Bend, Not Break

by Ping Fu

  Lane did everything he could to talk me out of my decision, including warning me that big companies aren’t nearly as interesting places to work as start-ups. When I refused to reconsider, he said, “If you stay, I’ll give you 5 percent of the company.” I had no idea what a generous offer this was. Above all, given how hard I had worked to put myself through school, I felt I simply couldn’t refuse the Bell Labs opportunity because it had offered to pay for my PhD. Lane and I parted on the best of terms.

  Six months later, Lane called. He had sold his company to AT&T, the parent company of Bell Labs. I finally understood what 5 percent meant: millions.

  —

  That summer, before I moved to Illinois to begin working at Bell Labs, I asked Hong if she would like to travel around Europe with me. She said yes. I bought us Eurail passes, and we embarked on an amazing adventure, finally operating more as siblings than as a mother-daughter duo. We stayed flexible and made up our itinerary as we went.

  When we arrived in Vienna at night, we couldn’t find a single hotel with vacancy. We wandered the streets with our guidebook and an increasing sense of desperation, getting turned down by one place after another. Finally, a woman we asked for help pointed to a building across the street.

  “There’s no sign for it, but you’ll find a great bed-and-breakfast over there. Take the elevator to the fifth floor,” she said in English marked by a thick German accent.

  Hong and I followed the stranger’s instructions, arriving moments later at a beautifully renovated apartment with bright lights, clean furniture, and large windows. The Hungarian owner greeted us warmly, and the room rate was a steal.

  Later that night, I woke up and looked out the window. I thought surely I must have been dreaming: extending herself upward from the rooftop across the street, as if she were about to soar up into the heavens, was a beautiful naked woman with smooth, fair skin. I rubbed my eyes and realized that in fact she was a sculpture, carefully illuminated to appear real. The sight of her reminded me of the wish I had made on my eighth birthday, that I could fly like the finches and dragonflies that darted so gracefully above our Shanghai garden. I had endured many hardships during my youth, including one incident that nearly had destroyed my spirit. But here I was at long last—about to take flight.

  { THREE }

  I Am Precious

  BROKEN SHOE: 1968–1970

  ZHANG HAD MADE my misery her pleasure since I’d first arrived to live at the NUAA campus. I could not believe my bad luck when I was ten and she was assigned to sit next to me during our regular study sessions.

  One day, out of pure spite, Zhang started a rumor that she had seen a boy our age named Fong in my room washing my bra. Everyone knew this to be physically impossible because there weren’t any washing basins in the dormitory; we washed our clothes outside in a common area. Another day, Zhang told our classmates that when Fong walked by, I would reach inside my pants and touch myself. As unlikely as Zhang’s stories were, the other children, starved for entertainment and gossip, would add their “oil and vinegar”—a Chinese phrase for rumormongering—and the tales would grow.

  I knew why the mischievous Zhang had chosen the epithet “Fong’s concubine” for me. I had met Fong on my occasional visits to Nanjing as a child. He was the same age as me and his family lived next door. Hong hadn’t been born yet at the time, so Fong was my playmate. We had chased each other in the yard, running until our faces were caked with dust and sweat, laughing until our bellies ached.

  When the two of us were about three years old, my family joined Fong’s family and many others from the neighborhood for an open-air movie on the NUAA campus soccer field. Everyone arrived at these popular events an hour early and laid down their bamboo mats on the grass to claim their spots. Fong’s family settled in next to my own. His parents talked with my Nanjing parents and their other neighbors while Fong and I sat on our mats getting bored.

  Fong looked over at me and bragged, “I have something you don’t.” It was common in those days for proud Chinese parents to show off their young boys’ genitals to family members and friends in order to prove that they had a son, which was considered vastly preferable to a daughter. Fong must have picked up on this behavior. He pointed to his pants and said, “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” I played along. I had older siblings in Shanghai, so I knew roughly that boys’ parts were different from girls’, but I wasn’t sure exactly how. Fong yanked down his pants and underpants, quickly flashing me. Too young to understand that what I was about to do was taboo, and oblivious to the dozens of adults who sat chatting on their mats around us, I accommodated by pulling up my shirt and flashing Fong my bare, flat chest. “Shame on you,” I heard some adults teasing us, but they were all laughing.

