Ran Chen - A Private Life

With that, I fell into stony silence.

At that time I did not understand the sexual implications of the word "nurture" in this phrase.

Very clearly, union between a man and woman requires a special kind of nurturing. Their sexual roles, standpoints, thinking, and behavior are so vastly different that without such nurturing it would be impossible for them to communicate. Thus it is that men and women are by nature friends in "struggle," not friends in "concord." Only by nurturing it can they beget "unity" under one roof, in order to face the confusion in the world outside. Only under the advantage that the unity of a home provides can they reduce the differences of their individual sexuality, lessen the contradictions and conflicts resulting from their individuality, and hold the family together securely to present a consistent face to the world outside.

Of course, unions that have been nurtured can break apart. When it reaches the point where the conflicts between these two individuals of different sex become so severe that they can ignore the good of the family as a whole, then this unit will dissolve.

But these are things that I only slowly began to understand with the passage of time.

Following my little outburst, I bowed my head, focusing my attention on the soggy gray mud that was creeping over my sandals and oozing in and out between my toes as I walked.

By forcing myself to concentrate all my attention on my feet and find pleasure in this decidedly unpleasant circumstance, I managed to free myself from the strange sensation of being unable to verbalize my feelings.

From childhood I have had a unique ability to dispel, shift, or ignore the tragic aspects of things. In any kind of antagonistic situation, I always give precedence to my own feelings. I have a kind of strength that allows me to push on recklessly in dead-end situations. This feeling of not caring about ultimate annihilation is much like the passion of a martyr. When I encounter grief, I automatically try to find a way to change the direction of my feelings. Maybe my focus at that moment on the mud between my toes is a good illustration of this quirk of mine.

Mother said, "Your father doesn't want Nanny to live here anymore."

Nanny was the housekeeper who had been looking after us for many years. She only had one eye; she had lost sight in the other one many years ago when her husband had struck her. In the years she spent with us, she cried many times. Whenever she cried, to avoid getting caught in her grief myself, I would carefully watch her blind eye. I discovered that it never shed tears.

I once asked her why she cried.

She told me because of her grief.

I asked why her bad eye didn't grieve.

She said because it couldn't feel grief anymore.

I asked why it couldn't feel grief.

She said it was because it was already dead, that it had been killed by her husband many, many years ago. It was only after she had left him that she had come to work for us, and endure my father's anger.

I told her that when I grew up I was going to find her husband and make him pay for that eye.

She said to me, "Ni Niuniu, if you marry a good man when you grow up, then you won't suffer."

I replied that when I grew up I would make my husband suffer – a man like Teacher Ti, for instance.

I remember very clearly that Nanny wanted me to find a good husband.

In those days, I had a bad habit of dropping my chopsticks (a problem I haven't totally shaken till this day). Because I had little interest in food, I went through two or three pairs of chopsticks at every meal. At the table, my attention would always wander elsewhere. After a few mouthfuls, I would balance my chopsticks on my rice bowl and pick up a book or something else of interest that I had brought to the table. For a while this would take my attention; then I would return to my food, eat a bit, then put my chopsticks down again to pick up the book or whatever. Back and forth, so it would go – my heart always elsewhere. Balanced as they were on my bowl, it was inevitable that my chopsticks would get knocked onto the floor. And every single time, Nanny would fetch me a clean pair, chattering on in her usual way: "'Grip your chop-sticks near the tip, your married home will be a short trip. Hold them far away from the tip, and your parents' home will be a long trip.' But you – always carelessly knocking them on the floor – what kind of behavior is that!"

I didn't know if Nanny's traditional wisdom had any basis in fact. I simply pretended that I didn't hear and continued to knock my chopsticks off the table. But I never did it on purpose.

It was only after I had grown up that I understood how much our home had depended on her. Quietly and without letup, she had worked pulling out the weeds and watering to turn part of our neglected yard into a wonderful garden. Day in and day out, her apron swinging, she tirelessly looked after all the little things that had to be done. She daily filled our table, supporting us with the bounty of her work, so that our family might prosper and survive. She sacrificed herself to our family; she knew all its secrets, all that it stood for. She gave it all her strength.

But in the end, she was unable to save it.

With her departure, the family lost its life breath and gradually disintegrated.

When Father's shouts crashed down upon me like thunderclaps, I instinctively closed my eyes. I was afraid that the noise would leave me half blind like Nanny if it should strike my eyes.

I slowed down, tugging on my mother's sleeve, and whispered apprehensively, "Mama?"

"Nanny is waiting to say good-bye to you," she said, putting her arm around me, urging me homeward.

I dragged my feet, asking, "Why? I don't want Nanny to go."

"Niuniu, do as you're told."

I said, "Why is Papa sending her away?"

Mother didn't answer.

Trying to sort out for myself my father's reasons for making Nanny leave our family, I remembered something else. Before I had tried to keep a sparrow, I had had a little dog. Because he had a very big mouth, unusually soft and beautiful Caucasian-style eyes, and an impeccable milky white patrician coat, Mama and I decided to call him Sophia Loren, even though "she" was a he. Sophia Loren was very smart even as a puppy, and had a terrific sense of humor. He very clearly had his own mind and a keen sense of judgment. But his desire to always have his say and to express his views on everything was the seed of his misfortune.

Often on Sunday mornings when I got up I couldn't find my shoes, because on Saturday night when Mother and I discussed going to the park the next day, we had forgotten to include Sophia Loren. The next morning, bright and early, to let me know how important he was and that he was not about to be neglected, he would hide my shoes and then lie beside my bed, waiting for me to wake up and discover they had disappeared.

I remember that in the mid-'7os when very few Chinese families had television, we had a rather fancy Russian-style radio. Early every morning at precisely seven o'clock, my father would irritably turn it on to catch the news and at the same time would issue his order for all of us to get up. Then Sophia Loren would sit motionless in front of the radio and listen intently to the news, making no bones about expressing his approval or displeasure. After my father, he was the "person" in our family most concerned with politics. Following the news, they always played the same piece of music. For Sophia Loren this was irresistible. When the strains of "The East Is Red" began to fill the room, he gaily sang along, "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!"

On one occasion, in late 1975 or early 1976, when a news broadcast of the paper "Counterattack the Trend to Exonerate Rightists," criticizing "the mistaken road of Rightist opportunism," concluded, Sophia Loren, displeased for some inexplicable reason, immediately lifted his leg and peed on the radio. This sort of crude behavior was an entirely new departure for him. We were all astonished, because he hadn't relieved himself in the house since he was a puppy. But it seemed that everyone in the house, my father included, understood his displeasure. My father commented, "Even the dog doesn't like to listen to this stuff." So Sophia Loren wasn't punished for that indiscretion.