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Authors: Ying Chang Compestine

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BOOK: Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party
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That night Father and I met Comrade Li in the hallway coming out of the bathroom.
“Good evening, Comrade Li,” said Father. “Could you please tell me what happened to Dr. Wong?”
Comrade Li rudely pushed his way between us. “Dr. Wong is an enemy of the state. He dared to
write a letter that criticized Chairman Mao,” he said loudly. “That is all you need to know.” He slammed his door behind him.
I was shocked that he called Dr. Wong an enemy. Why would he criticize Chairman Mao? Was Comrade Li angry with Father because he was Dr. Wong's best friend?
Father and Mother stayed up late that night, whispering in their bedroom. In my bed, I held Bao-bao tight. My fear for Dr. Wong and Father tore at me like rats tearing at a rice sack.
 
 
In the following weeks, I spent as much time as I could near the fireplace, listening. Mrs. Wong cried a lot. I didn't hear any sound from Niu. I pictured him hiding in his room like he did when his fish died.
I wanted to be with them, but Mother didn't allow me to go anymore. I knew she visited them late at night when Comrade Li was not home. I saw Mother pack our bamboo basket with food, medicine, and clean clothes. The next day, the basket was empty. One night, when Mother was packing the basket, I slipped out of bed. While Mother was in the kitchen, I hid Bao-bao under a package of herbal medicine. I hoped Bao-bao would help Mrs. Wong sleep at night and comfort her during the day.
Coming home from school a few days later, I saw Comrade Li standing in front of our apartment building with a loudspeaker in his hand. With a wide blue belt over his Mao uniform, he looked taller and skinnier. I ducked behind the trunk of a milk tree and stared.
Young people in Mao uniforms ran in and out of our building. On their right arms they wore red armbands that said RED GUARD in yellow characters. Two carried Mrs. Wong's sewing machine. Four others had her refrigerator. Her airplane heater was smashed into pieces near the stairs. Neighbors peeked out from behind their curtains.
Comrade Li's voice boomed around the courtyard through the loudspeaker. “We confiscate these bourgeois items in the name of the Cultural Revolution.”
How could this be the same funny man who did magic tricks for me and sang in the bathroom? I took a deep breath and ran upstairs. To my surprise, Mother sat by the dining room table staring at an empty wall. Why wasn't she helping Mrs. Wong? Why didn't she call Father home to protect us? Would the Red Guards
take our things next? I was afraid to ask Mother these questions.
That night, I had a horrible dream. Father was taken away by a mob without faces. I woke up and ran toward my parents' bedroom. I found Father sitting in the living room with a heavy cotton blanket tented over himself and the radio that sat on the round end table. The yellow light from the small lamp cast his shadow on the wall. All I could hear was a humming like tiny mosquitoes.
Father had told me the government jammed foreign stations, because Chairman Mao wanted us to listen only to the Central China People's Broadcast from Beijing. It played Jiang Qing's propaganda songs and repeated Mao's speeches over and over.
“Daddy! What are you listening to?” I whispered.
Father turned off the radio and lifted up a corner of the blanket. His shadow on the wall turned into a sitting Buddha.
“The Voice of America,” he whispered.
These days, we had to whisper a lot, especially when we talked about the Golden Gate Bridge,
listened to the Voice of America, or held English lessons. I crawled onto his lap and snuggled with him under the blanket. It was warm and smelled of antiseptics.
“Daddy, why do people want to go to America?” I lifted off the blanket.
“Shh!” Father put a finger to his lips.
We glanced toward Comrade Li's apartment. Since Father had asked about Dr. Wong, Comrade Li no longer knocked on the little door. He ignored me when we met in the hallway. It was as if a bad magic trick had changed him from a funny monkey into a poisonous snake.
“They want to enjoy freedom,” Father whispered.
“What's freedom?” I whispered back.
Father led me to my bedroom. “Freedom is being able to read what you want and say what you think.”
I saw sadness in his eyes. I wanted to ask him if people disappeared in America, but I didn't. Talking about Dr. Wong made Father unhappy.
“For tomorrow's lesson, can we talk about what they eat in America?” I slid under my soft silk blanket.
“All right. Go to sleep now.” Father kissed my forehead.
