The Chinese Dream on Earth

Heritage and Change

Born prematurely and as an only child, my mother was always frail. She grew up cherished by her parents, shielded from hardship and exempt from household chores. Her ancestors were long-term and short-term laborers; hers was a family without educational background, lacking in any particular faith or family traditions, not even maintaining an ancestral altar. Although living in the same village, her family's lifestyle, educational level, ways of thinking, breadth of knowledge, and language were distinctly different from my father's family. While both families were of peasant stock, my mother's relatives were loud and coarse in speech, often complaining about their problems. In contrast, my father's family avoided rude talk. The siblings never quarreled and approached problems with a mindset to find solutions. It's unclear whether these differences were due to socioeconomic status, educational disparity, or the presence versus absence of religious belief. My mother's family never pondered the meaning of life; they knew only to labor tirelessly to sustain themselves, never questioning what to strive for or what to relinquish. Decades passed without leaving any legacy of experience or wisdom for future generations, nor any memorable deeds or words.

This marriage transformed my mother. From a naive and inarticulate girl, she evolved into a mature woman. During a famine, my maternal grandfather's family, including three people, found nothing to eat in the village; not even leaves remained on the trees, forcing them to survive on tree bark. My mother recalled the painful days of eating bark and the difficulty of defecation, an ordeal sometimes compounded by chickens pecking at her. Though it might sound comically tragic, her expression when recounting those days spoke volumes of her suffering. Eventually, her honest and straightforward grandfather had no choice but to take his family and flee south to a distant relative's home near the great forests of Heilongjiang. There, amidst vast and sparsely populated lands rich with wild fruits, their subsistence worries were alleviated. Despite the harsh winters, plentiful firewood kept their home warm. This was a stark contrast to life in Shandong, where not even heavy snowfall warranted school closures. One particularly snowy year, the journey to school became so difficult that my mother insisted I walk the distance, a memory that highlights her resilience and determination.

My mother's childhood was plagued with illness. Her family's poverty meant she couldn't afford glasses, significantly impacting her education and social interactions. She was often bullied by classmates; some would even smear snot on her, and she inadvertently became the scapegoat in pranks, left alone to face punishment after her peers had fled. Her life took a significant turn following a peculiar dream in which two fairies fought over peanuts in her basket—a premonition of my birth and a story she often recounted to me, instilling a belief that I hailed from celestial origins. This belief imbued me with a sense of invincibility against life's challenges.

My grandfather had only my mother for a child and held high hopes for her to produce a healthy and lively boy. His initial disappointment upon learning I was a girl turned to immense affection once he met me, to the point where he was reluctant to let anyone take me away from him.

When I turned one, my grandparents took me from my parents to raise me themselves. Every attempt by my mother to bring me home was met with excuses from my grandfather, making my time with my grandparents far more extensive than with my parents. My earliest memories are scarce with parental affection, yet vivid with the moments shared with my grandparents. One of the most profound memories involves a simple game my mother played with me, teaching me body parts by tapping my palm and having me touch my face accordingly. This game, one of the few joyful and loving moments of my childhood, might have contributed to my being more mentally agile than my peers.

A memorable incident at the age of three involved an attempt to help my mother with cooking, accidentally spreading a fire outside the stove. My mother's reaction, kicking me out of the house as if I were a soccer ball, left a deep imprint of both fear and the harsh realities of life. As I grew older, I observed my mother's culinary skills; she was a wizard with dough, crafting noodles, buns, and dumplings. Despite her usually denying my playful requests with the dough, one daring day, I seized the entire batch and ran outside, hoping to play with it on a rock. My mother's swift pursuit, her shouts questioning what we would eat that day, drew neighborhood attention. Although I couldn't outrun her and had to abandon the dough, she simply dusted it off and continued her cooking, a testament to her practical resilience.