My father was a refined and erudite man, with a pure and honest heart. He spent his whole life secluded in our small city, without any grand achievements to his name. Perhaps this had something to do with his calm, detached disposition, which never led him to seek fame or fortune. Or perhaps it was fate's doing; life as an academic simply suited him more. He wasn't quite the helmsman on the seas of bureaucracy that he wished he could have been. Although he eventually held a post as a midlevel authority, his grasp of the ways of officialdom ultimately left something to be desired.
Only when I read my father's autobiography years later did I learn that my father was actually a fighter, one who single-mindedly pursued his goals. He came up against restrictions imposed by both his era and his own conditions, and many of his labors never bore fruit. My father was like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing his boulder back up the hill and repeating this action when it inevitably rolled back down. He sacrificed his precious youth and health for these endeavors. He even sacrificed his own life.
I find it truly regrettable that my father and I were not able to spend much time together. As I was too young during those days, and my father tended to be reserved in his speech, my understanding of the man is actually quite shallow. All these years later, I hope to probe deeper into my father's innermost thoughts and listen more closely to his stories and his true feelings. I have too many questions for him, questions to which I will never be able to find answers.
My mother was a woman with a lithe figure and charming features. She had the misfortune of being born into a landowning family. In the context of the social upheaval at the time, this made her an enemy. Known to everyone else as "Miss Landowner" , she did her best to keep a low profile. Through her own tangible efforts she tried, often in vain, to reinvent herself and remove this outdated label. In order to achieve this goal, she spent her entire life trying to maintain a valiant and spirited aura, struggling tenaciously against her own sweet and mild-mannered tendencies.
She stuffed her brightly colored bows and long embroidered skirts deep inside her trunk and changed into sexless, deep blue overalls. Her sleek hair had once flowed over her shoulders like a raven waterfall, but at the touch of her scissors it transformed into the smart, ear-length hair of the female guerrilla leaders who led their valiant freedom fighters across China's projection screens. She did her utmost to reinvent herself as an "iron girl" , one of those young women whose limbs seemed to have been cast out of pure industrial-grade metal.
She envied those girls who emanated valor and courage and would often rub elbows with their male classmates. Full of enthusiasm, these girls would hoist bags full of cement over their shoulders and lift up heavy stones with a seemingly unlimited supply of courage. Yet my mother, a naturally delicate and slender young woman, was never able to achieve the level of physical perfection she hoped for. Others thought that her innate physical shortcomings meant that her ideological attitude was flawed. As a result, they saw her personal revolution as too shallow and merely skin-deep.
The son of rural landowners, my father suffered through great hardships as he grew up. He spent his entire life working for the Communist Party. My mother, on the other hand, faithfully submitted an endless stream of applications for party membership. Back in those days, which were tinged red with communist fervor, one's "political life" frequently took precedent over the flesh-and-blood life bestowed by one's parents. My mother's greatest desire was to be able to write the words "party member" whenever she came to the section in a form marked "political affiliation" . Whenever my father stood upon his speaking platform to give one of his "party lectures" , she would be there listening ardently, her eyes bright with admiration and veneration. My father, who was a direct subordinate to the party committee secretary, spent his entire life recruiting an unceasing stream of party members. However, perhaps due to a problem with her "class status" , my mother always remained an outsider, a "Bolshevik" .
I never saw what my parents looked like when they were young. For as long as I can remember, they were experienced and prudent, their features bearing the wear and tear of middle age. In my humble opinion, there are more benefits to being a middle-aged parent than a younger one. Middle-aged people have a better understanding of what it means to be a parent, and how to teach and dote upon children. From my father's "education of persuasion" , to my mother's belief that a firm hand was the best policy, both of my parents upheld principles that were inherently good and upright. Even though my mother would beat me, her lessons would stick.
My own parents were nothing like the younger parents of other children, who might take their frustration out on their offspring after losing a game of mahjong. The issue of pampering one's children is not clear-cut. In some cases, when children fight among one another, their young fathers will actually roll up their sleeves and join in! It really is unpredictable. Young parents will also argue and fight with one another until they make a scene. This never occurred within my own home. Whenever I heard the war drums coming from our neighbors, I would imitate my parents, shaking my head in sagacious regret, and I would secretly celebrate the fact that my family never engaged in such inelegant behavior.
