Part 8 (2/2)

Everything that semester had to do with Hong Kong, just as everything in the fall had been related to the Long March. There was a spring examination contest about Hong Kong's economics, and the Party Members wore special Hong Kong pins that distinguished them from the other students. A ”Welcome Back Hong Kong” sign decorated the entrance to the library, and every day they changed the numbers to show how many days it was until the colony returned to the Motherland. Sometimes I asked my students how many days were left, and they always knew the exact number.

They spent weeks preparing for the track meet. The serious athletes trained on the old athletic grounds beside the cafeteria, and everybody practiced for the parade that would precede the event. The boys worked on their goose-step military marches while the girls prepared elaborate flag dances, and during their Sunday-night political meetings they sang songs about Hong Kong.

The opening ceremonies for the compet.i.tion were held in a downpour. The Hong Kong banners drooped sadly, and the brightly colored helium balloons refused to rise. But the celebration continued: the students, more than a thousand of them, slogged grimly along the muddy track, and they wore tight faces as they did their dances in the pouring rain. Nearly all of the spectators left, and the cadres, who huddled under the overhang in the center of the stands, s.h.i.+vered as they reviewed the marching. Next week all of my cla.s.ses were full of coughs and sniffles.

The athletic compet.i.tions were postponed for two days, and then the weather improved and the meet went off without a hitch. Cla.s.ses were canceled, and the students were seated around the stadium according to department. It was a serious compet.i.tion. All of the girls' events over four hundred meters in length ended in every single compet.i.tor collapsing at the finish, and before their races the runners carefully recruited groups of friends to carry them away after it was over. In a way it was touching, like a soldier writing a farewell note home before going into battle. A girl would give her friends clear instructions, and then after the race she would collapse in their arms and be carried out of the stadium gates, gasping and crying-exit stage right, a curious form of Sichuan opera. In the boys' races it was less common, but still about a quarter of the runners collapsed at the finish. Friends helped the boys to the department aid tables, where they were given hot tea and Magnificent Sound cigarettes. After five minutes they were fine.

I was scheduled to run the 1500 meters, the 5000 meters, and the 4100-meter relay. Faculty members had their own teams, and there were special races for the retired teachers, who ran hard but never collapsed at the finish. Because I had won the Fuling road race, I was entered in the student compet.i.tion, and this spectacle-the foreign teacher going head to head against the students-was enough to work the crowd into a frenzy. They pressed close along the finish area, until only the first two lanes were open, and my own students lined the backstretch. Huang Xiaoqiang, the owner of the noodle restaurant where I usually ate lunch, came onto campus with his son to cheer for me.

The other runners were excited about competing against the waiguoren waiguoren and they started too fast, the roar of the spectators in their ears. But from the beginning I could tell that it was a different crowd from the January road race; I heard voices calling my own name, both in English and Chinese, and the English department students cheered as I steadily came from behind. I won both races easily, and at the end of the 1500, when my students gathered to greet me at the finish, I felt more like a member of the department than a and they started too fast, the roar of the spectators in their ears. But from the beginning I could tell that it was a different crowd from the January road race; I heard voices calling my own name, both in English and Chinese, and the English department students cheered as I steadily came from behind. I won both races easily, and at the end of the 1500, when my students gathered to greet me at the finish, I felt more like a member of the department than a waiguoren waiguoren. It was the same way in the sprint relay, in which the distance was too short to give me an advantage and I ran the second leg without distinction. Party Secretary Zhang anch.o.r.ed our faculty team, sprinting past the Chinese department in the homestretch, and all of the English students cheered madly. Afterward the four of us posed for pictures with Raise the Flag Mountain in the background, and Party Secretary Zheng beamed and lit a cigarette.

But during the 5000 meters the physical education students in the crowd started taunting me, shouting ”Hahlllooo!” and ”Yangguizi!” ”Yangguizi!” as I went by. as I went by. Yangguizi Yangguizi meant ”foreign devil,” and they quieted down after some of my students scolded them, but I still heard their mocking cries, and in response I put my head down and ran hard for the last mile. It was unnecessary to do that-I was already winning and I could feel a cold coming on. But I couldn't help it; in a race that was the only way I would ever react to being taunted. meant ”foreign devil,” and they quieted down after some of my students scolded them, but I still heard their mocking cries, and in response I put my head down and ran hard for the last mile. It was unnecessary to do that-I was already winning and I could feel a cold coming on. But I couldn't help it; in a race that was the only way I would ever react to being taunted.

I returned home to discover that I had a fever of 102 degrees. I realized how foolish it had been to run the 5000 meters hard, and I saw that there was nothing much good about competing in events like that. I was too compet.i.tive and the locals were even worse; no matter how much things improved, inevitably it seemed to come down to me against everybody else. I decided that it was more enjoyable to watch than to run, and after that I never raced again.

ALL THROUGH THE COURSE OF THAT SEMESTER, my health grew steadily worse. A few times I ran a fever, but mostly I was developing chronic sinus problems from the pollution, and I was always on antibiotics. It was a strange time, because despite the health problems I had never been so satisfied with life in Fuling. I was growing comfortable in the city, and I was starting to make friends who spoke no English. My Chinese life was developing and now I sensed that in the second year everything would be better.