 
Mother brought home less and less food. On Communist National Day, October 1, she returned with an empty basket. With her tired voice, she said to Father, “Everyone is too busy taking part in the Cultural Revolution.” Father put a finger to his lips and looked in the direction of Comrade Li's home. Mother lowered her voice to a whisper. “From now on, everything is rationed.” She pulled out small tickets in different colors from her pocket and explained, “Red is for one jin of meat, blue is for five eggs, and yellow is for two bars of soap.”
I looked at those colorful tickets and wished they would turn into meat and eggs right then.
That Sunday, Mother and I went to the store to buy meat with a red ticket.
“We're out of meat,” said the saleswoman. “Come back in three days.”
Although the store shelves were empty, people still waited outside in long lines. That day we ate only rice, shriveled vegetables, and some dried meat.
When the weather grew cooler and leaves fell off
the trees, mealtime had become a passing game. It started when Mother said she was not hungry. She would pass her portion of meat or egg to me and Father. Father would pass them back to her. In the end, it all wound up in my bowl. I didn't understand how Mother could not be hungry. I was hungry all the time.
The week before my tenth birthday, I asked Mother, “When are we going to buy cloth for my outfit?”
In the past, I always got new clothes for my birthday. Mother said it was important so evil spirits would not recognize me in the coming year. For dinner, she would serve me ten dumplings for good luck. I dreamed of eating her plump pork-cabbage dumplings with ginger-sesame sauce. I could almost taste their delicious juice in my mouth.
Since we could rarely buy meat, I could only hope to have a new outfit. I hadn't worn clothes with bright flowers to school, but I still loved to wear them at home. They reminded me of the happy days.
Mother stopped eating and glanced at Father. She put down her chopsticks and said slowly, “Ling, fabric is rationed now. We must save all our ration tickets for winter clothes.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I couldn't squeeze into last year's clothes. Without a new outfit, butterflies were not going to land on me. Mother closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Father put down his rice bowl. He gently stroked my hair and said to Mother, “I don't need new clothes this winter. Use my ration ticket to buy fabric for Ling.”
Mother shook her head. “You always spoil her.” With her ivory chopsticks, Mother reached over to the pan-fried fish in front of me, picked up a large piece, and pressed it firmly in my rice bowl. I was happy she gave me another piece of fish, but wished she would stop treating me like a baby. If I was old enough to braid my hair, I was surely old enough to feed myself.
I didn't feel good about using Father's ration ticket, but I hadn't had a new outfit in so long.
Last year, the fabric store had at least thirty flower prints on the shelves. After two hours, I still hadn't decided whether to get the small white lotus flowers with green leaves or the big bunches of yellow chrysanthemums in gold and blue vases. Father had suggested I get both fabrics, the lotus for a blouse and the chrysanthemums for a skirt.
Mother and I took the fabric to Mrs. Wong's home. She made me the skirt and blouse on her beautiful sewing machine.
With the leftover fabric, Mrs. Wong made me a sun hat. When Father saw me in my new outfit, he told me that I would mix right in with the chrysanthemums in our courtyard. They were the last to bloom before winter came. A few times, the big black and golden butterflies had even landed on me.
Whenever I wore the outfit to Father's office, the young nurses surrounded me. “What a beautiful little flower.” They stuffed my pocket with candy and sweet dried plums. I enjoyed the attention and treats, but I didn't like it when they pinched my cheeks.
Now that outfit was too small.
 
Mother met me after school. As we walked to the Number One Fabric Store, I felt happier than I had in a long time. I told Mother, “The butterflies only landed on me five times last year. I think the flowers were too small. I'll try to find bigger ones this year.” Even though I couldn't wear my new outfit to school, I could put it on at home or when I went out with Father.
When we entered the fabric store, most of the shelves were empty. The only fabric color for sale was dark blue.
“Do you want to buy fabric for a Mao uniform?” asked a tall woman behind the counter. Her face looked like a dried-up eggplant. She yanked out some blue fabric wrapped around a long board and spread it open on the wooden counter, the same fabric her jacket was made of.
“No. I want flowered fabric,” I whispered. Mother squeezed my arm but it was too late.
The woman raised her voice to a high pitch. “Flowered fabric?” Other people in the store stared at us. She waved around her bony hands. “That is bourgeois! We are a revolutionary store. We don't sell idiotic flowered fabrics!”
