockets of our school uniforms and marched to the Martyrs’ Cemetery. In front of the heroes’ tombs, we had to keep silent for three minutes before walking beside the gravestones, throwing our flowers onto them.