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My remorse over these things is minor. A part of me feels that the harsh sunlight is burning away my past and that the hard work is chopping away my past mistakes. Every night when I crawl into bed—my skin dirty and every muscle exhausted—I feel wiped clean, and I can sleep. In the morning, when the dark mass of guilt inside my chest—which hasn’t left me for one minute since I saw my father hanging from a rope in his closet—threatens to well up and overpower me, I throw on my clothes and join the others with a smile on my face. I can’t forget the way my mother and aunt lied to me and fought over me, even though I turned out to be so undeserving of their worry or affection. Yes, I’ve escaped the blaming eyes of my mother and the reproachful eyes of my aunt, but I can’t escape myself. The only things I can do to save myself are pull the weeds in the fields, let my emotions for Tao envelop me, and obey what Z.G. tells me to do with a paintbrush, pencil, charcoal, or pastel.
Joy
STANDING AGAINST THE WIND AND WAVES
WE’VE BEEN REHEARSING for many days and we’re ready to give our show about women, the Marriage Law, and right thinking in the New Society. Drums, cymbals, and horns beckon people from their homes. Firecrackers snap and spark, announcing that a celebration is about to take place. It’s late on a Sunday afternoon. Most people have had the day off to rest, mend their clothes, and play with their children. Now everyone in Green Dragon comes to the square just outside the villa to watch our performance. Five little girls—in matching blouses, pink ribbons in their hair, and trailing long paper streamers—run through the clusters of people. Boys dole out paper cones brimming with peanuts or watermelon seeds, which the villagers crack between their teeth.
The makeshift stage is set up in the Chinese way, with no curtain and everything open for all to see. The musicians continue their clamorous tune, while a group of men from the propaganda team’s acrobatic troupe tumble and spin across the stage. The program begins with a recounting of some of Mao and the Red Army’s triumphs during the War of Liberation. Next, the propaganda team’s actors perform a vignette to illustrate the Twelve Point Measure to increase farm production. The content is nothing new. I know the villagers in Green Dragon already do these things, because I’ve done them or seen them myself. I’ve carried water buckets hanging from a pole across my shoulders to the fields, spread manure by hand, sprinkled nightsoil on cabbage plants, and every day Tao and I pass a water buffalo that’s guided back and forth over rocks to crush them, breaking down the soil so that a new field can be made. In my first days here, I worried about the creature. It wore blinders and had stumbled on the sharp rocks so many times that its legs were bloody and scabbed. My Western sympathies got the better of me, and I asked Tao why someone didn’t remove the water buffalo’s blinders so he could see where he was going.
“Without blinders, he’d avoid the rocks,” Tao answered. “This is his punishment for what he did in a past life.”
I still find it hard to believe that Tao can have such backward beliefs, but then this whole evening is about educating peasants.
Another acrobatic exhibition follows the farming lesson, which improves the audience’s mood considerably. When the last acrobat somersaults offstage, Kumei, Sung-ling, and I take one another’s hands and step forward. I’ll be playing two different roles tonight. I’m the only one of the three of us who’s acted professionally, so my parts are the largest. For my first character, I’m dressed as a female soldier in a green jacket, trousers, and cap with a red star. To my left, Kumei appears as a pre-Liberation maiden, with an elaborate headdress with tassels and beading, a brocade jacket, and a long silk skirt with dozens of tiny pleats. To my right, Sung-ling wears the everyday outfit of all the women I’ve met here in the countryside: a cotton blouse with a floral pattern, loose blue pants, and homemade shoes.
“We three women have found new lives in the New China,” I say, addressing the audience. “We’ve fought against the feudal systems of political authority, clan authority, religious authority, and husband authority. We’ve fought against class oppression and foreign aggression.”
“I’m a girl from feudal times,” Kumei announces nervously. When we first started rehearsals, Sung-ling insisted that Kumei play this part. It’s pretty hard to imagine Kumei—with her ruddy cheeks and loud voice—playing a demure maiden. I would have been much better at the part, having once played an emperor’s daughter as an extra in a movie. Besides, my aunt always said to take the role with the better costume.