Even my cla.s.ses with Teacher Liao had become markedly less tense. It was as if our Opium Wars had allowed each of us to see the other clearly, albeit in very brief flashes of contrary opinions, but the honesty of these viewpoints seemed to matter more than their substance. To some degree I knew where she stood-she had definite suspicions about waiguoren waiguoren and their views on China, but she was open enough to make these suspicions clear. Increasingly I was inclined to see this as a welcome change from the English department cadres, who smiled and treated me kindly but never dropped their guard. Teacher Liao at least respected me enough to provide glimpses of her viewpoints, and I sensed that she saw me in a similar light-a and their views on China, but she was open enough to make these suspicions clear. Increasingly I was inclined to see this as a welcome change from the English department cadres, who smiled and treated me kindly but never dropped their guard. Teacher Liao at least respected me enough to provide glimpses of her viewpoints, and I sensed that she saw me in a similar light-a waiguoren waiguoren who didn't always respect China but was at least willing to talk about it. Our Opium Wars didn't end in victory or loss; rather they quietly slipped away, and increasingly I enjoyed my cla.s.ses. who didn't always respect China but was at least willing to talk about it. Our Opium Wars didn't end in victory or loss; rather they quietly slipped away, and increasingly I enjoyed my cla.s.ses.

But at the same time part of me was starting to wear thin, both physically and psychologically, and I knew that I needed time away from the pressures of living in a small place like Fuling. Adam was the same way, and as the semester wound down there was something grim about the way we pushed onward. The term was scheduled to end just after Hong Kong returned to China, on midnight of June 30, and after that we would be free to travel and study Chinese.

I had first sensed the magnitude of Hong Kong's return during the first term, when I asked one of my third-year cla.s.ses to write about the happiest day of their lives. Most of them responded as I had expected-they described the day when they received their admission notice to the college. Don, who was from a particularly poor part of the Fengdu countryside, wrote: On that day, I got up very early. As soon as I had breakfast, I went to the post office very quickly. I was very eager to see my score of entering college. The postman saw me coming toward him, so he shouted at me, ”congratulations! This is your admission book.” I caught it from his hand. I lifted it above my head. I shouted without consciousness, ”I have succeeded at last!” At that time my happy tears came out of my eyes. This is the result that I worked hard for fifteen years. During fifteen years, I had studied very hard all the time. As a son of farmer, I wanted to go out of the countryside. It is the only way that I study harder than the people in city or town. I didn't disappoint the heavy expectation my parents and relatives had given. It was a turning point in my life. I can enter college to study a lot of knowledge. Thirty-first August 1994, I will never forget you. You are my happiest day of my life. You are what I got with my sweat and blood.

Probably three-quarters of the responses were of this sort, and they made for pleasant reading: I saw the way that education was making a difference in my students' lives, and I was a small part of that process. But I was less inspired by the two students who wrote that the happiest day of their lives hadn't happened yet, because it would be when Hong Kong returned to China. One of them, whose English name was Peace, wrote: I'm sure that the day of July 1st, 1997 is my happiest day. On that day all of us Chinese will be cheerful and happy. Because the day of July 1st 1997 is very especial day for us. Hong Kong will be restored to China on that day, this shows accomplishment of the great cause of reunification in China. All of us know that the return of Hong Kong to the motherland and China's resumption of the exercise of sovereignity are a firm position and are not negotiable. Of course, I am happiest on that day.

As the semester progressed, I was struck by how all of the political cla.s.ses and special events had made the return of Hong Kong a personal event in the lives of my students. Ostensibly, of course, my subject matter had nothing to do with Chinese politics, but it was inevitable that occasionally we drifted in that direction. For literature cla.s.s we studied Kate Chopin's short story ”Desiree's Baby,” which led us into discussions about racism. We talked about the situation of blacks in America, and the issue of interracial marriage, and the students asked me if there were any prejudices and stereotypes about Chinese people in America. I told them that current stereotypes often had to do with Chinese-Americans being overserious students, but I mentioned that in the nineteenth century many Westerners had believed that the Chinese were weak and incompetent.

”Why was that?” one of the students asked.

”Well, I guess it was because of the Opium Wars,” I said.

”What do you mean?”

”You know what happened in the Opium Wars,” I said. ”At that time, China wasn't a very powerful nation, and it wasn't difficult for the foreign countries to defeat the Chinese armies. As a result, many of the foreigners believed that the Chinese people were weak. This idea changed later, of course, but at that time it was a common prejudice.”

After I spoke there was silence and the students stared at their desks. That was always what happened when you broke a taboo-there was an instant hush and you found yourself looking at forty-five circles of black hair as the students dropped their heads. They had done the same thing a week earlier, during another discussion on racism, when I had said gently that I thought racism and xenophobia were problems everywhere, even in China.

”There is no prejudice or racism in China,” Wendy said quickly, and I could see that she was offended. She was one of the best students, as well as one of the most patriotic.

