Some of the young people who were about to go to university after the 1977 college entrance examination at the Shandong Linyi Cotton Textile Factory with the factory leaders. The author is on the first right in the front row.
- Morning shift horn
The impression is that the sun was shining on that early winter morning. This impression may not be accurate, because the mood will affect the memory.
That day was just in Time for my morning shift, which is the normal daytime shift. On the way to the factory by bicycle, the tannoy speakers of various organizations and factories on both sides of the road were broadcasting the ‘News and Newspaper Digest’ program of the Central People’s Broadcasting Station at 7:30 on time as usual. After thirty years, I can still remember exactly where I went that day and heard the news broadcast over the loudspeaker.
The message said that the university was going to resume examinations for admission. This would have been the first general rule of the world’s universities, but for me and my peers, it became a rare sound of grace from heaven. A few minutes later, I tied down my bike, changed into my tattered and greasy work clothes, and entered the roaring workshop. On this day, I couldn’t hear the clickety-clack of hundreds of looms at all, and I was immersed in the roar of my own heart.
During the class, I wrote a long poem in seven lines. The small book in which the poem was written, which I had seen some years ago when I was packing up my clutter, could not be found for a while now.
- seven points to learn the stars
I thought I had reached the end of my studies when I turned twenty. My high school homeroom teacher, language teacher Wang Zhaojun, who was already thirty years old, thought so even more.
In the summer of 1966, Wang Zhaojun was about to graduate from high school at Linyi No. 1 Middle School, and was preparing to apply for the civil engineering department of Tsinghua University, where he wanted to be a construction engineer. A political storm arose and the university closed down for the first time in its history, so he had to go Home to farm. Later, he became a substitute teacher and came to the Jurong Middle School, where two rows of houses stand alone in the fields, and where I studied in high school.
The time when the university was closed was not really that long. In 1970, after the culmination of the three-year Cultural Revolution, Mao Zedong gave the word that “universities should still be run. However, the students were recruited from the workers, peasants and soldiers, and the method was “recommended by the masses and approved by the leaders”. We have no way of knowing how the “masses” recommended and what criteria the leaders approved. Zhaogun and his best classmate in high school, Yang Grammar, together, listened to a blind man tell fortunes. The blind man said: you are very good literary talent, but destined to seven points of learning star, less than ten points. The two of them interpreted: “ten points of learning star” is a college student, we can not go to college in this Life.
I also saw a glimmer of light once. It was around the beginning of 1973, and there was a rumor that in the future, high school principals could also recommend individual high school graduates with outstanding academic performance to take the university entrance exams directly. The principal of Jurong Middle School, surnamed Zheng, called me up on campus one day. I was nervous and did not know what mistake I had made, he patted my shoulder and said: young man, learn well, next year I recommend you to take the university entrance exam. In that year’s situation, listen to this word although not dare to serious, but always hold a few aspirations. Talking with Mr. Wang, it is surprising that teachers and students will think freely about what to choose at that time. The teacher, of course, recommended his first choice that year, or Tsinghua University Department of Civil Engineering.
That summer came out a Zhang Tiesheng. In this way, not to mention the high school graduates directly to university, even the cultural examination is almost invalid. The students were ordered to write an essay on the great significance of this ‘anti-trend’ feat. The essay I wrote in middle school was the shortest and worst, a page of 200 words in a square grid, and I don’t know how I managed to fill a page and a few lines.
Afterwards, when farmers, into the factory, despite the daily hard reading under the lamp, but never dared to dream of going to college. In my youth, it was no dream. I was able to search for any book to look at, already fun, already dreaming of freedom. It is really any kind of book: from the farmer’s almanac, to the “Selected Writings of the Legalists of All Ages”, from the village aunt’s needlework basket bottom of the old yellow paper of the “Ten Marriages”, to the cadres in order to learn the so-called “six books of Marx and Lenin” and issued the “Anti-Dühring Theory”. When I was walking on the road and the wind blew a half-dunged “Reference News”, I must have squatted down, found a branch and plucked it, and finished reading both sides. My old colleagues at the school where my mother taught were not surprised that the oldest child of Mr. Lu’s Family would suddenly crouch down while walking and stare intently at the ground in the cold wind for several minutes, as if dumbfounded.
