There’s a distinct smell etched in my childhood memories; every time I smell it, it brings back memories. A few winters ago, I was walking my daughter to kindergarten when I suddenly smelled it again. I excitedly said to her, “Xiaoyin, take a sniff! That’s the smell of my childhood.” My daughter sniffed intensely, then frowned. It was the smell of incompletely burned coal, and she clearly couldn’t get used to it.
My most vivid memories probably begin the year before I started elementary school. That year, my family moved with a thermal power plant construction crew to a piece of wasteland in the mountainous area of Jingmen, Hubei. Before that, we lived in Huangshi, and before that, in Shashi, and even before that… I’m told I was born in Jiazi, Guangdong, in 1971. Before I started high school, my family moved frequently, and each move meant throwing away things. So, we jokingly said, “Three moves equals one fire, and three fires equal one escape from famine.” By that calculation, from the time I was born until high school, my family had to escape at least one famine and one fire. Because of these frequent moves, I spent my five years of elementary school in three different schools.
Let’s start with the year before I started elementary school. We were stationed at what is now the Jingmen Thermal Power Plant, a massive, 600,000-kilowatt coal-fired power plant. However, it was still under construction, and the construction team members and their families lived in temporary brick buildings with tarpaulin roofs. These houses were fine when the weather was warm, but winter was approaching when we moved in. The weather was getting colder, and at night, the whole family huddled together in a room heated by a coal stove. One night, my crying woke my mother. She noticed a strong smell of gas in the room, but she was too weak to move. So she called out to my second brother, who was closest to the door (I have three older brothers). He was almost completely exhausted, but he struggled to the door and opened it a crack… and the whole family escaped.
That winter, the snow was heavy, knee-deep, and the children had a blast playing snowball fights. But the adults were a bit worried because the water pipes had frozen and cracked, forcing them to melt snow for water. And every night when they brought the children home, they had to apply roasted white radish slices to their hands and feet, supposedly to prevent frostbite. But the biggest worry was the lack of fuel, which made cooking and heating difficult. The entire base was filled with the smell of burning coal from morning till night. The power plant supposedly had plenty of coal, but the official rations distributed to each household were very limited. Stealing coal was considered a despised offense, so everyone had to find their own solutions. Fathers took the older children to chop tree stumps for firewood, while mothers took the younger ones to collect unburned coal slag. I felt excited and honored to be picking up coal slag with my mother, using a small iron rake. But my mother, wrapped in a headscarf, lowered her head, half covering her face, to avoid being seen. I later found out that my parents were intellectuals and cadres in the factory, so they were naturally a little thin-skinned in some situations.
Warmer days finally arrived, and the station became a paradise for the children. Just imagine: hills and groves, ponds and ditches, farmland and villages on one side, a construction site on the other. Anything was possible; there were playgrounds, materials, and equally bored and energetic companions. For a while, the factory children played war games. The “enemy” was the village children, and the “military target” was a small hill at the junction of the construction site and the village. The two sides often engaged in night battles to see which side could capture the hilltop. On such nights, my brothers were always watched at home, as injuries were said to be common in these “battles.” The games became increasingly realistic, and so did the children’s homemade weapons. At first, the adults thought it was just fun, but when they heard that some children had developed a musket capable of firing iron sand, they realized the seriousness of the situation and immediately intervened, confiscating and strictly prohibiting the illegal manufacture of weapons. This simulated war finally came to a temporary end.
I started school at the age of six, two months shy of school. At the time, school enrollment was supposed to start at seven, but I had to start early. As mentioned earlier, children found such an environment enjoyable, but adults lived in constant fear. So the factory set up a kindergarten, confining the children who couldn’t attend elementary school in a small courtyard. Several family members of workers who couldn’t work formally guarded the door, just enough to keep the little ones under control. I don’t remember how I managed to get through each day in that small courtyard, but I do remember hating it and the aunties. They would tell each other silly jokes only adults could understand. We gradually learned many of the swear words, though we didn’t know what they meant, but we knew never to say them in front of our parents. I was very small at the time, especially for my age, but I was quite smart and was looked down upon by my peers. After some time of thinking, I found a way out of the kindergarten, a little like the prison escape chosen by the protagonist in “The Shawshank Redemption”: crawling through the stinking ditch to get out of the courtyard wall. After I successfully “escaped from prison” for the third time, my father finally decided not to send me to kindergarten anymore, but on the condition that I could not leave the house before the adults got off work.
I kept my promise and never left home. But I also had my own way of killing time. As soon as the adults went to work, I would take out a set of chess at the door, thinking hard, and playing chess. A few workers looked curious and came over, and gradually more came. Some of them came directly to practice with me, and others began to talk and give advice. Of course, most of them were for me, and I just followed the good ones. After such a long time, I rarely met an opponent. When the “chess art hall” at the door of my house had become a sight in the factory area, the factory leader tactfully warned my father that if this continued, the factory would no longer be a factory. My chess stall had to be closed for rectification. The only place that could take me in was the primary school, but according to regulations, I had to wait for two years.