Mother grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the store. Clerks laughed loudly behind us.
On the way home, Mother was quiet. Crowds of people all dressed in dark clothes pushed past us on the sidewalk, bumping into my shoulders. I gathered my courage and asked her in a small voice, “Momma, what's bourgeois? Why are flower fabrics bourgeois?”
She grabbed my hand and stopped under a big Chairman Mao poster, a terrified look on her face. “Please stop your questions!”
I whispered back, “But why?”
“Because I don't have any answers.” She let go of my hand and started walking.
From the poster, Mao's picture smiled down at me, as always. We were told every day that he loved us and was our savior. Would he help me to get a flower outfit for my birthday?
I heard cheers and screams as we came to our courtyard. Inside, the Red Guards who had robbed Mrs. Wong's home were back. Their dirty faces were smeared with soy sauce. They sang in celebration as they tore up and stomped on the flowers Gardener Zong had planted. A few black and yellow butterflies hovered over the destroyed flowers and broken branches. Gardener Zong squatted in front of his single-room apartment. With his elbows on his knees, his hands covered the back of his head. When we walked by, he didn't look up.
The next day, Father whispered to Mother that two more doctors from his department had disappeared.
 
 
Each day, my list of questions grew. But I had no one to ask. Father no longer told me, “Smart children always ask questions.” Instead, now he said, “Children don't have to know everything.”
The air around the city was heavy with the smell of ink and molding paste. Everything was covered with layers of Mao's pictures and teachings. Loudspeakers blasted out the same songs day and night, like a thousand crows following me around.
The East is red, the sun has risen.
China has produced Mao Zedong!
He works for the people's happiness,
He is the people's savior.
I couldn't think of one happy thing that he had brought me. But I knew better than to say this to
anyone. Mother told me about an eight-year-old boy who had been reported to the police because he told someone that “‘Revolution' means being hungry.” His parents, who were doctors, were accused of teaching their son antirevolutionary thoughts. Three days later, the whole family was sent to a labor camp.
I stopped to greet the neighbors when I met them. Mother used to tell me that a well-mannered child should always greet elders with respect, like “good morning, Aunt or Uncle.” But lately, when I greeted them, they either pretended they didn't hear me or looked at me as if I was a stranger. Neighbors no longer chatted in the courtyard or visited in front of the buildings after dinner.
At school, Gao and Yu were happy to tell anyone willing to listen that I was from a nonworking, bourgeois family. I told them my parents worked every day in the hospital, but no one listened. They said only parents who worked in a factory, in the army, or on a farm were working class.
After hearing I was from a bourgeois family, even my old friends stopped talking to me. When Hong and I met in school, she glanced away. When I tried
to talk to her, she whispered, “I don't want to be called a bourgeois sympathizer,” and ran away.
At times I wished my family was poor and my parents worked on a vegetable farm like Yu's, so I could have friends. But if my parents worked on a farm, who would treat their patients?
Yu often complained that she got to wear only clothes handed down from her six older sisters. Perhaps my clothes had no patches because my father was happy to have just one daughter. I didn't have to wear hand-me-downs.
I wished her family had stopped at daughter number six. Then there would be no Yu to pick on me. Even though I didn't have friends, I was glad I was not Yu. With seven daughters, her father must have never had time to talk to her.
In the morning before I left for school, Mother always reminded me, “No germs can get into a closed mouth.” I wanted to tell her not to worry, that I hardly talked at school since I had no friends. But I was too ashamed to say that.
Although I had the highest test scores in math and writing, no one nominated me for the Young Pioneers.
I was one of the few students in my class who didn't have a red scarf. I hated school.
 
On the afternoon of October 29, my tenth birthday, I jumped out of my seat when I saw Father standing outside my classroom.
“Where are we going today, Daddy?” I ran to him and grabbed his hand.
“We're going home.” He didn't pat my shoulder as he usually did.
Father sometimes picked me up before afternoon school ended. I was always happy to see him, especially when I didn't have to sit through the daily history class and recite the endless dates and names of battles Chairman Mao had won.
