Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin [33]
I hated Gao Dakun and his class. He constantly screamed at us and called us names. He called me “the boy with the brainless big head.”
Before our midday nap on that first day, as we were heading back to our room, Zhu Yaoping, the small boy from Shanghai, slid down the stair rail at our dormitory. It looked fun, so I copied him. We ran up the stairs and slid down the rail, chasing each other, until one of the political heads suddenly appeared. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
We stood there, hearts thumping.
“You are never to do this again! Do you understand? You could break your legs if you fall. This is not allowed in Madame Mao’s school!”
There was no fun in this place, I thought. Only rules.
NINE
The Caged Bird
Every morning it seemed that I had only just closed my eyes when I heard the piercing scream of the five-thirty bell. I’d drag myself to the washroom and pour freezing-cold water on my face to drive away my sleepiness. The jogging, early-morning exercises, and breakfast all happened while I was still half asleep. Only my cramped feet, the ballet positions, and the French names in Chen Lueng’s class would wake me properly.
We had our first Chinese folk dance lesson, with Teacher Chen Yuen. He was younger than the other teachers we’d had so far and wore a pair of spectacles. He seemed friendly and even told us jokes.
In Chen Yuen’s class we got to dance much more freely. I particularly loved a Mongolian horse riders’ dance we began to learn. But the best part of this class was the four musicians who sat at the front of the studio and played their traditional Chinese instruments. I loved the passion of their music. I had never heard anything like it. It made me want to dance: I could hear the clip-clop of the approaching horses; I could hear those Mongolian riders roaming the deserts, and I longed to be free like them.
That same day we had our first politics class. During that class, I heard some baby birds screeching on the rooftop outside. After the class was over I told Zhu Yaoping, who was fast becoming my best friend at the academy, and we climbed out of a small window onto the steep rooftop, four stories high. There we found ten hungry little birds in a nest under a roof tile. They opened their mouths wide, screaming at us for food. Zhu Yaoping wasn’t very interested in them—he’d just wanted to get out onto the rooftop. But my heart poured out to the little birds and I gently put them in my pockets. I planned to feed them some of my lunch before I put them back.
Our next class was math, and I put the birds in my desk. But in the middle of our lesson they started to screech. The teacher was furious when she saw the birds, and told me to get out of her class and report to the political head’s office straightaway. I was terrified. I thought they would expel me for sure.
Director Wang looked at me sternly. “Cunxin, what do you think you were doing? Do you want to kill yourself, to embarrass Madame Mao? This behavior of yours will not be tolerated! You will study the relevant sections of Chairman Mao’s book and write a thorough self-criticism to read to your class.”
“I have never written a self-criticism,” I replied. “I don’t know how.”
He looked at me with a tinge of sympathy. “You must write why you are wrong for climbing on the roof and promise you will never do it again. Make sure you use some of Chairman Mao’s sayings as the basis for your reasoning. Say that you regret your actions and that this will never happen again.”
I wasn’t allowed to go back to my class, so Director Wang let me use his desk while he went to a meeting. After many tries I finally completed my first attempt at self-criticism:
My dear and respected teacher and classmates,
I’m very sorry I climbed on the roof, and even more sorry for taking the poor baby