Fortunately, the nearby primary school was a makeshift, unofficial one, perhaps called the Hubei Provincial Electric Power Bureau No. 2 Children’s Primary School. There had been no primary school nearby, but with so many adults and children arriving to build the thermal power plant, the children had nowhere to go. Older children could board at the middle school in Jingmen County, while younger children had to attend the nearest primary school. What to do with no primary school? The answer was simple. The construction workers were incredibly skilled. They easily built a row of bungalows to serve as classrooms and offices, complete with desks, chairs, and various sports facilities. All they needed was a principal and teachers. They heard about a veteran in the area who was well-educated and versatile, so they invited him to be the principal. As for teachers, they first recruited family members who were literate and had a basic understanding of the subject. They taught from textbooks, and then asked the Education Bureau to send regular teachers. I only learned all this later. At the time, all I knew was that I was desperate to go to school.
When I went to register that year, I held my father’s hand tightly, never leaving his side. When I faced the principal, I stood up straight, trying to look taller. But he seemed to see my age immediately and asked in a teasing tone, “How old are you?” I shouted, “Seven!” My father smiled and said, “Yes, he’s seven. He just looks younger.” The principal was skeptical. He was hesitant, perhaps wanting to see my household registration or something (that would have been a disaster). Then a teacher (also a family member of the factory) enthusiastically introduced me to him, saying, “Don’t be fooled by his small size. He’s a great chess player. Few adults in the factory can beat him.” The principal, intrigued, actually set up the chess set and invited me to play. Now that I think about it, that was probably my entrance exam.
As soon as the chess set appeared before me, my confidence returned, as if I had completely forgotten everything around me. I only remember the chess set being unique, as I didn’t seem to recognize any of the characters. But once the pieces were set up, I’d almost figured it out. I must have played that game very seriously, as I still remember the first three moves. Although there were many people watching this time, no one offered any advice. We’d agreed beforehand: “Touch and move the pieces, and don’t regret your moves.” At first, the game was fast, and the principal was still chatting and laughing. But gradually, his moves slowed, and his expression grew more serious. After a while, everyone fell silent. I continued to make quick moves, staring at the board, waiting for the other player’s move. Finally, the principal checked his watch, chuckled, and said, “It’s been so long! This kid is really smart! Is this game a draw?” I was still a little disappointed, but my father tugged at me with a smile, and I nodded quickly, and everyone started laughing. And just like that, I passed the entrance exam.
From today’s perspective, it’s doubtful whether such an elementary school could even be called an elementary school. The teachers had limited education, teaching the children only the rudiments of literacy and arithmetic. Their methods of discipline were even more primitive, sometimes resorting to violence. For example, the female teacher who spoke up for me at school (I can’t even remember what class she taught) maintained classroom discipline by tying the hands of anyone who spoke or moved around to the back of a chair for about ten minutes. I’ve always considered this a rather barbaric practice. Although I’ve never tried it myself, my deskmate, a particularly naughty girl, was often punished, and seeing her hands behind her back throbbing made me feel sad. I know the ties were loose and not particularly painful, but the punishment was simply humiliating. However, I remain convinced that the teachers who resorted to such harsh measures at that elementary school were actually kind-hearted and loved the children, including those who were often punished. They simply didn’t use the right methods. Compared to the harsh tactics they used against their own children at home, their teachers were extremely restrained and tolerant. Outside of class, the children had a good relationship with them. We even dared to play pranks on the teachers, like sometimes waving dead snakes to scare them. All we got in return was a burst of weird screams followed by loud laughter and scolding; no one took it seriously. That school and its teachers felt like home and family to us.
When I was in third grade, my parents relocated to Wuhan, and I transferred to Hangkong Road Primary School, just across the street from home. Initially attending school in the city, I felt completely out of place, and I discovered that many of the things taught there were completely unfamiliar to me. My first Chinese exam score was abysmal, so my homeroom teacher asked my parents to attend. My father went that time, and he assured and kindly told the teacher that I was a bright and reliable child, but that my previous school’s teaching was limited. I remember my homeroom teacher, whose last name was Zhou. She was incredibly kind and understanding. She didn’t say much, and it seemed she didn’t do anything special for me, but I always felt she took special care of me. She and the rest of the class treated me very well, and I was reluctant to leave after a year.
When I was in the fourth grade, my family moved from Hankou to Wuchang, and I transferred to Zhuodaoquan Primary School, where I studied until I graduated from the second year.
My elementary school years were like this for five years. Starting with our next class, the system gradually switched to a six-year system. My memories of elementary school are quite mixed, but I’m vague about exactly what I learned, and it’s likely I didn’t learn much. What I do remember clearly are the many fun games, the many wonderful playmates, and the many secret pleasures we didn’t need to, or didn’t want to, share with adults. Back then, adults worried very little about us. Just remember to come home for dinner before dark, get a decent report card on your exams, and avoid any major mishaps outside (and don’t tell anyone about any minor ones when you get home), and you’ll have a good life. So, as far as games were concerned, I felt like I had a lot of time, a lot of variety, and playmates were always available. The world seemed much more open.
My daughter is now in third grade. She’s a very smart and reassuring child. I often talk to her about my elementary school days. I want to tell her: No matter what you do in the future, no matter what your future holds, I just hope that when you look back, you’ll remember that your elementary school days were just as joyful as mine.
Beijing, April 2009