The year before, whenever Father picked me up, we rode bus number 7 three stops to our favorite Western pastry shop, Hing Shing. The clerk would greet us warmly as we entered the red wooden doors. She was a cheerful, middle-aged lady in a white uniform. The small store had a high glass counter that held dark chocolate cakes and all kinds of desserts, including my favorite cow-horn-shaped
pastries. Since Mother said Father should get some rest after performing surgeries instead of taking me places, we kept our outings a secret. Our special code was “Let's go get poked by the cow's horn.”
Father and I would sit at one of the three little round tables outside Hing Shing, eating, chatting, and sipping coffee while watching people, bicycles, and buses pass by. We had so much to say to each other. I didn't care for the bitter coffee, but I took tiny sips like Father. Educated people drank coffee, and I wanted to be one when I grew up. The cow-horn pastry was coated with big grains of sugar and filled with fluffy cream. Father said I was very skillful at eating pastry. First I licked the sugar off the outside. Then I sank my teeth into the sweet cream inside, savoring each bite. When I couldn't reach the cream anymore, I nibbled away at the shell over my cup. The butter from the crumbs would float to the surface. At last, I sipped the coffee from a small sugar spoon, like Father. Now it tasted sweet and less bitter. Before we left the store, we had the friendly clerk pack an extra cow horn in a small box for Mother. When Mother asked where it came from, we would tell her it was given to us by a passing cow.
The last time we had gone to Hing Shing, someone had sealed off the doors with long strips of red paper that read BOURGEOIS NEST.
Today, I had hoped we would do something special for my birthday. “Can we go to the Han River?” That was our new favorite place. Sitting on its bank, we counted boats and practiced our English. Since few people went there during the day, we felt safe talking.
“Not today.” Father took hold of my hand. I had to take big steps to keep up with him. The air was cool and wet. It smelled of burning paper. A few small drops of rain fell on my face. The sun tried to peek from behind dark clouds.
I wanted to ask why, but the serious look on his face stopped me.
Inside our courtyard, Comrade Li and the Red Guards were pasting new posters and slogans on tree trunks and all three buildings. The air was heavy with the smell of fresh ink. I spotted a white poster with Father's name on it in black ink. Over his name was a big blood-red X.
“Why are they doing this, Daddy?” I whispered. Father held my hand tighter and walked faster without
answering. Once in our apartment, he ran to the fireplace, lit a fire, and threw in his letters and books. Wisps of burned paper bumped around inside the fireplace like frightened black butterflies. He even threw in his red tie and the English book we had made together. The fire slowly destroyed the picture of the little girl—first her dress, then her ice cream, and finally her face and hair. Sitting in Father's large leather chair, I fought back tears, feeling my happy days were burning away with the girl.
Father picked up the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge from above the fireplace. I held my breath as he stared at it. At last, he put it back. “I can't do it. Not yet,” he mumbled. I let out my breath.
I had thought Comrade Li was my friend. I always gave him what he wanted to buy. Why was he doing all these bad things to us now? I should never have played the buying and selling game with him. I ran to my room and carried out the basket full of origami. When Father went to get more books to burn, I dumped all of Comrade Li's origami into the fire.
Mother dashed in. She and Father went into the kitchen, whispering. I heard Father say “Mrs. Wong?”
and parts of Mother's answer: “Red Guard … labor camp … .”
What were they going to do to Mrs. Wong this time? I wished a fairy could fly through their French doors and carry her and Niu away.
Sucking in my lower lip, I peeked through the kitchen door. Mother stuffed herbal medicine bottles and rice cakes into a cloth rice sack. Father stood next to the window, watching the courtyard.
In a low, serious voice, Father said, “Be careful. Come back soon.”
Mother nodded and ran out the door with the brown bag.
A few moments later, yelling came from the courtyard. Father ran to the fireplace and banged loudly with his knuckles on the chimney pipe.
My heart drummed. The crowd shouted, “Long live Chairman Mao! Long live the Cultural Revolution!” I tried to shut out the chants by putting my hands over my ears. But I could still hear “Red Guard … Build the new China … .”
Many feet drummed up the stairs. Mother dashed back into our apartment. In her arm, she held Bao-bao.
