Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party

by Ying Chang Compestine

  Father tucked me snugly under the blanket. “Ling, I promise I won’t let anyone cut your hair.” Feeling safe with him sitting next to my bed, I drifted back to sleep.

  The next morning, a loud sound woke me.

  “What’s happening, Daddy?” I called out.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Father’s low voice came from the living room. “Go back to sleep.”

  Smelling burned paper, I ran out of my bedroom and saw Father throw a stack of pictures into the fireplace. The flames swallowed them like hungry monsters. Photo albums lay on the floor.

  Mother stood next to the window. “Hurry! Hurry! They’ve finished their morning march.”

  Trembling, I lifted a photo of Father in a Western suit. He stood before a palm tree. Next to him was Dr. Smith, an older man with brown hair, also in a suit. Both looked handsome. “Do you have to burn this?” I asked in a low voice. Father glanced at the picture, and tossed another handful of photographs into the fire, among them two photos of my dead grandparents. Father used to keep them on his desk.

  “We can’t keep any old photos now. They are considered evil reminders of the bourgeois lifestyle.”

  “But I’ll forget what my grandparents looked like—”

  Someone pounded on our door. “Open! Open up.”

  Mother’s face turned white. Father rose and rushed toward the door. In his hurry, he knocked over a chair next to the table. I tucked the picture of Father and Dr. Smith into the elastic of my pants.

  Five Red Guards burst into our home. I recognized Pimple Face and Pink Cheeks. Comrade Li followed. Their rubber army boots stepped on the open photo albums, leaving yellow-brown marks on the pictures. Mother and I backed into the corner next to the fireplace. Father came and stood in front of us.

  Once in the middle of our living room, Comrade Li lifted up his arm and yelled, “One! Two!”

  The Red Guards quickly lined up facing Chairman Mao’s portrait above the fireplace. My heart pounded.

  “Start!” He swung down his hand.

  There’s a golden sun in Beijing.

  They sang and waved their hands above their heads and made a turn.

  It brightens whatever it shines upon.

  Goose bumps covered my forearms.

  The light doesn’t come from the sky but from

  Our great leader Chairman Mao.

  They swung their legs, bent at their waists, and stretched their arms above their heads.

  “Long live Chairman Mao!” yelled Comrade Li.

  “Down with the bourgeois!” shouted the Red Guards.

  As if chased by lightning, they darted in different directions. Pink Cheeks pasted a long white strip of paper onto our living room wall. In ugly chicken-scratch letters it read BOURGEOIS SYMPATHIZERS.

  Pimple Face dumped a plastic bottle of alcohol into our fireplace. The flames leaped out as if trying to grab us. Comrade Li pulled Father’s books from the shelves and threw them into the fire.

  Another Red Guard boy with short legs put his head and hands on the ground, kicked his feet up, and spun around. The group cheered.

  Pink Cheeks twirled Mother’s pearl necklace around in the air. I closed my eyes, only to force them open when I heard clattering. She had flung the necklace across the room and it hit the wall, sending loose pearls everywhere.

  Mother buried her face in Father’s shoulder. Father wrapped his arms around me. I wished I could turn into a little rabbit and hide inside his coat.

  Waving a big cleaver above his head, the Red Guard with paintbrush eyebrows slashed a ragged X into the back of Father’s chair. White stuffing burst out. Feeling the strength of Father’s arm and the warmth of his body, I again imagined becoming a dragon and gobbling them up.

  Why did Comrade Li bring these Red Guards to our home? Did he want to chase us out so he could have our entire apartment to himself? Had he found out we were hiding coffee and chocolate from him? Or was he angry with us for being friends with the Wongs?

  Pink Cheeks and another Red Guard girl with mouse eyes stomped into my bedroom.

  Please, please don’t take my Bao-bao, I prayed.

  Father whispered, “Be strong, my dear.”

  I held my breath. Cackles came from my bedroom. I wanted to run inside to save Bao-bao, but my legs would not move.

