Anchee Min: Red Azalea

Yes, the snake, I remembered. It was a story Mao told in his book. It was about a peasant who found a frozen snake lying in his path on a snowy day. The snake had the most beautiful skin the peasant had ever seen. He felt sorry for her and decided to save her life. He picked up the snake and put her into his jacket to warm her with the heat of his body. Soon the snake woke up and felt hungry. She bit her savior. The peasant died. Our Chairman’s point is, Secretary Chain said as he ended the story, to our enemy, we must be absolutely cruel and merciless.

I turned to look at the wall-sized portrait of Mao. It was mounted on the back of the stage. The Chairman’s eyes looked like two swinging lanterns. I was reminded of my duty. I must fight against anyone who dared to oppose Mao’s teaching. The shouting of the slogans encouraged me.

Show us your standpoint-Secretary Chain passed me the microphone. I did not know why I was crying. I heard myself calling for my parents as I took the microphone. I said Mama, Papa, where are you? The crowd waved their angry fists at me and shouted, Down! Down! Down! I was so scared, scared of losing Secretary Chain’s trust, and scared of not being able to denounce Autumn Leaves. Finally, I gathered all my strength and yelled hysterically at Autumn Leaves with tears in my throat: Yes, yes, yes, I do believe that you poisoned me; and I do believe that you are a true enemy! Your dirty tricks will have no more effect on me! If you dare to try them on me again, I’ll shut you up! I’ll use a needle to stitch your lips together!

I was never forgiven. Even after twenty-some years. After the Revolution was over. It was after my begging for forgiveness, I heard the familiar hoarse voice say, I am very sorry, I don’t remember you. I don’t think I ever had you as my student.

It was at that meeting I learned the meaning of the word “betrayal” as well as “punishment.” Indeed, I was too young then, yet one is never too young to have vanity. When my parents learned about the meeting from Blooming, Coral and Space Conqueror, they were terrified. They talked about disowning me. My mother said, I am a teacher too. How would you like to have my student do the same to me? She shut me out of the house for six hours. She said being my mother made her ashamed.

I wrote what my mother asked of me a thousand times. It was an old teaching passed down since Confucius. It said, Do not treat others how you yourself would not like to be treated. My mother demanded I copy it on rice paper using ink and a brush pen. She said, I want to carve this phrase in your mind. You are not my child if you ever disobey this teaching.

When I was seventeen, life changed to a different world. The school’s vice principal had a talk with me after his talks with many others. He told me that he wanted to remind me that I was a student leader, a model to the graduates. The policy was there, as strict as math equations. He told me that I belonged to one category. The category of becoming a peasant. He said it was an unalterable decision. The policy from Beijing was a holy instruction. It was universally accepted. It was incumbent upon me to obey. He said he had sent four of his own children to work in the countryside. He was very proud of them. He said that twenty million Chinese worked on these farms. He said many more words. Words of abstractions. Words like songs. He said when one challenges heaven, it brings pleasure; when one challenges the earth, it brings pleasure; when one challenges one’s own kind, it brings the biggest pleasure. He was reciting the poem by Mao. He said a true Communist would love to take challenges. She would take it with dignity. I was seventeen. I was inspired. I was eager to devote myself. I was looking forward to hardship.

I listened to the stories of the neighborhood. My next-door neighbor wrote from his village and said that he had purposely hammered his finger at work in order to claim injury for a chance to be sent back home. Little Coffin’s big sister went to the northern border and wrote that her roommate was shot on the border as a traitor when she tried to escape to the USSR. My cousin who went to Inner Mongolia wrote and said that his close friend died while putting out a mountain fire. He was honored as a hero: he saved the village’s grain storage at the expense of his life. My cousin said the hero made him understand the true meaning of life so he decided to spend the rest of his life on horseback in Mongolia to model himself after the hero.

Among the gossip, I heard that the Li family’s daughter was raped by a village head in the Southwest province; the Yang family’s son was honored for killing a bear that had eaten his coworker in a forest at a northern farm. These families were upset. They took the horror stories to the local Party administrators. The letters were shown. But the families were told not to believe such monstrous lies. Because it was made up by enemies who feared the revolution spreading. The Party authorities showed the families pictures of the place where their children had gone, pictures of prosperity. The families were convinced and comforted. The family upstairs sent their second and third children to the countryside. Little Coffin’s parents were honored with certificates and red paper flowers, for the family had sent three children to the countryside. Their doors and walls were pasted with big poster-sized letters of congratulation.

Finally, my name appeared on the school’s Glorious Red List-I was assigned to the Red Fire Farm, which was located near the shore area of the East China Sea. The next day I was ordered to go to a city building to cancel my Shanghai residency.

It was a cold afternoon. The city building had no lights. The clerks worked in the shadows. It was in the shadows I began my heroic journey. The officer passed me back my family’s resident registration book. I saw my name blotted out by a red stamp. The red stamp, the symbol of authority. That afternoon I felt like a bare egg laid on a rock. Maybe I would come to a real birth or maybe I would be smashed by the paw of some unfamiliar creature. I realized at that moment that it was much too easy to sing “I’ll Go Where Chairman Mao’s Finger Points.” I remembered how I sang that song. I never realized what I was singing until that day.

I sat in the dark. And my family sat with me. And the day came.

On the morning of April 15, 1974, my family accompanied me to the People’s Square. Ten huge trucks were parked in the center of the square. Red flags with characters the color of gold were tied to the side of every truck, proclaiming “Red Fire Farm.” The flags were blown to their full size, bright as the color of fresh blood.

I registered. A woman of about twenty-five, with short hair cut to the ears and half-moon-shaped eyes, greeted me. She was warm. She introduced herself as Comrade Lu. She said congratulations to me repeatedly and leaned over my shoulder and said, Be proud of yourself! She smiled. The half-moon eyes became quarter moons. She shook hands with me and tied a red paper flower to the front of my blouse. She said, Hey, smiling, we are family now.

I got on a less crowded truck. My father passed me my suitcases. Mother looked ill. Blooming and Coral went to hold her arms. Space Conqueror stared at me. His deep-set eyes were two wells of chaos. My father waved at me and forced a smile. Now get out of here, he said, trying in vain to be funny.

My family stood in front of me, as if taking a dull picture. It was a picture of sadness, a picture of never the same. I was out of the picture.

I wanted to tell my family to leave because the longer they stayed the more bitter I grew. But I was not able to say anything. I was too sad to say anything. But I was seventeen. I had courage. I turned toward the direction where the wind blew. I said to the future, Now I am ready, come and test me!