  I probably wouldn’t even have remembered the incident except that when I came to live full-time at NUAA, neighbors who recalled our antics years earlier started teasing me by calling me “Fong’s concubine.” I didn’t know what the word “concubine” meant, but I came to understand that I had done something shameful in glancing at Fong’s private parts and showing him my chest in public. Zhang surely must have heard the story and nickname from her parents.

  For several months, Zhang’s childish taunts and rumors frustrated and annoyed me in the classroom. Little did I know that a torment far worse lurked just around the next corner.

  —

  The old Nanjing city wall stretched like a serpent along one side of the NUAA campus, passing very close to the dormitory where I lived. Next to the wall, a canal flowed, carrying water into the city. During sticky summer days, many of the children enjoyed splashing our feet in the canal’s cool waters.

  Hong, age six, had a dangerous penchant for courting trouble. I often found myself having to save her. One lazy, hot summer afternoon, as I lay resting in our room, I heard the voices of several children screaming from outside, “Hong is in the river! Hong is in the river!” One of them called to me, “Ping, your sister is drowning!”

  As though my feet were on fire, I tore out the door, down the stairs, and across the street to the canal, where I found Hong frantically dog-paddling to keep herself afloat. I had never learned how to swim, but I jumped in immediately. Fortunately, even though it was too deep for Hong, the water was shallow enough for me to stand up in.

  I wrapped my arms around Hong and dragged her out of the canal. As we gasped for breath, sopping wet and muddy on the canal’s edge, I noticed a group of about ten teenage boys standing nearby. They laughed as though they were watching a comedy routine, pointing at us and shouting taunts such as, “Paddle like the dog that you are.”

  Avoiding eye contact with the menacing gang, I took Hong by the hand and pulled her as fast as I could toward our dormitory. The wet clothes hugged my body tightly. I felt naked. The boys kept up with us, pushing and shouting every step of the way. After what felt like an eternity, we finally got within ten feet of the back doorway. I shoved Hong forward with all my might. “Run, Hong, run!” I whispered in her ear. She raced into the building without looking back.

  Hong was saved, but I was not. The gang blocked me from entering the dorm, their faces twisted into ferocious snarls. Several of the older boys picked me up and carried me to the nearby soccer field, the site of many a bitter meal.

  “Beat her!” one of the boys cried as he dropped me onto the ground at their feet. “Beat Fong’s dirty little concubine.” The teenagers began kicking me like a soccer ball. “Get her, beat her! She’s a filthy girl.” I curled in on myself, attempting to protect my head, face, and stomach from the sharp blows. One of the boys kicked me so hard that I flew into the air and landed on another boy’s steel-tipped worker’s boots. I heard a crack like a tree branch splitting and felt a sharp pain in my tailbone.

  Then, suddenly, the beating turned into something else—something I couldn’t quite grasp. “Take off her clothes,” someone ordered. I fo
ught with all my might, but I found that I could no longer move my legs; all I could do was flail at my attackers with my arms. They easily grabbed hold of my hands and feet to hold me steady as I tried desperately to squirm my way to freedom. “Take off her clothes,” the command sounded again. One of the boys who wasn’t pinning me down took a knife out of his pocket.

  I’d been attacked by a pack of hungry wolves. Darkness closed over my eyes and stars danced before me, like when I suffered from migraines. I could not hear. I could not scream. For a few nightmarish moments, all I could do was feel the boys cutting my clothes off, the knife ripping into my armpit and my bare stomach, and the pain of something blunt pressing between my legs. I lost consciousness.

  The next thing I remember, I woke up in the NUAA health clinic. A kind nurse told me that I had sustained “deep cuts, a broken tailbone, and internal injuries.” It had taken more than forty stitches to close the wounds. I carry the scars to this day.