  Trotting into the living room, Pink Cheeks dangled Bao-bao by a leg. “Look at this silly little thing.”

  “Oh, it even has a dress on,” said Mouse Eyes. “Let me see what’s under here.” She ripped up Bao-bao’s new dress with the girl in the sun hat.

  Anger filled my chest. I let go of Father and ran to them. “Leave her alone. She’s mine!” I grabbed one of Bao-bao’s arms.

  Pink Cheeks jerked back. The arm came off with an awful ripping sound.

  I dropped it to the floor and couldn’t bear to look.

  The Red Guards roared with laughter.

  Grabbing a heavy photo album from the floor, I threw it at them. “I hate you!” I screamed.

  Silence filled the room. Father grabbed me and hugged me tight.

  With a big grin, Comrade Li stepped forward and said, “Dear comrades, when the enemy hates us, that’s when we are doing a good job. Work harder!” He waved his hand.

  When had we become his enemies? What had we done?

  Mouse Eyes picked up Bao-bao and her arm and threw them into the fireplace.

  “Oh, no!” cried Mother.

  I couldn’t bear to watch the fire swallow Bao-bao. Bao-bao, I am sorry I couldn’t protect you. I buried my face in Father’s sleeve and squeezed his arm tightly. I didn’t want the Red Guards to see me sobbing.

  Thud! Crash! Another wave of cheers and shouts filled our home. Paintbrush had knocked the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge off the mantel with his cleaver. Short Legs had swept the blue vase onto the floor with a broomstick. Jumping behind Father to avoid the flying pieces, I thought of the powerful dragon that could spit fire. I wanted to burn them to ashes.

  Father pulled away from me and stepped in front of Comrade Li.

  “We’re on a revolutionary mission. No time to talk.” Comrade Li shoved him aside and walked into our kitchen.

  Father’s face trembled. I realized he could not protect us.

  Mouse Eyes lifted our radio up above her head as Comrade Li walked out of our kitchen, holding a bag of rice and eating a banana. He motioned her to stop, but it was too late. She smashed it on the floor. The black plastic box cracked open, showing tubes and wires.

  Stuffing the last bite of banana into his mouth, he mumbled, “Stupid! I could have used it to further the Revolution.”

  Comrade Li turned to Father. “Listen! If you dare to say or do anything more against the Revolution …” Dropping the banana peel in front of Father, he mashed it under his boot, turned, and marched out the door. Pimple Face, Short Legs, Mouse Eyes, and Paintbrush followed, with their arms full of our clothes, dishes, and food. Clutching the chocolate box filled with my treasures, Pink Cheeks slammed the door. A shred of Bao-bao’s dress hung on the door latch. My tears rolled out in despair.

  Father picked up the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. The heavy gold frame had protected it. He held it close to his heart and sat down in his torn-up chair. It was the first time I ever saw tears in his eyes.

  Tears trickled down Mother’s cheeks as she righted the remaining chairs. Two of them were now missing arms. My flower comforter lay across the floor, torn in half. Around us, scattered pearls mixed with mud, silk rags, broken glass, and torn pages.

  Was Comrade Li going to crush us like he did the banana peel? Did Chairman Mao order him to do this? If so, why were we told Chairman Mao was our savior?

  I pulled the picture out from the elastic band of my pants. It was warm from being against my body. I handed it to Father. His eyes brightened.

  “Remember, my dear, in America people believe in justice.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “One day we will go there.”

  I had always be
lieved Father could make good things happen, but how could that be possible? No one was allowed to even leave the city.

  PART TWO

  BAMBOO IN THE WIND

  Spring 1974–Winter 1976

  Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party

  It took us over a week to clean up the mess left by the Red Guards’ raid. Mother and I gathered and folded the linen and clothes that weren’t torn. She put aside a small pile that needed mending and another larger pile for rags. Among the rags were her white silk dress and Father’s silk ties.

