Read Online Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party by Ying Chang Compestine - Free Book Online Page A

his medical journals or stare at the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. I thought that if only he would spend more time telling stories about the bridge and America, I might have a happy dream.

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    The week before Chinese New Year, Comrade Li pasted a new poster on the side of our building.

    WITH YOUR BLOOD AND SWEAT,
WASH AWAY YOUR ANTIREVOLUTIONARY SINS!

    When I passed it, I turned my head away from the red characters. The word blood made me shiver.
    That night, Father stroked my cheek gently. “Wake up, Ling. You’re having a bad dream.”
    â€œDaddy, don’t let them cut my hair!” I reached up to make sure both my braids were still there and held them tightly under my chin.
    In my dream, a group of faceless people surrounded me, waving scissors. I tried to hide my hair in my hat, but my braids were too long and kept falling out.
    Father tucked me snugly under the blanket. “Ling, I promise I won’t let anyone cut your hair.” Feeling safe with him sitting next to my bed, I drifted back to sleep.
    The next morning, a loud sound woke me.
    â€œWhat’s happening, Daddy?” I called out.

    â€œNothing to worry about.” Father’s low voice came from the living room. “Go back to sleep.”
    Smelling burned paper, I ran out of my bedroom and saw Father throw a stack of pictures into the fireplace. The flames swallowed them like hungry monsters. Photo albums lay on the floor.
    Mother stood next to the window. “Hurry! Hurry! They’ve finished their morning march.”
    Trembling, I lifted a photo of Father in a Western suit. He stood before a palm tree. Next to him was Dr. Smith, an older man with brown hair, also in a suit. Both looked handsome. “Do you have to burn this?” I asked in a low voice. Father glanced at the picture, and tossed another handful of photographs into the fire, among them two photos of my dead grandparents. Father used to keep them on his desk.
    â€œWe can’t keep any old photos now. They are considered evil reminders of the bourgeois lifestyle.”
    â€œBut I’ll forget what my grandparents looked like—”
    Someone pounded on our door. “Open! Open up.”
    Mother’s face turned white. Father rose and rushed toward the door. In his hurry, he knocked over a
chair next to the table. I tucked the picture of Father and Dr. Smith into the elastic of my pants.
    Five Red Guards burst into our home. I recognized Pimple Face and Pink Cheeks. Comrade Li followed. Their rubber army boots stepped on the open photo albums, leaving yellow-brown marks on the pictures. Mother and I backed into the corner next to the fireplace. Father came and stood in front of us.
    Once in the middle of our living room, Comrade Li lifted up his arm and yelled, “One! Two!”
    The Red Guards quickly lined up facing Chairman Mao’s portrait above the fireplace. My heart pounded.
    â€œStart!” He swung down his hand.

    There’s a golden sun in Beijing.

    They sang and waved their hands above their heads and made a turn.

    It brightens whatever it shines upon.

    Goose bumps covered my forearms.

    The light doesn’t come from the sky but from
Our great leader Chairman Mao.

    They swung their legs, bent at their waists, and stretched their arms above their heads.
    â€œLong live Chairman Mao!” yelled Comrade Li.
    â€œDown with the bourgeois!” shouted the Red Guards.
    As if chased by lightning, they darted in different directions. Pink Cheeks pasted a long white strip of paper onto our living room wall. In ugly chicken-scratch letters it read BOURGEOIS SYMPATHIZERS.
    Pimple Face dumped a plastic bottle of alcohol into our fireplace. The flames leaped out as if trying to grab us. Comrade Li pulled Father’s books from the shelves and threw them into the fire.
    Another Red Guard boy with short legs put his head and hands on the ground, kicked his feet up, and spun around. The group