“At age five, I was sold by my parents to the landowner,” Kumei continues. “In time he dressed me as a present and opened me every night. Oh, how I cried. I had a mouth but no right to speak. I had legs but no freedom to run.”
Kumei’s arm movements are clumsy, and she has zero stage presence. Still, I’m surprised she’s doing as well as she is. She’s illiterate, so she couldn’t read the script. I worked with her this past week, trying to help her memorize the words, but Sung-ling kept saying that Kumei’s version was fine.
“The Kuomintang soldiers did nothing to protect the people against the Japanese soldiers or the elements. Fifteen years ago, drought dried the fields. Eleven years ago, famine took hold of our country. Millions of people went hungry.”
Kumei hesitates, stumbling over the words. Then she freezes. People in the audience titter and point. I had thought this would be fun, but I wish she’d never volunteered to help. Sung-ling hisses the next line, and Kumei repeats it.
“My owner hoarded his rice. People left our village to beg. They sold their children. Too many died. When the War Against the Japanese Aggressors ended, we had the War of Liberation.”
When the audience erupts in cheers, Kumei takes a few steps across the stage and brings her hands together
in a prayerful manner. Her recitation is amateurish, but now she goes on with more strength. “After our great leader liberated the masses, the people accused my owner of terrible crimes. They killed him and ordered me to make self-criticism. I did this before the whole village. And you”—here she spreads her arms to take in the audience—“remembered my red past as the daughter of a peasant family. You let me live!”
The audience is mesmerized, but I could have done a much better job with the monologue. I would have memorized the actual text sent by the government and not spoken so loosely.
Now Sung-ling strides across the stage. She’s been typecast as a model village woman. “Our great Chairman sent people to teach us. The first lesson: brush my teeth! I obeyed. Later, he instituted land reform. Everyone got a piece of land. Even women like me had our names on land titles and deeds. At last we were free from feudal landlord oppression.”
This isn’t exactly a hard part for Sung-ling to play, since she spouts this stuff every day. Now she leans forward to confide knowingly. “But Chairman Mao was not done. He put us on a path from socialism to communism, and we’ve obeyed. Five years ago, we formed mutual-aid teams. Two years ago, we gave our land, animals, seed grain, and tools to the collective.”
I’ve heard all this before, but for the first time it really sinks in. People had their own land for only three years? But no one here complains. Everyone loves the collective, because …
“We no longer suffer from famine,” Sung-ling declares. “Freed from the bloodsucking landlord, farm profits have increased and even our children are chubby.”
She bows and receives great applause. She raises her head and continues. “Land reform and the Marriage Law came to us at the same time. This is not like learning to brush your teeth or clean your ears. As you will see, we still face much resistance …”
In the next skit, Tao and a girl from the propaganda team portray a young couple. They walk across the stage together, not touching. Tao has just eight lines, and not once has he gotten them right in rehearsal.
“I should ask my father to arrange a marriage for us,” Tao recites in a dull monotone. I tried to help him with his delivery, but obviously I didn’t get through. “Our fathers will negotiate the bride-price and dowry. Then you will come to my home.”
The girl primly steps away from him and shakes her finger from side to side. “No, no, they cannot do that. I am not to be bought or sold.”
Tao garbles his next line, which is supposed to be “But I’ve told you I’m happy to make you my second wife.”
The girl playing opposite him goes on with the show, as Aunt May would say. “No more multiple wives, child brides, or concubines.” Her voice grows sterner as she repeats, “And no more buying of women.”
Tao, the unsuitable suitor, persists, awkwardly gesturing at his would-be bride with about as much ardor as cold taffy. “You’ll be safe with me. You’ll never have to leave the house or the yard. You know the old saying”—and here Tao beams, relieved to be back to something he actually knows—“ ‘Men go to market to sell their wares, but a woman belongs in her home with her mother-in-law and children.’ ”
At this, murmurs of approval ripple through the audience, which surprises me given the wholehearted way people accepted the story of land reform. What I understand in this moment is that many families here—like Tao’s—still keep their wives, mothers, sisters, and grandmothers inside. I’m so distracted by my thoughts about this that Sung-ling jabs me in the back to push me forward into the scene.