Father locked the door behind her. She couldn't speak. Her face was pale, and she gasped for breath. I took Bao-bao from her. The doll had on a new dress over the old outfit. It was made from the fabric with the little girls in red sun hats sitting on the beach. I held her tight against my face. Bao-bao smelled of jasmine tea, like Mrs. Wong. My eyes swelled with tears. From upstairs came the sounds of people shouting, furniture crashing, shrieking laughter, and dishes breaking. Sobbing came down the chimney. It was from both Mrs. Wong and Niu.
Father held us in his arms, in front of the fireplace, under the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. Buzzing noises filled my ears, as if a thousand flies had crowded into my head. My body trembled. I stared at the picture, wishing we could hide inside the clouds around the bridge. Some time went by and then, “Everybody!” Comrade Li squawked through his loudspeaker. “Report to the courtyard!”
Father patted my shoulder. “Ling, we have to go downstairs. It will be all right.”
Mother took Bao-bao from my arms and set her on Father's chair. “Leave it here.” I clung to Father's arm
as we slowly went down the stairs. The autumn sun had disappeared behind the dark clouds. The milk trees had shed their blossoms, but there was still a touch of sweet scent in the air. Fallen leaves carpeted the courtyard. When the cold wind blew, bright yellow leaves rained down, like the tears in my heart. Ravens cawed from the high wall surrounding the courtyard. The Red Guards had pulled old tables out of the first-floor storage room and set up a small stage. Doctors and nurses from the two neighboring buildings gathered around.
One teenage boy, face covered with pimples, shoved Mrs. Wong and Niu onto the stage. Five more Red Guards stood around the stage, jeering. Mrs. Wong's silk skirt was torn in the front. She held it together with both hands. Her long hair fell over her face.
Niu's face was white. He kept pushing up his glasses. Behind them his eyes darted around and stopped when he saw our family. Our eyes met, and I saw his fear and sadness. I wished his father was here to protect him or that we could save them. Father held my hand. Mother stood next to us, shivering.
Through his loudspeaker, Comrade Li sounded like an angry goose. “Dr. Wong is an American spy! Mrs. Wong is an example of the bourgeois!”
I thought
bourgeois
meant “evil things from the old days.” But Mrs. Wong wasn't old and evil. She was the nicest person I knew. How could she be an example of the bourgeois?
One girl with short straight hair and plump pink cheeks waved a pair of scissors in the air. She pointed them at Mrs. Wong's hair and shouted, “Look at the symbol of the bourgeoisie. Let's get rid of the old!”
Her friends cheered.
Pink Cheeks climbed onto the table and thrust the scissors at Mrs. Wong. “Cut your bourgeois hair.”
Mrs. Wong raised her head. Her eyes were fixed on the distance, as if her mind had been taken away by the ravens. Her hands still clung to her torn skirt.
The loudspeaker squealed as Comrade Li shouted, “Let's do a revolutionary deed!” He stood at the left corner of the stage, his army cap askew on his head, the visor almost covering his left eye. His blue jacket was buttoned all the way up. The crowd of young people cheered again.
My teeth clicked. Father held my hand tighter. I felt a knot in my throat. My eyes blurred with tears.
I wanted to hide under the milk tree leaves.
Pink Cheeks raised the scissors.
I closed my eyes.
Another wave of cheers.
My hand hurt from Father's tight grip. I forced my eyes open. A lock of Mrs. Wong's long, dark hair floated off the table and formed a question mark on the bright yellow leaves.
I was too afraid to cry aloud; my heart wept silently.
Tears flowed down Mrs. Wong's face.
“You!” Pink Cheeks pushed Niu. He almost fell off the table. “Turn against your bourgeois parents! Follow our leader, Chairman Mao!” she shouted.
Niu closed his eyes.
Pimple Face, barely taller than Niu, climbed on stage. He shouted, “We are the Red Guards, devoted followers of our great leader, Chairman Mao. Let's destroy the old system and build a new China!”
Other Red Guards repeated after him, “Long live our great leader, Chairman Mao!”
Comrade Li's mouth twisted, and a wicked smile
broke out on his face. He handed Pimple Face a heavy rectangular blackboard. Harshly pushing Mrs. Wong's head down, Pimple Face threw the loop of rope attached to the board over her neck. Mrs. Wong fell to her knees. I wanted to turn into a powerful dragon, burn the Red Guards and Comrade Li with flames shooting from my mouth. Then I would carry her away.
BOOK: Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party
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