  I did not understand what had happened to me or why, and I wouldn’t for several years. We received no sex education in China, and I had no parents or guardians to explain to me that I had been gang-raped. I thought the boys had beaten me up badly, which was cruel, but I didn’t realize that what they’d done had brought deep shame upon me. I never for a moment guessed that I might be blamed for what had taken place. After that day, Zhang spread word that I had a new nickname, “broken shoe”—a shameful, denigrating expression implying that you are so worn down from overuse that you’re no longer worth a penny.

  At age ten, I was a ruined woman.

  —

  Memories of the time immediately following the beating and rape flutter like butterflies at the edges of my consciousness. I can, however, vividly recall the sensation of falling, which I had experienced for the first time upon my arrival at NUAA. I was tumbling through space, and I heard the wind whistle past my ears as I fell. No mother to comfort me, no father or older brother to defend my honor, no therapist or teacher to help me process what had happened, and no friend on whose empathetic shoulder I could cry. I felt unwanted, dirty, and unworthy. My dreams felt like memories as my memories faded into dreams—senses fractured, real people and places shaded themselves apart. At times, I considered suicide. The only thing that kept me from taking my own life was a sense of responsibility for my sister.

  Hong didn’t know exactly what had happened. She understood only that the gang of boys had attacked me. Even though she had witnessed violence before, I saw fear in her eyes when staff brought me back from the health clinic with a pile of torn and bloody clothes. They told her that I was hurt and needed rest. My sister watched me carefully for a while, then touched my face gently with her hands. I tried to smile to comfort her, but I couldn’t make the muscles at the corners of my mouth turn upward. A few hours later, she tried to get me up, but stopped when she saw that moving caused me pain. That night, she came home with warm buns and stir-fried greens, which she had sweet-talked a neighbor into giving her, and insisted that I eat first. Later, in an attempt to cheer me up, she made soap bubbles and blew them at me, as I once had done to entertain her.

  During those weeks of recovery, I did not have to attend study sessions, so I lay listlessly in my room. Tears streamed down my face like running water, too numerous to wipe away. As they dried, they tightened my skin. I tasted the salt and silence on my lips. I could not lash out in anger and frustration—doing so would only cause harm and bring more shame upon my family and me. I had no choice but to bury my feelings as I had buried so many other wounds over the past three years, deep underground in a dark and lonely place. A void.

  It gave me some comfort to call to mind the Taoist teaching Shanghai Papa had asked me to memorize years earlier about the three friends of winter. The image of the pine tree, evergreen in winter and always standing straight, reminded me to be strong. The plum tree was my favorite. I loved to see its crimson red blossoms lying bright against the crisp white snow the morning after a storm. One winter day, watching me marvel at the delicate flowers in our scholar garden, Papa said, “This is what courage looks like: to blossom when none others dare because they could easily die from the cold. Courage is the heart refusing to fear.” I hadn’t really understood his words then, but I did now. Then there was bamboo, the most popular plant in the region where I grew up. Shanghai Papa had said that I must be like bamboo, bending from the prevailing wind, but never breaking. Perhaps he had predicted then that something terrible would happen to me, and had had the foresight to instill in me the values that I would need to overcome atrocities.

  When I was very young, like most Chinese children, I was taught that revealing my emotions was a sign of weakness. But during this recovery time, I couldn’t help but expose my vulnerability to others. I never would have guessed it, and I didn’t understand why, but I discovered that showing people my pain led some of them to become kinder and more compassionate toward me. For those few weeks when I was most depressed, neighbors would stop by my room to check on me, offering to do our shopping or wash our clothes. Others generously provided Hong and me with food, sacrificing their own meager supplies.

  I also chose to respond to the difficult circumstances by acting with kindness to everyone, including those who ridiculed me. Shanghai Papa had taught me to always treat people the way I liked to be treated. I reasoned that if I were giving to others, they might have a harder time attacking me so vociferously. I even adopted this approach in dealing with Zhang.

