The Chinese Dream on Earth

Under the Shadow of My Brother

There were profound changes that my brother's birth brought to me and our entire family. First and foremost, there was the financial strain. As an over-quota child, my brother was not entitled to grain rations from birth to adulthood, and we faced an annual fine. By the end of 1980, what should have been a modest yearly income of about one or two hundred yuan for my parents was reduced to merely seven yuan and fifty cents after the fines were subtracted. Embarrassed to collect such a meager sum themselves, my parents sent me instead. That amount became the lifeline for our family of four for the entire year.

Moreover, my brother was exceptionally tearful from an early age, particularly at night, crying so persistently that it seemed he was born a nocturnal wailer. My parents took turns trying to soothe and hold him, ending each night exhausted by his relentless cries. Worse yet, they became increasingly irritable, showing me little patience and often yelling as if they feared I could not hear them. The neighbors even mimicked my parents' harsh shouts at me and their gentle calls to my brother, reinforcing the misconception that I was the cause of daily unrest, allowing my parents to vent all their frustrations and anger on me.

Before my brother was born, I was already treated like a little adult, expected to handle household chores as part of my daily routine. Every time my mother left the house, she assigned me a list of tasks—sweeping, dusting, laundry, and picking vegetables. Failure to complete these tasks meant I couldn't go out. Even the task of naming my brother fell on my young shoulders. On a trip to a godfather's son's full-month celebration, my father instructed me to think of a name for my future brother. Surrounded by mountains, the highest and furthest features in the landscape, I, at five years old, named him Xinshan (New Mountain). His arrival seemed to place a new mountain on each of our backs, a weight we all bore forward.

My grandparents had always preferred boys and were overjoyed at my brother's birth, eagerly sharing the news with everyone. However, as his incessant crying turned our lives upside down, they grew reluctant to have my mother and brother stay with them, preferring the company of their articulate granddaughter. My brother's fussiness forced my mother to impose more chores on me—washing diapers, picking and washing vegetables, sweeping floors. Although I had no responsibilities at my grandparents' house, my brother's presence robbed me of my freedom of choice. Life's hardships and his constant noise made my mother even more volatile; she was quick to anger, and nothing I did ever satisfied her. She constantly compared me unfavorably to other children, finding every opportunity to highlight my shortcomings.

Since my brother's arrival, I seemed to have become the worst child imaginable. My mother often repeated the saying, "First-class people shape themselves, second-class are molded by others, and third-class can't be made into anything, even with punishment." Deep down, I always screamed internally: "I am not, I am smarter and more sensible than those children you mention." In contrast, my parents coddled my ever-crying brother, whom my mother considered the most beautiful child. Even when I wanted to hold him, they hesitated, fearing I might accidentally hurt him. I went from a carefree, happy princess to a Cinderella, bogged down with endless chores and constantly scorned. Before my brother was born, my father enjoyed reading novels and often took me to the bookstore in town. He would delve into his favorite stories while I lost myself in fairy tales. Before leaving, I could choose a book to take home. Sometimes I fell asleep on the way, dropping my book on the road without any consequence. But after my brother's birth, my father no longer had the time or money to take me to the bookstore. My parents' dream of having a son had become my nightmare.