Red Azalea (2 page)

My parents never talked about politics at home. They never complained about the labor they were assigned to do. By 1971 my father was no longer a college instructor: he was sent to work in a printing shop as an assistant clerk. Although my mother had a university degree, she was sent to work in a shoe factory. It was a political demand for one to be a member of the working class, said her boss. The Party called it a reeducation program. My parents were unhappy about their jobs, but they behaved correctly for us. If they were ever criticized, it would affect our future.

My mother was not good at being someone she was not. Her colleagues said that she was politically clumsy. One day when she was ordered to write on wax paper the slogan “A long, long life to Chairman Mao”:

A
long, long life to Chairman Mao!

she wrote “A no, no life to Chairman Mao”:

A no, no life to Chairman Mao!

In Chinese, “A long, long life” translates as “Ten thousand years of no ending,” so there was a character “no” in it. Mother got the characters mixed up and it became “No years of no ending.” It was an accident, my mother said.
She was having a severe headache when she was ordered to do the job. She was not allowed to rest when her blood pressure was high. She did not understand why she wrote it the way she did. She always loved Mao, she confessed. She was criticized at the weekly political meeting that everyone in the district had to attend. They said she had an evil intention. She should be treated as a criminal. My mother did not know how to explain herself. She did not know what to do.

I drafted a self-criticism speech for my mother. I was twelve years old. I wrote Mao’s famous quotations. I said Chairman Mao teaches us that we must allow people to correct their mistakes. That’s the only way great Communism is learned. A mistake made by an innocent is not a crime. But when an innocent is not allowed to correct her mistake, it is a crime. To disobey Mao’s teaching is a crime. My mother read my draft at her school meeting and she was forgiven. Mother came home and said to me that she was very lucky to have a smart child like me.

But the next week mother was caught again. She used a piece of newspaper that had Mao’s picture on it to wipe her shit in the toilet room. We all did our wiping with newspapers in those days because very few people could afford toilet paper. Mother showed a doctor’s letter at the masses’ weekly meeting. It proved that her blood pressure was extremely high when the incident took place. She was not forgiven this time. She was sent to be reformed through hard labor in a shoe factory. The factory made rubber boots. Each pair weighed ten pounds. Her job was to take the boots off the molds. Eight hours a day. Every evening she came home and collapsed.

When Mother stepped through the door, she would slide right down on a chair. She sat there, motionless, as if passed out. I would have Blooming get a wet towel and a jar of water, Coral a bamboo fan, Space Conqueror a cup of water, and I myself would take off Mother’s shoes. We then waited quietly until she woke up, and we would begin our service. Mother would smile happily and be served. I would do the wiping of her back, with Blooming fanning. Coral would resoak the towel and pass the towel back to me when Space Conqueror changed the water. By then we would hear our father’s steps on the staircase. We would expect him to open the door and make a mock-face.

We often ran out of food by the end of the month. We would turn into starving animals. In hunger, Coral once dug out a drug bottle from the closet and chewed down pink-colored pills for constipation. She thought it was candy. Her intestine was damaged. Space Conqueror gorged fruit skins and cores he picked from the trash box in the street. Blooming and I drank water while longing for the day to end.

Mother received her salary on the fifth day of each month. We would wait for her on that day at the bus station. When the bus door opened, Mother popped down with her face glittering. We would jump on her like monkeys. She would take us to a nearby bakery to have a full meal. We would keep taking in food until our stomachs became as hard as melons. Mother was the happiest woman on earth at those moments. It was the only day she did not look ill.

My father did not know how to make shoes, but he
made shoes for all of us. The shoes he made looked like little boats, with two sides up—because the soles he bought were too small to match the top. He drilled and sewed them together anyway. He used a screwdriver. Every Sunday he repaired our shoes, his fingers wrapped in bandages. He did that until Blooming and I learned how to make shoes with rags.

One day mother came home with a lot of drug bottles. She came from the hospital. She had tuberculosis and was told to wear a surgical mask at home. Mother said that in a way she was pleased to have the disease because she finally got to spend time with her family.

I became a Mao activist in the district and won contests because I was able to recite the Little Red Book.

I became an opera fan. There were not many forms of entertainment. The word “entertainment” was considered a dirty bourgeois word. The opera was something else. It was a proletarian statement. The revolutionary operas created by Madam Mao, Comrade Jiang Ching. To love or not love the operas was a serious political attitude. It meant to be or not to be a revolutionary. The operas were taught on radio and in school, and were promoted by the neighborhood organizations. For ten years. The same operas. I listened to the operas when I ate, walked and slept. I grew up with the operas. They became my cells. I decorated the porch with posters of my favorite opera heroines. I sang the operas wherever I went. My mother heard me singing in my dreams; she said that I was preserved by the operas. It was true. I could not go on a day without listening
to the operas. I pasted my ear close to the radio, figuring out the singer’s breaths. I imitated her. The aria was called “I won’t quit the battle until all the beasts are killed.” It was sung by Iron Plum, a teenage character in an opera called
The Red Lantern.
I would not stop singing the aria until my vocal chords hurt. I went on pushing my voice to its highest pitch:

I was able to recite all the librettos of the operas:
The Red Lantern, Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy, Sha-Jia Pond, The Harbor, Raid on White Tiger Regiment, Red Detachment of Women, Song of Dragon River.
My father could not bear my loud wailing with the radio; he always yelled, Are you hanging yourself in the kitchen?

