by Chengru He
Instead of seeking confirmation of factual materials, the practice of speculation endorses personal memories and meditation and honors the unknown in history.
when young Yingying was sent down to the South, she was seventeen. she wouldn’t know
that she would be gone for seven years, stay with soil, corn fields, rubber trees. she would come back thirty years later, then again forty years later – this time with her daughter. the bowls are tied tight to the rubber trees. it takes ten seconds or so for a drop of milky white latex to tap the bowl. the bowls are new, so are the trees.
that it would take nine days on the road, train from Shanghai to Kunming, then bus from Kunming to Mending. three days and two nights, black faces after hundreds of caves. the green train used coal. not everyone had a seat, some slept under the chairs. the bus would keep going in the daylight, rest at night. the roads were bumping, narrow, higher and higher, climbing the mountains. mountains after mountains. rocks, trees, corn fields, trees, rocks. she got so scared about the height, as if the bus would crash any second. she probably ate something on the road but couldn’t remember what it was. when they arrived, there was nothing but the bamboo sheds and bamboo beds. did she cry, or was her sobbing too shy that it was lost in the weeping of every seventeen? it was green there. she brought a can of cocoa that she would consume for the next twenty months. the only luxury that took her back home in a midnight dream. in times she had nightmares, she tried not to toss herself about, or the bamboo bed would squeak.
that all the seventeens became friends in no time. they lived together, ate together, worked together, laughed together, cried together. they shared one bicycle. tall and cranky. she was soaked the first time she cycled through the rubber tree woods in dusk. the Sun was dying fast. the shortcut to the town was long. in spare time they weaved pillowcases, table clothes, curtains. all the threads from Shanghai transformed to new shapes and bodies. when they sang in the evening, the company commander would knock on the bamboo door, xiaogui, what’re you singing?
that she would pick up Sichuan dialect, sua for hangout, sazi for what, zuosa for why. in the morning she fetched water from the well behind the sheds. a few drops of water splashed here and there from the tin bucket on the way back. the dirt road became muddy on rainy days. it rained a lot. it probably rained too much. be careful not to step onto water buffalo pats. plantain leaves wobble like elephant ears, mangos dangle like green hearts. it filled itself up every morning, fed hundreds of seventeens. in forty years it would dry up, look small, tiny, shrunk in the weeds and summer breeze. moist South, even the wind is wet.
that she would be scared to death in the field. leeches slid into her pants, sucked on her skin. she jumped around and clung onto Squad Leader Feng. she spanked the leeches off for her. she was still scared, of leeches, of slippery creatures, of water. all she wanted was a pair of tall rain boots. what a luxurious dream. Feng and her became close friends and families. her kitchen was her kitchen, was every seventeen’s kitchen. Feng’s husband lived alone on top of the mountain.
veteran, big, used guns, had contagious skin disease. he didn’t like people liking his garden but indulged her and her friends for free sweet potatoes from the soil.
that her glasses would be laughed at. take off that stuff while you are in the field. the farmers never wear glasses, never need glasses. in seven years the application for returning would be approved – highly nearsighted. she wore a pair of black half-frame glasses. each pair of glasses looked the same. hair style the same. blue outfit the same. she looked like anyone and everyone.
that she would be allowed to go home every two years. fifty-eight days off, eighteen days on the road, forty days home, shared a room with the siblings in a Shikumen unit. not everyone was home. the patriotic third brother wrote a blood letter, sent himself to the northern border. the engineer big brother, supervising the construction of new roads, left the construction site for half an hour, found everything under mud-rock flow when he returned. everyone was somewhere, by mission and assignment. everyone was edging toward future, an impossible dream of possibilities. once the dandelion is blown away, the seeds find their own way in the wind.
that she would have rice for breakfast and that’s all they could have. for breakfast, lunch, dinner. rice and a soup with not much veggies. cabbage for three months, then a different kind. she made effort to swallow. in Shanghai she had congee or paofan, something not dry in the morning. she got scared and embarrassed every month. how was she supposed to talk to the company commander? how could she ask an afternoon off, mention period without mentioning period? in forty years she would still remember this.
that she would work in the cookhouse for years. shake the spoon three times when serving the meal to her fellows. the seeds of rice do not find South home. glutinous rice is sticky, stickier than glue. shake the spoon so the sticky rice comes off to hungry plates. in thirty years the cook’s family moved to Shanghai. they meet for meals and memories at a restaurant. all the seventeens then are now in their sixties. the restaurant is in the air. so many plazas and tall building in this city. every road is paved. one hardly sees the traces of season, the mark a falling leave could mark on loose soil.
that in forty years the girl who was forced to marry a Wa man would still be living in the village, deep in the South, on the border of China and Burma. she would get up in the morning, go to the market for fresh veggies, cook for the family, join the plaza dancing in the dying Sun. every zhiqing from Shanghai knows about her. occasionally the girl who was forced to marry a Wa man is mentioned over get-together lunch. someone met her decades later. she does not respond too much. she lives there and in scattered conversations. no one used the word rape.
that in forty years there would still be rubber trees. the ones they planted were cut down. the new ones occupy the same side of the mountain. the Sun comes up, shines through the woods of rubber trees. they are no longer sweetheart for economy. synthetic rubber is tougher and cheaper.
she wouldn’t know any of these. she wouldn’t know the world needs so many rubber trees, rubber trees grow fast and tall, produce milky white latex for twenty-five years. after twenty-five years of service, they are cut down, removed, replaced.
she wouldn’t know any of these. would she go if she knew? like her friends, she didn’t have a choice. she doesn’t have much choice in just about everything, school, no school, sent-down years, job, marriage, job, retirement. she gets up in the morning preparing breakfast for her family. something not dry. the Sun is lazy behind the tall buildings. she drinks black coffee and likes an extra spoon of cocoa.
How does personal narrative represent history? How do we avoid the formula narrative of collective memories? Instead of seeking confirmation of factual materials, the practice of speculation endorses personal memories and meditation and honors the unknown in history. The narrative mode itself is also a journey of exploration.
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Chengru He 何琤茹 (penname何羲和 Siho Ho or Xihe He) is a poet and translator from Shanghai. Her English poetry has appeared in People Say, Tint Journal, and elsewhere. She has published two books of translation and other projects of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. A former ESL teacher in Shanghai, she holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Alabama. She will be joining the University of Utah for a Ph.D program in English Creative Writing as a Vice Presidential fellow, specializing in poetry.