Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party

by Ying Chang Compestine

  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.

  The Terrifying Birthday

  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, whispe
ring. 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.

  Comrade Li pointed at each word on the board as he barked, “Symbol of the bourgeoisie.”

  Father passed my hand to Mother. I held on tight to her ice-cold fingers. She tightened her hold on mine.

  Straightening his broad shoulders, holding his head high, Father shouted to the crowd, “Let me through!”

  I tried to call him back, but I couldn’t make any sound. It felt like the time when a fish bone was caught in my throat. I pressed half my face into Mother’s sleeve.

  Silence fell. People moved back to give him room. All eyes followed him as he moved to the front and stopped between Mrs. Wong and the crowd. I noticed a hole at the elbow of his gray wool sweater.

  Mother shook so hard I had to let go of her hand. I bit my lower lip so my teeth wouldn’t chatter. Father took the board off Mrs. Wong’s neck and threw it on the ground.

  “I have known Dr. Wong and Mrs. Wong for fifteen years.” Father’s voice was stern. “They could have moved overseas years ago, but they chose to stay and help build a better China.” He glared at Comrade Li. “They’ve done nothing wrong!”

  Some people in the crowd nodded. Others whispered. A couple of young doctors from Father’s department came up. They helped Mrs. Wong to her feet and supported her back to her home. Comrade Li and his Red Guards gathered around the stage. They stared at Father when he lifted Niu off the stage. Niu hurried past Mother and me without looking at us. The crowd broke up, except for Comrade Li and his group of Red Guards.

  That night I climbed into Father’s lap in his big chair. The warmth of his shoulder and his familiar smell made me feel safe and protected. Now he was not only a great father but also a hero. On my birthday, he had saved Mrs. Wong.

  Crushed under the Heel

  As the first week of November passed, the weather in Wuhan changed quickly. Days of chilly rain turned to snow. Our apartment was cold and damp. I moved around feeling like a miserable panda in my heavy cotton outfit. At night, Mother piled three heavy quilts on me.

  On the afternoon of December 14, I returned from school and found Niu sitting in our living room crying. Mother told me they had taken Mrs. Wong to a labor camp. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Never had I felt so heartbroken. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Wong since that awful day. She hadn’t come down, and Mother didn’t allow me to go up when s
he went. I wished I had had a chance to say good-bye to Mrs. Wong and thank her for Bao-bao’s new outfit.

  Despite my parents insisting Niu move in with us, he went home every night. But he spent a lot of time at our apartment during the day. He talked to me only when I asked him a question. Trying to cheer him up, I showed him my special collections: a cotton scarf with various Mao buttons pinned on it, a folder filled with plastic candy wrappers, and a small chocolate box that held my treasured pair of silk ribbons, a phoenix-shaped plastic darning needle, and a carved sandalwood fan. He only glanced at them and his sullen face didn’t change. I wasn’t sure how to make him feel better.

  Over the following months, more doctors were forced to leave the hospital. Some were sent to jail or labor camps. Others just disappeared, like Dr. Wong. I wished someone could assure me that Father would be safe. I became so afraid of my nightmares that I tried to stay awake as long as I could.

  Lately after dinner Father would either read his medical journals or stare at the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. I thought that if only he would spend more time telling stories about the bridge and America, I might have a happy dream.

  The week before Chinese New Year, Comrade Li pasted a new poster on the side of our building.

  WITH YOUR BLOOD AND SWEAT,

  WASH AWAY YOUR ANTIREVOLUTIONARY SINS!

  When I passed it, I turned my head away from the red characters. The word blood made me shiver.

  That night, Father stroked my cheek gently. “Wake up, Ling. You’re having a bad dream.”

  “Daddy, don’t let them cut my hair!” I reached up to make sure both my braids were still there and held them tightly under my chin.

  In my dream, a group of faceless people surrounded me, waving scissors. I tried to hide my hair in my hat, but my braids were too long and kept falling out.