were screaming in me, breaking me in two.
I used a small mirror to examine my body, to examine the details of its private parts. I listened to my body carefully. I heard its trouble, its disturbance. It had been trying to capture something, a foreign touch, to soothe its anxiety, but in vain. The body demanded to break away from its ruler, the mind. It was angry. It drove me to where I did not want to go: I had begun having thoughts about men. I dreamed of being touched by many hands. I was disgusted with myself.
It was violent. My body was in hunger. I could not make it collaborate with me. I tossed all night, loneliness wrapped me, anxiety distressed me. I lay on my back, as if stretched on prison bars. My hands all over my body, I did not know how to gain back peace. I could feel a monster growing inside, a monster of desire. It grew bigger each day, pushing my other organs aside. I was defenseless. I could see no way out. The mosquito net was a grave with a little spoiled air. Feeling wounded, I could not cry. I had to guard myself because no one else cried in the room. Had my roommates nothing in common with me? The mosquitoes bit me. I looked for them. They parked in the corners of the net. They were fat and clumsy after bloodsucking. I aimed, clapped. The mosquito flew away. I waited, chased, waited, aimed again and attacked. Iclapped one. It lay flat in my hand, bloody and sticky. The mosquito’s blood. My blood. I chased mosquitoes every night. Pinched them all to death. Bloody spots on the net pronounced my success. I played with long-legged mosquitoes. I admired the creatures’ elegance. I would allow one to land on my knee and watch it as it bit me. I watched it insert its tiny strawlike mouth into my skin, feeling its bite. I let it suck, suck to its satisfaction. Then I pinched it with two fingers, firm, and watched its dark brown blood drip.
The killing of mosquitoes didn’t put my mind to rest. My mind was no longer the mind I knew. It was no longer the perfect stainless mind. I began to have thoughts of those disgraced girls, the girls of my middle-school years. As a head of the class, I was assigned to sit by them for semesters to help them get on the right track. I was supposed to correct them and influence them. Though it was never explained to me what was wrong with them, it was known that they were called “La-Sai”—a slang word which indicated that the girls had done shameful things with men and were condemned by those who were moral. These girls had no self-respect. They were called “porcelain with scars.” No one wanted them. They looked forward to no future. They had no future. They were garbage. Placing them next to me showed the generosity of the Communist Party. The Party abandoned no sinners. The Party saved them. I represented the Party.
Sitting next to these girls for seven years, I learned how their hearts were chewed by shame. I learned to never put myself in their position, to stay clear of men. I looked up to the model women the society praised. Theheroines in the revolutionary operas had neither husbands nor lovers. The heroine in my life, Yan, did not seem to have anything to do with men either. Did she too feel restless? How did she feel about her body? Recently, she seemed more serious than before. She stopped giving speeches at the meetings. She put on a long face and it remained cloudy all week. I saw her trying to talk to Little Green. Little Green reacted weirdly. She played with reeds or the buttons on Yan’s uniform absentmindedly. She laughed hysterically. Yan looked painfully confused. She shook Little Green’s shoulders. She begged her to listen. But she was talking to a vegetable.
Late in the evening after I finished sharpening my sickle, I went back to my room and sat by Little Green. My roommates were all busy. Like silkworms spinning silk, they were knitting sweaters, bags and scarfs. No one talked.
I went to sit in my net and closed the curtain. I looked
I used a small mirror to examine my body, to examine the details of its private parts. I listened to my body carefully. I heard its trouble, its disturbance. It had been trying to capture something, a foreign touch, to soothe its anxiety, but in vain. The body demanded to break away from its ruler, the mind. It was angry. It drove me to where I did not want to go: I had begun having thoughts about men. I dreamed of being touched by many hands. I was disgusted with myself.
It was violent. My body was in hunger. I could not make it collaborate with me. I tossed all night, loneliness wrapped me, anxiety distressed me. I lay on my back, as if stretched on prison bars. My hands all over my body, I did not know how to gain back peace. I could feel a monster growing inside, a monster of desire. It grew bigger each day, pushing my other organs aside. I was defenseless. I could see no way out. The mosquito net was a grave with a little spoiled air. Feeling wounded, I could not cry. I had to guard myself because no one else cried in the room. Had my roommates nothing in common with me? The mosquitoes bit me. I looked for them. They parked in the corners of the net. They were fat and clumsy after bloodsucking. I aimed, clapped. The mosquito flew away. I waited, chased, waited, aimed again and attacked. Iclapped one. It lay flat in my hand, bloody and sticky. The mosquito’s blood. My blood. I chased mosquitoes every night. Pinched them all to death. Bloody spots on the net pronounced my success. I played with long-legged mosquitoes. I admired the creatures’ elegance. I would allow one to land on my knee and watch it as it bit me. I watched it insert its tiny strawlike mouth into my skin, feeling its bite. I let it suck, suck to its satisfaction. Then I pinched it with two fingers, firm, and watched its dark brown blood drip.
The killing of mosquitoes didn’t put my mind to rest. My mind was no longer the mind I knew. It was no longer the perfect stainless mind. I began to have thoughts of those disgraced girls, the girls of my middle-school years. As a head of the class, I was assigned to sit by them for semesters to help them get on the right track. I was supposed to correct them and influence them. Though it was never explained to me what was wrong with them, it was known that they were called “La-Sai”—a slang word which indicated that the girls had done shameful things with men and were condemned by those who were moral. These girls had no self-respect. They were called “porcelain with scars.” No one wanted them. They looked forward to no future. They had no future. They were garbage. Placing them next to me showed the generosity of the Communist Party. The Party abandoned no sinners. The Party saved them. I represented the Party.
Sitting next to these girls for seven years, I learned how their hearts were chewed by shame. I learned to never put myself in their position, to stay clear of men. I looked up to the model women the society praised. Theheroines in the revolutionary operas had neither husbands nor lovers. The heroine in my life, Yan, did not seem to have anything to do with men either. Did she too feel restless? How did she feel about her body? Recently, she seemed more serious than before. She stopped giving speeches at the meetings. She put on a long face and it remained cloudy all week. I saw her trying to talk to Little Green. Little Green reacted weirdly. She played with reeds or the buttons on Yan’s uniform absentmindedly. She laughed hysterically. Yan looked painfully confused. She shook Little Green’s shoulders. She begged her to listen. But she was talking to a vegetable.
Late in the evening after I finished sharpening my sickle, I went back to my room and sat by Little Green. My roommates were all busy. Like silkworms spinning silk, they were knitting sweaters, bags and scarfs. No one talked.
I went to sit in my net and closed the curtain. I looked
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