- do not know “Chinese”
I remember when I could fill in four volunteers. In fact, only three, I heard that the last volunteer must write “obey the organization’s allocation”, otherwise it means that there is a problem with political quality, is no hope of being admitted. My sister heard several educated people in her factory say so, and went home to solemnly advise me of this.
There were also too many choices for the three volunteers, because I had no idea what I should fill in. After three years of rural and factory life, my aspirations were completely focused on something related to words. My Parents, of course, didn’t want us to study liberal arts, which everyone knew was politically risky. However, they knew that I had a strong independent will, and they understood my efforts and pursuits in the written word over the years, so it was only natural for me to study liberal arts. When I discussed with Mr. Wang, who was also preparing to apply, the answer was as natural and ready as ever: either Chinese or journalism, which is the business of writing articles anyway.
The problem was that I read all the relevant materials at the registration office and did not find even one Chinese department enrolling. There was one journalism department, and it was Fudan University in Shanghai. However, I was looking forward to Beijing. After some hesitation, I chose Beijing Broadcasting Institute’s news gathering program as my first choice, and Fudan University’s news as my second. Thirdly, I chose my hometown university, Shandong University; I chose philosophy because I didn’t have Chinese and journalism.
Unexpectedly, when I handed in the form, the staff had a question about my application. It was a middle-aged man who said: “Didn’t you apply for Arts? The Beijing Broadcasting Institute is a science department. In fact, some departments in the broadcasting academy are science and some are arts, and this ‘news editor’ is of course arts. I explained a couple of things, but the person asked me to change it without any further ado. It was so hard to find out these three volunteers, and then change them to what? This kind of difficulty, can not help but squint to see how others are written. There were several young men and women next to me, and their first choice was Peking University. At that time, I almost did not understand the so-called good and bad of this and that school, but I knew that Peking University was famous. I knew that Peking University was famous, and I dared to apply for it even if I could see the writing of others. There was no Chinese or journalism major, so I chose philosophy, just like the strategy for Shanda.
Later, when I met Mr. Wang, I knew that he applied for Fudan Chinese, Fudan Journalism, and Shanda Chinese. Why could he enroll in the Chinese department? It turned out that the name of the major on the admissions document, “Chinese”, was invariably written as “Chinese Language and Literature”. I thought it meant “language and literature of the Han Dynasty”, but I didn’t know that “Chinese” was Chinese.
- Yearning for the exam
On the day of the exam, I was working the night shift. I asked the head of my class B for leave, but it was not allowed. In fact, the work discipline was not strict at that time. On the one hand, what is the “big work fast”, the other side is often a power shortage, eight-hour shift, half of the time to work is good. This freed up some time to review homework. However, the class leader is about to see people studying and have gas, perhaps think that small young workers to take the university is a whimsical. This kind of see people studying to angry leaders, I have seen more in those years. Sorry, I had to miss work.
The factory year, I read more than a year. After all, compared with the countryside, there is no livelihood worries and worries. Received the monthly salary of twenty-one dollars, in exchange for a meal ticket into the canteen to eat. Unlike the time in the village, for not having to eat anxious not to mention a few big boys living together, more worried about how to turn Food into cooked rice at all times. Here, there are more educated people around. Han, who joined the factory together, is known as Yuejin, and likes to make friends, calling me “big brother” and bringing me two books like Merlin’s “Marx” from time to time. Where did it come from? He said, people know I have a big brother like to read books, lend me to let me read to you. Slowly, I also know exactly where some books come from. Those colleagues who did not know me well but appreciated my reading, searched for these books from their families or friends and specially asked Han to lend them to me. We were a big factory there, more than two thousand people. There are some girls, even if I know that they helped me borrow the book, but also because of the shyness between young men and women, never face to face to say thank you, are Han took the book back to return them. Today, most of them are middle-aged laid-off workers, and their lives may still be difficult, so it is hard to imagine that they will have the opportunity to read this article. I hope this will not be lost because of the clumsiness of words and the tardiness of expressions.