”I don't think it's that simple,” I said. ”Why is it that people often shout at Mr. Meier and me when we go to Fuling City?”

”They are being friendly,” Wendy said. ”They just want to talk with you, but they aren't educated. They aren't trying to be rude.”

”Sometimes I've had children throw things at me,” I said. ”That doesn't seem very friendly.”

”They are only children!”

”But their parents just laughed and did nothing to stop them,” I said. ”I'm not saying that this is such a terrible thing, but I don't think racism and bad behavior toward foreigners are issues only in America. These problems could be improved in China as well.”

The students dropped their heads and there was an uncomfortable silence. I realized that this was something we couldn't talk about, and quickly I changed the subject back to ”Desiree's Baby” and American racism. As a foreign teacher you learned to respond to the moments when the heads bowed, and mostly you learned that it was impossible to criticize China in any way. But I was still surprised to see that a week later my reference to the Opium Wars touched this same sensitivity.

It was especially odd considering that earlier in the semester, during our unit on ”Rip Van Winkle,” they had shown no sensitivity whatsoever with regard to more recent periods in Chinese history. My a.s.signment had been to perform skits about a Chinese Rip Van Winkle; each group had to write and perform a story from a different period. One of them was about a Chinese man who had gone to sleep in 1930 and woken up in 1950, and another spanned 1948 to 1968, and so on. Among the seven groups it was a capsule of twentieth-century Chinese history, and I was especially curious to see how the group a.s.signed to the Cultural Revolution would depict such a painful period.

In their skit, Rip was played by Aumur, an owlish boy with thick gla.s.ses and short black hair. He woke up confused, and soon the other students in the group, who were Red Guards, put a dunce cap on his head. They wrapped a CAPITALIST ROADER sign around his neck, and they tied his hands behind his back. Roughly they forced him to his knees before the cla.s.s. The Red Guards crowded around and then the struggle session began.

”Why aren't you a Red Guard?” one of the girls shouted at him.

”What's a Red Guard?” Aumur asked, confused.

”You know what a Red Guard is! Why are you a Capitalist Roader?”

”I don't know what you are talking about. What's a Capitalist Roader? My name is Rip Van Winkle and I'm a loyal soldier in the Kuomintang army.”

”What did you say?”

”I'm a loyal soldier in Chiang Kai-shek's Kuomintang army. I'm just a poor man-”

”A Counter-Revolutionary! He's a Counter-Revolutionary!”

”My name is Rip Van Winkle and I'm just a-”

”Shut your mouth!” the girl screamed. ”Now you will do the airplane!”

Two of them forced him to a standing position, pulling his arms back. The other students beat spoons against metal bowls and shouted as they marched back and forth. I watched from the back of the room, hoping desperately that Dean Fu wouldn't happen to walk past my cla.s.s and poke his head inside. I didn't want to explain how ”Rip Van Winkle” had taken us to this point.

The strangest part was that the cla.s.s loved it-by far it was the most popular of all the skits, and the audience cheered and laughed. This wasn't at all what I had expected; I had thought that they would find a way to perform a tactful skit that avoided the uglier aspects of that period, because I knew that many of the students had parents who had suffered during the Cultural Revolution. But I never would have guessed it from watching them; n.o.body seemed upset, and the skit was as hilarious as A Midsummer Night's Dream A Midsummer Night's Dream or any other comedy. It was similar to what the Chinese writer Lu Xun once remarked: ”People with good memories are liable to be crushed by the weight of suffering. Only those with bad memories, the fittest to survive, can live on.” or any other comedy. It was similar to what the Chinese writer Lu Xun once remarked: ”People with good memories are liable to be crushed by the weight of suffering. Only those with bad memories, the fittest to survive, can live on.”

But my students' memories weren't uniformly bad. Although they joked about the Cultural Revolution, they were incredibly sensitive about the Opium Wars. I knew that part of this sensitivity stemmed from my being a foreigner, but there was also a degree to which time had been turned around in their eyes, until events of the mid-1800s were more immediate and unresolved than the struggles of their parents' generation. Chinese history books deemphasized the Cultural Revolution, and the issue of Mao Zedong's excesses was neatly handled by Deng Xiaoping's judgment that the Chairman had been 70 percent correct and 30 percent wrong. These were numbers that everybody seemed to know, and they had an almost talismanic ability to simplify the past. During conversations, I sometimes nonchalantly mentioned that Mao had been 67 percent correct, just to see what sort of reaction I would get. Invariably the listener corrected me immediately. It made the Cultural Revolution seem incredibly distant, a question of statistics: the lifetime batting average of Mao Zedong.

In contrast, nothing was simple about the Opium Wars, which seemed far heavier in the minds of my students. All year long they had been drilled on the shamefulness of that history, and the return of Hong Kong was portrayed as a redemption that would have a real impact on their lives. In contrast, the student protests of 1989 were the most distant event of all, because as far as my students were concerned the violence had never happened. They had been forced to undergo tedious military training as a direct result of the Tiananmen Square crackdown, and yet some of these Sichuanese students were so patriotic that the return of Hong Kong would be the happiest day of their lives.

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