  Cleaning the kitchen took the longest. Black sesame seeds, red beans, and dry spices were scattered everywhere. Broken dishes filled the sink. Mother’s face was blank until she picked up a piece of her fine china. Then she burst into tears.

  I felt like crying again, too, but I didn’t want Mother to see. I joined Father and Niu in the living room. Father glued broken legs on chairs, and Niu wrapped them with bandages and tape. When they finished, all our chair legs wore casts.

  In the following days, Father and Niu spent hours repairing the radio. When they finally got it working, they left the back open, but it still looked broken.

  Mother hid the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge behind the large portrait of Chairman Mao above the fireplace. We pasted small Mao portraits in every room.

  “Why are we putting up so many?” I brushed rice glue on the back of a small portrait.

  “It’s like the incense we burn in the summer to keep the mosquitoes away.” Mother took the portrait from me and carried it into her bedroom.

  Father covered a piece of Chinese calligraphy with Chairman Mao’s teaching about the class struggle. In my reading class at school, we were required to study it until we could write the whole passage from memory.

  A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained, and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.

  I didn’t understand what “class” and “revolution” had to do with a dinner party. How I wished Mrs. Wong and Dr. Wong would come back and we could have a big dinner party so Niu would smile again. I missed all the dishes Mother used to make, even her strange ones.

  The calligraphy Father was hiding was written on blue rice paper in small ink characters. It had been under the glass top of Father’s desk for as long as I could remember. He used to tell the young doctors who came to visit that it was the best guidance for anyone who wanted to be a doctor.

  During last summer vacation, I memorized every word, even though I didn’t really understand their meaning. Father was impressed when I recited it to him.

  Physician’s Creed

  Whenever a great physician treats diseases, he has to be mentally calm and his disposition firm. He should not give way to wishes and desires but must first develop a marked attitude of compassion. He should commit himself firmly to a willingness to make an effort to save every living creature.

  A great physician should not pay attention to status, wealth, or age. Nor should he question whether his patient is an enemy or friend … . He should meet everyone on equal ground; he should always act as if he were thinking of himself; he is not to ponder over his own fortune or misfortune and should thus preserve life and have compassion for it.

  Whoever acts in this manner is a great physician for the living. Whoever acts contrary to these commands is a great thief of those who still have their spirits.

  After the last Red Guard raid, Father was ordered to mop floors and scrub bathrooms in the hospital. He could no longer work as a doctor.

  Instead of treating patients with herbal medicines, Mother had to work nights as a nurse in the emergency room. I didn’t know how she got any sleep. All day long, loudspeakers outside our apartment shouted out Chairman Mao’s teachings, played revolutionary songs, and announced the names of people accused of being counterrevolutionaries. My breath shortened whenever I heard Father’s name.

  Despite all this, Father told us we should look for joy even during hard times. The nights when the electricity to our building was cut off and Comrade Li was not home, Father closed the windows and lit a small candle. He taught me how to dance the two-step and the waltz. I was quick to learn.

  I asked Father to teach me the tango, but he said our living room was too small to practice. When Father and Mother used to tango at parties, everyone had stopped to watch. Mother wore her long white silk dress. As she gracefully swung out her leg, I could see her shiny silver high heels.

  “They can’t keep people from dancing forever. Someday I will teach you at a dance hall.” Father made a graceful turn with one hand spread out and the other resting on his hip.

  I dreamt of wearing a red silk dress and dancing with a handsome young surgeon. Niu didn’t want to practice with me after he stepped on my shoes a few times.

  I was sad he had lost both his parents and had no one at home to take care of him. But in my heart, I had to admit that I wished he wasn’t spending so much time with us, taking my parents’ attention away from me. During our English lessons, he loved to show off, acting as if he already knew every new word. I missed those times when Father taught only me.

  One good thing about having the lessons with Niu was that he suggested Father teach us English folk songs, since now we had only one English book left, a small dictionary. Father had hidden it in his boot before the Red Guards’ raid.