Finally, it was time for the exam. The first university entrance exam in China in ten years has begun. It is the greatest opportunity of my life to sit in the examination hall. Frankly speaking, I have been yearning for the exam, respecting it and loving it all my life. The reason is simple: this is such an unfair world, the test should be said to be relatively the fairest of all. I often say, if life is like an exam, how wonderful it would be. This is in no way pretentious, let alone bragging, if you understand how much hardship and even despair we went through before we got the chance to take the test.
The teacher who invigilated the exam seemed excited, too. He walked around the classroom with his hands behind his back. At my table, he stood for a long time. The first one, I remember, seemed to be politics. When I came out of the exam, the hallway was filled with excitement, exhaustion, chagrin and curiosity. When this teacher was leaving through the crowd, he saw me, stopped and asked: Did you apply for Peking University? I replied: Yes. He smiled, nodded, and walked away with our exam papers.
- The Spartacus
The days of waiting in anxiety are the hardest to pass and the most empty. At that moment, a stranger came.
I was at work that day when this man came to the class looking for me. He was tall and big, looked a little older than me, introduced himself as Xu Ping, a teacher at the school attached to the knitting factory across the street from our factory. He said that Mr. Qian from the Teachers’ Training College asked him to come to me and invited me to visit him.
I was a bit confused and didn’t know why this was. I was sorry to ask, and Xu Ping did not explain. We went, Mr. Qian asked me some daily reading and learning. I heard that I read to make notes, he asked me to take some notes for him to see. My notes, are made with a side of oil printed on the back of various promotional materials, mainly copy books, of course, when copying some induction, but also some of their own notes on the content or related ideas, etc. written on the side. In the case of classical works, the entire book was often copied, and one copy was very thick and bound with a twist of paper. The paper was made up from everywhere, and the specifications were not neat; the quality of the paper was poor, and the level of oil printing was also poor, so that the ink often seeped onto the back side, the side where I was writing. Anyway, these notes were very unattractive, and I had no choice but to pick up a few books with a slightly better appearance and present them.
The conversation and its contents are now forgotten, but only one shot is very clear in my mind: one day, Mr. Qian was very excited, shivering (his right arm is somewhat handicapped, when the movement gives people this feeling), opened the lock of the foot cabinet of the desk, pulled out a book from the bottom, and showed us his carefully collected treasure. The title of the book is Spartacus. I now have the Shanghai People’s Publishing House version of this book in hand, but at that time, I had hardly read any foreign novels, except for “The Young Guards”, “Iron Stream” and a few books of Soviet literature such as Gorky. I wanted to read it very much, but was too embarrassed to open my mouth. Mr. Qian proceeded to keep it under lock and key.
As for what Mr. Qian thought of my notes, that was something I learned later from my parents. After I met Mr. Qian, he was a good friend of mine until many years later, and often visited my parents’ place. My parents told me that when Mr. Qian saw that I had copied the entire book of Li He’s poems together with the commentary, he made a different opinion about one of the commentaries in the book, and he appreciated it and thought that the young man was “not simple”. As to what the note was and what the opinion was, my parents couldn’t say why. And all my notes, including at least a sack of newspaper clippings, which were cut and pasted in a Red Flag magazine about international knowledge, scientific knowledge, historical knowledge and so on, were lost in the process of my parents moving many times.
Mr. Qian’s name was Qian Qinlai, a native of Shanghai and a graduate of the Chinese Department of East China Normal University, class of 1965.
- Long River Waves
At that time, Mr. Qian should have told me that he had just returned from marking the language papers for the college entrance examination. However, he would not talk about the marking of the papers. Why did he ask Xu Ping to find me? He said he had heard about such a young man.