G
randma from the countryside brought us a young hen. The Old Tailor next door was impressed by a mass of dark brown feathers by her mouth when he first
saw her. He said, She has Karl Marx’s beard! The hen was then named Big Beard. Big Beard was Grandma and Grandpa’s pet. They had her since she was two days old. When Grandma was too poor to afford her, she had a hard time killing her for a meal. She brought her to Shanghai and told us to eat Big Beard for her. Big Beard is too young to produce eggs, said Grandma. A hen is worthless if she cannot produce eggs. Big Beard made a go-go-go sound and inclined its head when it heard the comments. Its crown was very, very red, like a piece of burning coal. Steam it with sorghum wine, said Grandma. You won’t find any taste like that. We asked Grandma to have Big Beard with us, but she shook her head quickly and said, You eat it. I am allergic to chicken meat. She took up her luggage and walked, almost ran, away. Her small feet could hardly catch her steps.

So who was going to kill Big Beard? Not me, said my father. I am not even interested in eating it since you let me see it … Father stared at Big Beard. Big Beard inclined her head from side to side and made a go-go-go sound, then soothed her feathers with her mouth. Father went back to his desk. Big Beard flapped her wings toward Mother. Oh, no, not me, said Mother, I can’t kill anything, you know. She looked at me; so did the children. I knew what they were saying: You are the bravest. You should be the butcher.

I said, I will. No big deal. I’ve made good dishes out of live pigeons, crabs and frogs. A hen, in ten minutes, I could have its feathers pulled off, just like the way I always watched those ducks get sliced by the neck in the
food market. The butchers hung them by the feet, let their blood drip clean, sunk them in boiling water, took them out and mopped off the feathers.

My sisters and brother nodded at me. They never doubted my determination. Mother said, Take it to the yard, just don’t let me hear anything. Wait—she pulled my sleeve. Maybe we should give it to the people upstairs. Why? We all asked. I just hate to see my children kill. This was Mother. She made us miss a lot of fun. She made us free the birds we caught, the kitten we found. I said, We’ll do it in the yard. There won’t be any noise. This hen was worth at least five yuan in the market. A person’s five-day salary, just think about it. Mother went quiet as I took Big Beard by the wings. Big Beard made more go-go-go sounds as she struggled in my hands. Space Conqueror said, Don’t cry, it’s not that bad, we’re sending you to Karl Marx where you can compare beards together. I said, Shut up, Space Conqueror, go and get me the big scissors. Before Space Conqueror took off, I was suddenly bitten. Big Beard, the hen, bit me. Her mouth was like a pair of scissors. I loosened my grip. She flew up and down by the staircase. After she hit the ceiling a few times, she crashed onto the cement yard.

She lay there, the hen, Big Beard, on her stomach, on the cement yard, with one of her wings dangling on the side, limp. Go … go … go … she shivered trying to stand up again. She fell, dragging the wing around. We looked at each other, then at Big Beard. Her wing is broken, said Coral. Space Conqueror passed me the big scissors. I said, No, I can’t kill her now. She is wounded. Not me, said Blooming. Nor me, said Coral. No way it would
be me, Space Conqueror said, and began to cry. You always take advantage of me. He ran toward the window. Raising his head, he yelled, Mom, they are taking advantage of me again!

We decided to postpone the killing. We wouldn’t do it until Big Beard’s broken wing was healed. We made a home for Big Beard in the kitchen by the sink. We went out to find her dry straws. We made a nestlike wreath. She sat on it quietly. We watched her for hours on end. She sat there, her head under her wing, her little body hot. The heat came from under her feathers. She’s having a fever, said Mother. She’s infected. What, what should we do? We all became nervous. I have my antibiotic pills, but I don’t know if … It will be good for Big Beard if it’s for a human, said Blooming. Big Beard acts almost like a human. She really does, said Coral, smoothing the hen’s feathers. Look, she knew she would be killed so she went to crush herself and broke her wing.

We were all tapping the hen carefully with our fingers. Big Beard looked at us gently. Go-go-go-go. Go-go-go-go. She’s in pain, Mom, we all said. Please give her the antibiotic pills.

Mother put a spoonful of antibiotics into Big Beard’s mouth as we held her body. Coral and Space Conqueror held the feet, Blooming and I the wings. Big Beard was cooperative. After that she shit around the kitchen, then went to sleep when we began our dinner. We couldn’t eat the dinner. The hen made our small kitchen smell of shit. Big Beard occupied the whole corner of the kitchen; we
could only crowd into our seats. We were all thinking about the sick hen as we ate. I would like to see you keep the kitchen clean, I mean keep the smell away, said Mother. Do you hear me? She looked at us. We raked the rice into our mouths. Do you hear your mother? said Father. Or I will give the hen away tonight.

We begged and promised that we would keep the kitchen clean. We went out to our neighbors to get stove ashes. We covered Big Beard’s shit with ashes and shoveled it into the garbage can. We fed Big Beard with worms, chopped bones, rice and all kinds of vegetables. She gained weight. Her crown became redder. We talked to her, sang songs to her, hoping she would produce eggs soon. But she disappointed us. She grew prettier, her feathers shining and claws strong, but still no eggs. We lost interest in serving her. You clean! I pointed at Blooming. You clean! Blooming pointed to Coral. You! Coral to Space Conqueror. Space Conqueror pointed us to Mother: Mom, they are taking advantage of me again!