  After school, when we were sure Comrade Li wasn’t home and my parents were still at work, Niu and I hid under the heavy cotton blanket, like Father did at night, and searched the dial for English stations. When we found one playing folk songs we knew, he tapped his left foot and wiggled his head as he sang along. Occasionally, he’d scrunch up his nose to nudge his glasses into place. I was happy to see a smile on his face. In less than a week, I memorized every word of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” The song filled my heart with happiness. Niu and I hooked our pinkies and promised we would never tell anyone about listening to foreign stations. I thought of Niu even more like a real brother now.

  Mother served us less and less food each day. No longer did she put the best food in my bowl; she now split it between Niu and me. I used to hate tofu and seaweed, but these days I ate every bit Mother offered.

  One evening we were just sitting down for dinner when Comrade Li barged in.

  “Well, well, Niu fits right in here.” He stretched out his neck and coughed over the dishes on the table—a bowl of stir-fried vegetables with small shrimp shells, pan-fried tofu in black bean sauce, and white rice. Anger stirred inside me. Hadn’t his mother taught him to cover his mouth when he coughed? With one finger pointed upward, he said, “Niu, go upstairs and get your clothes. Here is your new home. Don’t touch the rest of the stuff. We are taking your apartment for the Revolution.” He spat on the floor next to me and turned toward the door.

  Father slammed down his chopsticks. Comrade Li spun around at the noise. Before Father could say anything, I stood up and screamed, “You are a poisonous snake! You took away his parents, now mmphllphmm—”

  Mother had darted out of her chair and reached to cover my mouth all in one fluid motion, as if she had predicted this moment. “Sorry, sorry. She’s just a child.” Her voice trembled with fear. “We’ll go upstairs and help Niu pack.”

  Comrade Li glared at Father. “Keep your wild girl under control! Or I will teach her a lesson!” He stormed out, leaving our door wide open.

  Father sat, face serious and drawn, staring at Chairman Mao’s portrait above the fireplace. Was he thinking about how to protect us from Comrade Li or how to find a way to take us to the Golden Gate Bridge—to freedom?

  Tears flickered in Niu’s eyes. He got up and rushed to the door. Mother and I followed him upstairs. The apartment smelled of sandalwood. Broken dishes, torn clothes, and paper were spread around crippled furniture. Someone had sliced the p
ainting of the French girl with braids pinned around her head. Now her face was cut in half.

  In his parents’ bedroom, Niu walked over to the red sandalwood chest that stood opposite the bed. I ran my fingers over a carved phoenix. Seeing the curtains on the windows reminded me of Mrs. Wong sitting in front of her sewing machine. The little girls in red sun hats on the curtains were dusty and seemed tired.

  In a gloomy voice, Niu said, “Help me.” He grabbed one of the brass handles on the side of the chest.

  Mother and I took the other one. Together we moved the heavy chest out half an inch from the wall. Niu slid his fingers behind and pulled out a brown envelope.

  “What’s in there?”

  Ignoring my question, he tucked the envelope in the waistband of his pants under his shirt. He then stuffed a small canvas bag on the floor with clothes Mother gathered for him.

  Back in our home, Niu took out the envelope. Inside were a map and a sheet of thin paper. It was a letter from his uncle, asking his family to leave China and join him in Hong Kong.

  I remembered Dr. Wong had shown Father the letter two days before his disappearance and told him it had been opened before he received it.

  One afternoon when I came home from school, Niu quickly covered something on the dinner table as I opened the door. Seeing it was me, he lifted up the newspaper. “Come, let me show you something.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time he had talked so cheerfully. With my schoolbag still in hand, I ran to the table. His map was spread out.

  “What’s so important about your map?” I wished he would play a game with me.

  “It’s our only hope.” Niu tapped the map with a finger.

  “What do you mean?”

  “By swimming across this river to Hong Kong.” He drew a short line with his finger from Canton, a city in southern China, to a small island.