The Chinese Dream on Earth

The Marks of Destiny and Family Struggles

The seven moles on my brother's back, shaped like the Big Dipper, often led our mother to lament under the weight of life that he was reincarnated bearing debts. As a child, I did not grasp the significance of these marks until years later, after exploring theology and religious prophecies, that I understood their profound meaning. On another planet, we had been brothers, and he had followed me in reincarnation.

Despite the added difficulties his arrival brought, I cherished caring for him. His tiny hands and feet were endearingly cute, and whenever the adults were away, I would secretly hold and kiss him. "Poverty wears heavy on love," the scarcity at home strained my parents' relationship, leading to incessant petty disputes. My brother's cries often drove my father to seek joy outside, provoking frequent outbursts from my mother, which resulted in him staying away for days. My mother would search for him at neighbors' houses late at night where card games were likely, and only then would she trust me to care for my brother alone. If my parents' arguments escalated to physical altercations, my father would leave again, leaving my mother alone to sob, and I had to console both a terrified brother and a heartbroken mother. On nights when my mother's despair became unbearable, she would rush out of the house, and I had no choice but to follow hastily, searching for her at the village's south or back reservoirs, the eastern graveyard, or the hills beyond, calling her name as I ran. When I finally found her, persuading her to come home was an immense challenge. On such nights, I made countless vows to study hard, attend university, and earn enough money so she wouldn't have to worry about finances anymore, also promising to always take good care of her so she wouldn't have to suffer or be aggrieved. From the age of six or seven, as the frequency of my parents' arguments increased, so did my mother's threats of self-harm, and my promises became more and more practiced.

Gradually, I became the scapegoat for my parents' marital discord, especially after my father left following their fights. Because I resembled my father slightly and sometimes acted as carelessly as he did, my mother frequently scolded me, saying, "You look just like your father, a block of useless meat!" Her scoldings became harsher over time, sometimes leading to slaps if I hadn't cleaned properly or picked the vegetables well. As a child, I believed myself to be just as she described, ugly and worthless, having no choice over my birth, thus subject to her venting her frustrations on me. Yet, when she scorned me with phrases like, "First-class people make themselves, second-class are made by others, and third-class can't be made into anything no matter how hard you try," I felt unjustly treated, believing I was indeed first-class, responsible not only for caring for my brother but also for my mother.

As my brother grew older, I again became his scapegoat. With our meager annual household income, my mother would have split a dollar in two if she could. Once, when two dollars went missing, she immediately accused me of stealing. Stubborn by nature, I refused to admit to something I hadn't done, but my mother, fixed in her ways, wouldn't stop until I confessed. She beat me with a metal ladle until it bent, neither my pleas nor denials changing the outcome. Perhaps she stopped out of exhaustion or because there were more pressing matters; only when my parents undressed my brother for bed did they find candy in his pocket, and my mother realized she might have accused the wrong person. The next day, she gathered my brother and me to warn us against stealing money again, stating the punishment would be as severe as the beating I received. "I disciplined you yesterday to make an example," she told me. "As the older sister, it's your responsibility when your brother makes a mistake." Facing such accusations, I was left speechless.

Another time, my brother took the entire set of house keys to play and lost them, locking us out. We had no choice but to find our mother washing clothes by the river. Upon learning what happened, although she pretended to aim to punish my brother, I rushed to protect him. In the end, I received a severe beating, while my brother remained unscathed. In my mother's eyes, my brother was always the adorable and sensible child, especially cherished because he resembled her. As a child, he was adept at reading her mood and sweet-talking her, quickly handing her a broom or stick whenever she got angry as if to help her vent. Once, unable to hold back, she lightly hit him with a stick, and he, in disbelief, corrected her: "I am Shan, you hit the wrong one."

The arrival of my brother stripped me of my freedom to be carefree. When the wild fruits on the mountain ripened, I couldn't go pick them because of endless chores and unachievable tasks at home. If I didn't complete these tasks, I was going nowhere. To end the incessant chores quickly, I devised unique methods like using chopsticks to pick leeks, scissors for celery, and rolling several dumpling wrappers at once. My only wish was to finish these tedious tasks quickly so I could have a moment to play outside.

Once, I finally managed to sneak out and play sandbag toss with the neighbor girls. A boy came uninvited, insisting we play with him, and when we refused, he started causing trouble, eventually driving the other girls away. My rare chance to play was ruined by his interference, and he even mocked us for not being able to continue playing. Without a second thought, I picked up a stone from a nearby pile and threw it at him. Like it had eyes, the stone hit right by his eye, causing blood to flow immediately. Realizing I had caused serious trouble, I ran home as fast as I could, locked the door, and pretended nothing had happened, continuing my chores while my mother was still napping on the kang.

It wasn't long before there was furious knocking on our door; the boy's parents came looking for us, their son's face bloody. Aware of what had happened, I slipped out while they were explaining to my just-awakened mother and ran straight to my grandmother's house. I knew staying would mean a severe reprimand from my mother to appease the neighbors. From childhood, my grandmother's house had been my refuge, the only place I felt safe, warm, and loved. My mother accompanied the boy's parents to the clinic to have his wound dressed. Fortunately, the stone hadn't hit his eye, just broke a blood vessel near it. The boy's parents were reasonably understanding, jokingly telling my mother, "If he can't find a wife because of the scar, you'll have to marry him to your daughter." My mother had no choice but to agree. Whenever I encountered the boy's mother while washing clothes by the river, she would remind me of this incident.

Perhaps because I was prone to causing trouble, my mother wanted me to start school from the age of six. Going to school required a formal name, and neither of my parents, who had not completed elementary school themselves, struggled to come up with one. My father, considering himself well-read, chose the name Mei Qiong for me, meaning "beautiful jade"; my mother named me Xue, inspired by a dream she had during pregnancy of a fairy descending from heaven, suggesting purity and ascent. Because of the fine we had to pay for having my brother, our family was heavily in debt, leading to endless arguments between my parents, even resulting in physical altercations. When it was time for me to register at school, no one cared about the main character who needed to go to school; I had to find my grandmother to take me there with the small stool required by the school.

At school, the principal asked my grandmother my age. She told him I was seven, the age at which I could officially enroll. The principal insisted on confirming that I was indeed seven. My grandmother assured him I was definitely of age. I listened on the side without a chance to interject. After my grandmother left the school, I went to the principal and told him I was only six. He listened and then sent me home, asking me to come back next year to enroll. So, I happily went home with my stool, having made a decision for myself for the first time, and my parents didn't even know what had happened.