  I had discovered that “broken shoe” was a label customarily given to prostitutes and promiscuous women. Teasing me with it seemed to be some children’s favorite form of entertainment. One of our leaders, Ms. Lu, rearranged the study sessions to move a few of the boys who’d bullied me the most to a different class. But for some reason, Zhang stayed seated at the desk next to mine, tormenting me daily.

  I saw how Zhang struggled in our study sessions. We routinely were assigned to write essays about what we had learned from Mao’s Little Red Book. We read our writings out loud to each other every week. Sometimes Communist leaders attended to observe us, causing a big fuss. The best essays would be posted on the wall for everyone to see. This was a badge of honor, especially if the Communist leaders ended up quoting the work in their speeches. Zhang got in trouble several times because she couldn’t write; nothing she read aloud for the class made any sense. In spite of her family’s red blood and her own position as a youth leader of the Red Guard, she became known as a bad student.

  One day, I offered to write Zhang’s study assignment for her. She seemed suspicious at first, but accepted. The next morning, I handed Zhang the essay I’d written, and she turned it in as her own work. I had carefully crafted a poem with a propaganda-like tone to it. The teacher liked the essay so much that she called Zhang up to the front of the classroom to praise her for her excellent work. She asked Zhang to recite the poem aloud, right then and there. Zhang cleared her throat and read my words from the page with gusto:

  Listen! The Communist drum is beating like rain drops of a storm hitting a pond.

  Look! The Communist flag is flying like blood drops of a hero floating on the ground.

  The class burst into applause when Zhang finished. No one questioned whether or not she had written the poem. She smiled at me and grinned with pride at our classmates.

  After that, Zhang’s taunting remarks grew less frequent and less hurtful. She asked me to complete other assignments for her over the coming months. When I offered to teach her how to write them herself, she refused at first. I rationalized with her, “What if I’m not here to do your work for you one day? You’ll be in big trouble if you suddenly stop turning in good reports. Let me teach you how to write.” Eventually, Zhang accepted my tutoring. When she did, her tormenting of me ceased once and for all.

  I gradually felt better and no longer dreaded going to study sessions. Over time, I found that showing vulnerability and being kin
d to others helped me to become more social, less timid and inwardly focused. I developed a greater sensitivity toward my own and others’ feelings. As the caretaker at home and helpmate at school, I earned others’ respect for being “good,” in spite of the rumors and nicknames that had spread to the contrary. I also paid more attention to the goodness in those around me, including neighbors, teachers, classmates, Zhang, and a few of the other Red Guards. One of them even became my protector.

  —

  I met Li at my second military training camp—grueling events all youth were forced to attend at regular intervals throughout the Cultural Revolution. We were eleven years old. The soldiers made us march for miles through the countryside in the pouring rain, day after day, with little more than rice porridge for sustenance. My boots, hand-me-downs from the military camp, didn’t fit properly. The shredded back of the left boot rubbed my heel until several blisters the size of thumbnails erupted. After several days, the skin peeled off in a single giant sheet, like wonton dough, exposing an angry red patch of skin. I had no ointments or bandages, but I did not ask for any. I knew better than to complain or be needy.

  I noticed a beautiful, tall, slim, oval-faced Red Guard girl about my age watching me closely as I tended my wound, attempting to wash out the dirt with water from my canteen. I wondered if she was going to make fun of me—here I was, the “broken shoe,” stuck wearing one. I was tempted to make the joke at my own expense. But the soft lines around the girl’s wide eyes and the bright smile on her face showed warmth and compassion. Her gentle nature radiated from her like a pink halo, reminding me of Shanghai Mama.

  I smiled. The girl approached me confidently, yet paused for a moment to gesture toward my mat before taking a seat. She was asking my permission, I realized with a start. Never before had a Red Guard treated me so politely.

  “I like you,” the girl said in the direct, openhearted manner that I came to love and admire her for. “I want to be your friend.”