MY TWO CHINAS

Prometheus Books

Contents

Chapter One

While I was a prisoner in Changsha Number One Jail, my fellow inmates told me this story. It happened in early 1977. Winter gripped the city of Changsha with talons of ice. A drunk spent the night in a city park. He was shivering, hungry, and high on cheap wine. Exhausted, he made a bed for himself by unfolding scraps of old newspaper and spreading them out on the ground. Then he lay down and went to sleep.

A couple of policemen found him the next morning. They laughed and kicked him awake and told the drunk to hop to his feet and get moving, so he did. Wiping sleep from his eyes, the drunk staggered a few feet away. Behind him, a policeman shouted, "Stop!" The drunk turned around to see what the problem was.

The policemen were standing over his makeshift bed and staring at the ground. The drunk looked too and his eyes went wide. A crumpled picture of Mao Zedong looked up from the scraps of newspaper left on the frozen grass. The drunk must have been lying on it all night.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "No! Please! I'm sorry! Don't!"

The police ran toward him. They beat him, cuffed him, and took him away to Changsha Number One Jail, where he was befriended by prisoners who, many years later, became my cell mates.

"Mao had died a few months before in September 1976," said one of my fellow inmates. "In order to keep the people in line, the Party ran Mao's picture in the papers all the time. Remember Mao Zedong! said the articles. Obey the Party! Uphold your Great Leader's legacy. Do it for society. Do it for your province. Do it for your family. Do it for your country!"

I took a good look at these men. They were old and toothless. Their arms and legs were stringy, their bellies bloated. They suffered from malnutrition and stayed alive on cigarettes. Most hadn't seen their families in years and knew they would die in prison. Honestly, some had died already even though their bodies lived on. Chinese prisons can have that effect. They empty you out, tossing the kernel of life aside, leaving nothing but hull and shell. Some of those men had lived through Mao's Cultural Revolution. They had the scars to prove it. On their bodies, livid welts, and in their eyes, furtive glances. Like beaten dogs, they shied away. Their gaits were crippled, movements crabbed from broken bones improperly healed.

"What happened to the drunk?" I asked.

"Oh," said an inmate. "You know. He was taken to court and found guilty of being a counterrevolutionary. After which they took him outside and shot him."

For a moment, our cell went quiet.

"You know," began another old inmate, "I think that drunk was lucky. They would have treated the bastard worse had Mao Zedong still been alive."

He grinned at us, revealing a smile of gums.

2

I grew up in Hunan Province, a region known for its outspoken people. In China, you will often hear, "The Hunan food is spicy, but her people are even hotter." True. We Hunanese take pride in our strength of will and character. We drink strong wine. We argue and fight. We do not hold our feelings in. Some people like to call us juelu, a Mandarin word meaning stubborn donkey. In Hunan, this is a compliment. Why not? We call a person stubborn when he stands up for himself. Fights for his convictions. Elevates his ideals.

Take my grandfather, for instance. He died when I was very young but I still remember his pride. He was old and blind, and he used to say, "What is a person who will not fight? Who cannot make a stand? Show me that person, I'll show you a dog! There's no one like that in Hunan! What comes from Hunan is good for China!"

Then he would ask me to fetch his pipe, which I would always do very fast since I loved to watch the old man smoke. His withered lips would form an O, and scented rings would pop forth smelling of cloves and cinnamon. The rings would travel a certain distance, undulating wreaths of smoke. I loved them but learned not to grow too attached. I knew that they lasted only a moment. After that, they would disappear, as my grandfather soon did. As all of us do.

My grandfather's favorite poem was "Li sao," which means Sorrow of Departure. It was written by the famous poet Qu Yuan (ca. 340 BCE–278 BCE). Sometimes the old man would pick up his chin and quote in his trembling voice.

I gaze afar, oh! 'mid clovers white and wait for our tryst, oh! in the twilight. Among the reeds, oh! can birds be free? What can a net do, oh! atop a tree? White clover grows, oh! beside the creek; I long for you, oh! but dare not speak!

I remember being so young that I didn't know what a poet was. I asked the old man to tell me.

"A poet?" asked my grandfather. He smiled and laughed. His dead eyes stared straight ahead like twin silver coins set into his face. "Well, my boy! A poet is a person who speaks the truth. Who appreciates things. Who looks for beauty everywhere. And of course he smiles a lot."

"I don't think I know any poets," I said.

My grandfather sighed. "Of course you don't. We don't have many around anymore. The Party does not like them."

Even though I was very small, I knew what the Party was. Zhongguo Gongchan Dang, otherwise known as the CCP, or the Chinese Communist Party. I remember noticing how adult people's faces always changed when they spoke the Party's name. Their mouths would compress into tight, bloodless lines. Bright eyes would fall at once to the ground, losing their luster like pearls cast in dirt.