I have a good friend, Zhu Ruixi, is a purely peasant’s son, high school than me, but quite a few years older than me, at that time has graduated from teacher training in a county high school as a language teacher. I often go to him to borrow books, after all, there is a high school library to rely on. This day, in their campus, as soon as he saw me, he said excitedly: this year’s college entrance examination essay, the level is awesome. It turns out that the essay, which is said to be the first in the province, has been passed out and he has a copy of it. I said, “Show it to me. He couldn’t wait, while walking, said: I have memorized it all, first recite the beginning for you to hear.
“The long river of history, how many churning waves ……”
“This is what I wrote!” I jumped up without waiting for his second sentence to exit. He stopped in his tracks and looked at me sideways, surprised and serious: “Really?”
I then recited the second sentence and asked him, “Is that so?”
We both almost cheered.
Excitement overtook me, and I don’t remember much of what happened next. After the list was issued, Mr. Qian told us some inside information about the language marking. He said that my essay was so long that some markers wondered if I had hazed the right questions in advance and prepared this ready-made essay on “An Unforgettable Day”. However, the teachers found the outline scribbled on the sketch paper of my test paper, which eliminated the doubt. Moreover, for topics other than essays, such as interpreting words and translating ancient texts, according to Mr. Qian, my answers were much more detailed than the standard answers, so I could see some basic skills. They intend to give the language paper ninety-eight points, after deliberating, afraid to give a high score, and let people think that the province’s language judgment to give high scores, why not reduce two points, and gave ninety-six points.
These things, perhaps I should not relay. To be honest, I have often been ridiculed as “proud”, but never complacent, the most do not see the word “complacent”. In those days, there was no such thing as a “high achiever”, and I was not a “high achiever”. It was my luck that a piece of essay, which had a good start and finish, was right in the eyes of the teachers who were reading the papers. This summer, back home to visit my father who is ill, an old high school classmate invited to dinner, the seat of a friend who did not know, also took the college entrance exams together that year, is now the principal of the middle school where I took the test that year. In order to be me, he gave face to dinner, the first meeting first said: “you that article, now see nothing, back then was really extraordinary.” I thanked him for the kindness of the second half of the sentence, and even more for the truth of the first half of the sentence.
- reading people’s lives
In fact, the success of the college entrance examination to see how proud and remarkable, more is a reflection of today’s impatient, snobbish hearts. In our time, after all, we were still simple. Even from the hardships of a sudden college entrance exam, according to my countryside grandfather (local so called uncle), is from now on only live in the building, that people around you attention, but also more about how that child is studying. For example, the factory began to rumor that I can memorize the “Xinhua Dictionary” and “Chinese Idiom Dictionary”, about think that this is my secret recipe for learning. I’m ashamed to say that there are many words in the Xinhua Dictionary that I still don’t know; from this article, I can also see that, at least today, I don’t love using idioms. Exams are not life; life is much tougher and more complicated than exams. In the years since then, I have had the opportunity to study at many famous universities in China and abroad, and I have studied for several degrees, but today, at the end of my life, I still have mediocre results.
However, I love reading. This point, neither boast, nor need to be modest, is just a human characteristic. Certainly not a bad characteristic. A society that does not give people the opportunity to read is absurd; a society that makes people unmotivated to read is degenerate.
The day everything was revealed, I happened to be in the library. The county library was so small that I couldn’t get a library card, but the newspapers and magazines were open for reading. Every once in a while, I would come and look at the few literary journals that were still available at that time. Suddenly, Mr. Yang Grammar came in. I thought I had met him by chance, but he said, “I came to your house, and your mother said you came here. What can I do for you? I asked him. He dragged me out of the reading room, and as soon as he was outside, he told me in a low, nervous and excited voice: “You got into the journalism department of Peking University!”
I was stunned: “That’s impossible, right? I didn’t apply, and I didn’t see any enrollment in the journalism department of Peking University in Shandong.”
Mr. Yang said, “No mistake. I just came from the Education Bureau, their people today to Jinan to get the admissions list to go, to that first call back to say.”
I asked: “Where is Mr. Wang?”
“He went to the Chinese Department of Fudan. We are now telling him to go.”
