them. Instead, they turned on me and told Teacher Lan about it. Of course, he lectured me and I had to clean the blackboard for a week as punishment. Later, in retaliation, I deliberately gave wrong answers for them to copy, then reported this to the teacher. This time they were trapped like rabbits and Han lost his chance to become the best Communist student that year.
During this time, Grandpa was slowly dying. He was seventy-seven years old. Almost every day, I found writings on the blackboard that debased and humiliated him.
On the day he died, we carried him in a wheelbarrow about twentymiles away to the city of Putien for cremation. I wore a white shirt and spread pieces of paper money over the bridges we passed and chanted sayings like “peaceful passing” to the imaginary soldiers guarding the bridges. In the crowd that watched the procession, I saw the three ugly mugs of Han, Quei, and Wang, smiling without pity or sympathy. They even made faces at me. I bit my lips, trying to control my sadness and hatred. Tears poured forth as the strong voice of revenge cried out within me. I wiped away my tears and walked on with my family, pushing Grandpa’s body along the dirt road to Putien for two more hours.
When we got there, four young monks were hired to carry Grandpa up the mountain to the cremation site. I knelt before his body with my family like a pious grandson, sobbing farewell as an ancient monk torched the wood pile beneath Grandpa’s flimsy coffin. Flames shot up against the setting sun. My beloved Grandpa was no more.
EVEN IN WINTERTIME Yellow Stone was laced by the greenness of the surrounding wheat and fava-bean fields. Yellow wildflowers were scattered across the green carpet like solitary souls still searching for their destiny. The water of the Dong Jing River lay calm and pensive, as if quietly dreaming about the coming spring.
Farmers flocked to the market square to trade goods for the New Year, a week away. The narrow streets of Yellow Stone became filled with mules carrying food and vegetables. Bicycles strained beneath the double weight of two riders, and noisy tractors fought their way among crowds of people carrying sacks of produce slung over their shoulders.
One morning, Teacher Lan visited our home with the results of our first countywide exam. I had scored 100 percent in all four subjects. He and Mom couldn’t stop smiling and my sisters swarmed, fighting to get a glimpse of the report card.
“Only two students made that score in the whole county of Putien,” Lan said, beaming happily, for my distinction had made him one of the teachers of the year.
I became an instant star among the neighbors. There were some warmer glances and sweeter greetings for me. It was both liberating and a little intoxicating. I felt glorified. I was no longer just another one of those hopeless descendants of the old ruling class, who ended up becoming a carpenter, a blacksmith, or a nobody, buried in the guilt and shame of their fathers. I shone, despite their efforts to snuff me out.
Grandpa’s passing only hardened my will to succeed, to beat theodds. I wanted to honor this man, who had died poor, sad, and broken. The image of his body, reduced to eighty pounds of yellow skin and old bones, lying in that rough wooden wheelbarrow like some discarded dead animal, would never leave me. He had wanted to be burned because he knew we couldn’t afford a burial plot for his tiny body, which had been dressed in a newly tailored black robe made from coarse material. My dad’s words, as he carried Grandfather’s ashes home, still echoed in my ears: “Now you can join your drinking buddies again, and gamble forever,” he said, brushing his wet face against the jar of ashes.
It was decided that I would go with my cousin Yan to the island where she taught, spend a few days there, and carry back some fish and shrimp for the New Year. The trip was meant to keep me out of trouble and away from the neighborhood
During this time, Grandpa was slowly dying. He was seventy-seven years old. Almost every day, I found writings on the blackboard that debased and humiliated him.
On the day he died, we carried him in a wheelbarrow about twentymiles away to the city of Putien for cremation. I wore a white shirt and spread pieces of paper money over the bridges we passed and chanted sayings like “peaceful passing” to the imaginary soldiers guarding the bridges. In the crowd that watched the procession, I saw the three ugly mugs of Han, Quei, and Wang, smiling without pity or sympathy. They even made faces at me. I bit my lips, trying to control my sadness and hatred. Tears poured forth as the strong voice of revenge cried out within me. I wiped away my tears and walked on with my family, pushing Grandpa’s body along the dirt road to Putien for two more hours.
When we got there, four young monks were hired to carry Grandpa up the mountain to the cremation site. I knelt before his body with my family like a pious grandson, sobbing farewell as an ancient monk torched the wood pile beneath Grandpa’s flimsy coffin. Flames shot up against the setting sun. My beloved Grandpa was no more.
EVEN IN WINTERTIME Yellow Stone was laced by the greenness of the surrounding wheat and fava-bean fields. Yellow wildflowers were scattered across the green carpet like solitary souls still searching for their destiny. The water of the Dong Jing River lay calm and pensive, as if quietly dreaming about the coming spring.
Farmers flocked to the market square to trade goods for the New Year, a week away. The narrow streets of Yellow Stone became filled with mules carrying food and vegetables. Bicycles strained beneath the double weight of two riders, and noisy tractors fought their way among crowds of people carrying sacks of produce slung over their shoulders.
One morning, Teacher Lan visited our home with the results of our first countywide exam. I had scored 100 percent in all four subjects. He and Mom couldn’t stop smiling and my sisters swarmed, fighting to get a glimpse of the report card.
“Only two students made that score in the whole county of Putien,” Lan said, beaming happily, for my distinction had made him one of the teachers of the year.
I became an instant star among the neighbors. There were some warmer glances and sweeter greetings for me. It was both liberating and a little intoxicating. I felt glorified. I was no longer just another one of those hopeless descendants of the old ruling class, who ended up becoming a carpenter, a blacksmith, or a nobody, buried in the guilt and shame of their fathers. I shone, despite their efforts to snuff me out.
Grandpa’s passing only hardened my will to succeed, to beat theodds. I wanted to honor this man, who had died poor, sad, and broken. The image of his body, reduced to eighty pounds of yellow skin and old bones, lying in that rough wooden wheelbarrow like some discarded dead animal, would never leave me. He had wanted to be burned because he knew we couldn’t afford a burial plot for his tiny body, which had been dressed in a newly tailored black robe made from coarse material. My dad’s words, as he carried Grandfather’s ashes home, still echoed in my ears: “Now you can join your drinking buddies again, and gamble forever,” he said, brushing his wet face against the jar of ashes.
It was decided that I would go with my cousin Yan to the island where she taught, spend a few days there, and carry back some fish and shrimp for the New Year. The trip was meant to keep me out of trouble and away from the neighborhood
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