The subject caused me confusion since my father was in the Party. He worked as a teacher and a principal of schools, a very wise man who was greatly respected. I loved him very much. But I noticed that even his attitude changed whenever he mentioned the Party. A garrulous man, his body would stiffen. The tone of his voice would grow hard, more reserved. It was a frightening transformation, and one I cared not to ponder much in childhood.

"Tell me more about Qu Yuan," I said.

My grandfather laughed and tapped his old knee, as thin as a withered branch. This was my official cue to climb gently into his lap, so I did. "The poet Qu Yuan," he said. "Another great man from Hunan Province! Qu Yuan lived a long time ago. He was a minister to the king. In fact, that's where all of his troubles began."

"Tell me!" I said.

My grandfather stared into space for a moment. "Well," he said. "The king had many advisers, you know. Most had gained their positions by telling the king what he wanted to hear, a common tactic in government. One time, the ministers told the king to oppose the neighboring state of Qin. Qu Yuan alone objected. He thought this notion was foolish. Opposition would lead to war, for which there was no cause. 'Oh King,' said Qu Yuan. 'Do what is best for your people. Ally with Qin and be happy!' The other advisers were not very pleased. A war can generate profit, you know. Lots and lots of money. The advisers hoped to get very rich, so none of them changed their positions."

I remember being breathless. Wide-eyed. All this talk of kings and wars was acting on me like wine, boiling my blood, making me want to hear more. "So what happened next?" I asked.

"The other advisers drove Qu Yuan from the palace and chased him into the wilderness. The king did as they said and went to war with Qin. There were many great battles and thousands of people died. Qin soldiers went to Qu Yuan's village and slaughtered many of his relatives. But worse: Qin won the war. The king was killed, but his ministers got promoted. Yes. The king of Qin gave them piles of gold and nice, new uniforms to wear on holidays and special occasions. And that, as they say, was that."

"But what about Qu Yuan?" I asked.

"He was so upset that he found a great big rock and held that rock to his chest when he waded into the Miluo River and drowned himself."

"He died?!" I started to cry. "But why, Grandfather? Why?"

"He did it to protest corruption, Xiao Tang."

"But why did he have to kill himself? Why not continue to live and fight?"

My grandfather's face turned very sad. His dead eyes focused on nothing. "Because, my child," he said. "When no one hears the truth anymore, or looks for beauty everywhere. When no one appreciates things, or smiles a lot, the world is simply not a place for poets anymore."

3

My father's name was Tang Rentong. In Mandarin, this means "Mercy United." As a teacher and a principal of schools, he believed that knowledge was heaven's gift, more precious by far than gold or jewels. "In this world, Xiao Tang," my father would say, "knowledge has no price."

Xiao means "little" in Mandarin. My father was Tang. Therefore, I was Little Tang, ever his diminutive. Though sometimes he would call me zaofang, a word that means "rebel," and more suited my nature.

I loved him more than I have skill to communicate. Quite often, to earn my father's attention, I would recount the opinions and stories I had learned on my grandfather's knee. My hope was that my father would see how worldly I was becoming, that even at five or six years old, I was a facile conversationalist. For instance, one time I told him, "Father! Hunan is the greatest province in China!"

My father was seated behind his desk, writing a letter. His pen stopped moving. He peered at me over the rims of his glasses. "Oh?" he said. "And why is that?"

"Because," I said. "Hunan has given birth to many great men, like the poet Qu Yuan."

My father regarded me for a moment. Then he returned his eyes to his letter. His pen started moving again. New characters lined up in rows on the paper. Meanings couched in contortions of ink. "That's very true, Xiao Tang," he said. "Hunan boasts many great heroes, and the poet Qu Yuan is one. Qu Yuan loved his country like no one else."

"I know! He drowned himself!"

"That's right, because he knew right from wrong. Qu Yuan was a patriot of ideals, rather than country. But have a care, my son. There are other sides to this story."

I frowned, sensing a lecture approaching.

"Hunan gave birth to many great men: the poet Qu Yuan. Cai Lun, the man who invented paper. Qi Baishi, the famous painter. Zeng Guofan, the famous general. But Hunan gave birth to other men, too. Some who were not so good for China."

I was young and bold and very proud and itching for a debate. "Who?" I demanded. "Who from Hunan was not so good for China?"

My father smiled and kept writing. "Mao Zedong," he said.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from MY TWO CHINAS by Baiqiao Tang Damon DiMarco Copyright © 2011 by Baiqiao Tang and Damon DiMarco. Excerpted by permission of Prometheus Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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