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Authors: Wenguang Huang
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of an old lady in a village outside our residential complex one night. As her relatives wailed like we only heard in the movies, we snuck into the room where the old woman lay in an open casket. With a shaking hand and urged on by my friends, I opened the veil and poked my finger gently into her pale, cold cheek. My friends jumped back, which startled me more than the strangely waxen feeling of her soft skin. She was dead. Later, I told Father about it. “Stay away from funerals and wakes,” he warned. “The spirit of the dead can easily attach to the bodies of children. You might be sick or have nightmares.” I didn’t become sick. Nor did I have nightmares about it. I even went to see the old lady’s funeral three days later. The grandson walked at the front of the procession, carrying a bamboo pole with a long strip of white paper tied to it. I didn’t understand what was written on the paper, but an adult told me the characters were about hopes for a peaceful trip to the other world and a successful reincarnation. If I had to bear that pole at Grandma’s funeral, my teacher would probably never allow me to lead the Little Red Guards.
I tossed and turned in my new little bed, tortured by the knowledge that Grandma would one day lie in that box, as lifeless, pale, and cold as the old lady in the village. She would be gone and nobody would ever be able to see her again. I was shivering even though the night was warm.
What would happen to Grandma after she died? What happened to all of us when we died? Grandma used to tell me stories about how the spirit of a dead person would come back and begin life all over again, as a new person or, if that person were lazy and didn’t help with house chores, as a pig. I didn’t want to be a pig. When I asked my teacher about it, she said it was pure superstition and good children of the Party did not believe such things. When people died, that was it, nothing more, and their bodies would become like a cup of water poured onto parched ground, gone without a trace.
I must have dozed a little because I was woken by Mother’s loud snoring and heard our neighbors, whose house shared a common wall with ours, come back in from their tiny courtyard, still bantering and laughing. Then the night was eerily quiet, and a fall breeze stirred the thick leaves of the fig tree. I was wide-awake. I remembered a story about a young woman who choked on a piece of food, and her family buried her and everyone was very sad. Three days later, a grave robber dug up her coffin in search of valuables, but when he lifted the lid and tossed the body aside, the food caught in her throat popped out, and she gasped, opened her eyes, and sat up. The thief screamed and ran away and swore he would steal only from the living. What if we buried Grandma and she came back to life? She would never be able to lift the heavy lid. How would she ever get out? I got up and went to the living room and snuggled next to Grandma in her bed. Sleep came easily.
As a “Little Red Guard,” I was supposed to defend and fight for Chairman Mao’s revolution, not to guard Grandma’s coffin. Each time I looked at the Little Red Guard scarf that I wore around my neck at school, I felt a pang of guilt. I was even hit with a fleeting thought of reporting it to my teacher. Then, the idea of seeing Father being paraded publicly deterred me. Besides, Grandma could die of a broken heart and nobody would take care of me.
6.
D ISCIPLINE
A s her eldest grandson and coffin keeper, I represented to Grandma the reward for her sacrifice, and her supreme accomplishment—the Huang family name had carried on to another generation. When relatives or friends came to visit, Grandma would drag me to her side and she would say, “I can now die in peace.” It was as if my two sisters and younger brother, who would often be standing next to me, did not exist. Grandma doted on my elder sister, the firstborn, but she was a girl and “Girls are
I tossed and turned in my new little bed, tortured by the knowledge that Grandma would one day lie in that box, as lifeless, pale, and cold as the old lady in the village. She would be gone and nobody would ever be able to see her again. I was shivering even though the night was warm.
What would happen to Grandma after she died? What happened to all of us when we died? Grandma used to tell me stories about how the spirit of a dead person would come back and begin life all over again, as a new person or, if that person were lazy and didn’t help with house chores, as a pig. I didn’t want to be a pig. When I asked my teacher about it, she said it was pure superstition and good children of the Party did not believe such things. When people died, that was it, nothing more, and their bodies would become like a cup of water poured onto parched ground, gone without a trace.
I must have dozed a little because I was woken by Mother’s loud snoring and heard our neighbors, whose house shared a common wall with ours, come back in from their tiny courtyard, still bantering and laughing. Then the night was eerily quiet, and a fall breeze stirred the thick leaves of the fig tree. I was wide-awake. I remembered a story about a young woman who choked on a piece of food, and her family buried her and everyone was very sad. Three days later, a grave robber dug up her coffin in search of valuables, but when he lifted the lid and tossed the body aside, the food caught in her throat popped out, and she gasped, opened her eyes, and sat up. The thief screamed and ran away and swore he would steal only from the living. What if we buried Grandma and she came back to life? She would never be able to lift the heavy lid. How would she ever get out? I got up and went to the living room and snuggled next to Grandma in her bed. Sleep came easily.
As a “Little Red Guard,” I was supposed to defend and fight for Chairman Mao’s revolution, not to guard Grandma’s coffin. Each time I looked at the Little Red Guard scarf that I wore around my neck at school, I felt a pang of guilt. I was even hit with a fleeting thought of reporting it to my teacher. Then, the idea of seeing Father being paraded publicly deterred me. Besides, Grandma could die of a broken heart and nobody would take care of me.
6.
D ISCIPLINE
A s her eldest grandson and coffin keeper, I represented to Grandma the reward for her sacrifice, and her supreme accomplishment—the Huang family name had carried on to another generation. When relatives or friends came to visit, Grandma would drag me to her side and she would say, “I can now die in peace.” It was as if my two sisters and younger brother, who would often be standing next to me, did not exist. Grandma doted on my elder sister, the firstborn, but she was a girl and “Girls are
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