Wang Zhaojun was transferred to the commune of Rushuang, a few dozen miles east of the county, as a secretary. Mr. Yang and I pedaled our bicycles all the way, and I remember that we finally found Mr. Wang in a field. The three of us immediately returned to the city and went straight to the county education bureau.
It was close to closing time, the county school board’s small courtyard gathered a lot of people, are waiting for the acceptance letter. The teacher at the bureau, Cui Xipin, knew Mr. Wang and also knew me – when I was born, his father was working as a janitor at the school where my parents were teaching. He let us into a secluded office, said he would go to his house for dinner in the evening, and rushed out to convince the assembled crowd to leave. The notice could not be sent directly to the individual in this way, it had to be sent through the unit.
When people dispersed, Mr. Cui came into the room, a happy face, congratulating Mr. Wang and me. We were all a bit rushed, not sure of our fate. Finally, Mr. Cui opened a large paper bag and picked out two acceptance letters to show us. It was written in black and white on mine that I had been accepted into the general class of journalism in the Department of Chinese Language and Literature at Peking University.
I didn’t understand what “general class” meant, and I was a little worried. Of course, later I realized that it did not mean “advanced class”. I also didn’t understand, and still don’t understand, how I was admitted to the Chinese Department of Journalism beyond my own volition. In that year, there was also Wang Guangxin from Weifang, Shandong Province, who also entered the journalism program of Peking University and became the big brother of our class. No matter how much I don’t understand, that most important thing is now clear anyway: I finally have the opportunity to focus on my studies.
- Night train
The next day, when the factory office informed me to go to a trip, I knew that the paper had been delivered through official channels.
Our factory got eleven college students that year. However, until the middle of February, we were all still working at the factory as usual. My duty in the weaving room was to help the women dump bags of weft spikes into their carts, which they then pushed between the rows of looms to load the weft onto the machines. It was a very simple job for me, just a little bit of effort. When I joined the factory, everyone was competing to learn the technical jobs, and this job was the worst job in the workshop, so no one wanted to do it. The good thing is that you can read a book whenever you have nothing to do. The shift manager will enter the weft room from time to time to sweep a glance, see me in reading, face unhappy. However, when the weft changers didn’t come to load the yarn, this yarn pourer, as a rule, either slept or went somewhere, but I was honestly here, with two eyes wide open, what else could he say?
In those days, the shift manager did not come to the weft room anymore. The ones who came were often people they didn’t know, in twos and threes, looking in at the door, and then running away. The brothers told me that those people came to see what the nunnery was like.
Inside the family, many relatives, friends, neighbors, classmates, colleagues, also came to see this way. This colleague, including my father’s colleagues, my mother’s colleagues, my sister’s colleagues. My own colleagues are not so many, because I have just one year in this factory. Not many of my village folks came, and it was a big deal for them to go into the county. When they came, they had to stay for dinner, and my mother was extremely busy, and she had to get my clothes for the trip. Without a suitable suitcase, my parents decided to give me a wicker bag that they had bought when they got married. The luggage, which had been used for about twenty-five years, was so smoky and sun-damaged that the original cream color was not very visible. In the cold of the first month, my sister took it to the river with her bicycle and washed it inside and out. A set of bedding was loaded in, and it was almost full.
It was already 1978. In the late afternoon of February 26, my father, my second uncle and I went on the road together, taking a five-hour coach ride to Yanzhou, an ancient city on the Beijing-Shanghai line. It was close to midnight when I said goodbye to my father and uncle and boarded the overnight train from Shanghai. This was the first time in my life that I had ever taken a train. There were no empty seats on the train, and it was an overnight stop to Tianjin. The big station unloaded many passengers, so I could sit down. I should have dozed off, but I didn’t sleep and tried to observe the rapidly unfolding landscape on both sides in the hazy morning sun. In the early morning, the train arrived at Beijing Station. When I stepped out of the station at 8:08 a.m. on the 27th, the air was chilly, the crowd was loud, and a golden-red sun had just burst forth in the last days of winter.
Thirty years later, early December 2007
On the other side of the Pacific Ocean, at the Konfusion House
Recent Comments