life clippings

This is a series of my life story written in first person.The series go on with the flow of plots themselves , in the order of year ,but not in exact which readers may possiply get something out of it as a means to get to know how a born-in-1957 Chinese have come through ups and downs to the 2st century modern world. Life Clippings, as the title indicates itself, are made up of clippings of my life that are worthy of being represented in the form of words.As it is the first English novel or something that I am doing my best to create , it is being used to have what 's in me open to all with the hope of expessing kind of feelings,for I've been going after a world of frankness , kindness , as can be shared world-wide. It is written in English only because I was a major of the English language who has a strong love for his mother tongue -Chinese.

The Twelfth

by TangZijun ,China
sailingacross@126.com


I jumped out of the bed at knocks at the door.
Out for something, son! It was father.
Coming! I replied and got dressed in a hurry. Father never wakes me up when I am sleeping.
Not him. A good sleep makes one as happy as a king, which is his saying.
I had just returned home from Wan’an Middle School where in that shabby classroom before 65 teenagers that morning, the head teacher said, well now, guys, you have finished your two-year senior high studies, with full scores of course, and it is time for you to get back to your hometown, to be re-educated by the poor and lower middle peasants in the countryside where one can do great things as our great leader Chairman Mao said.
Girls cried, wept and hugged each other. Though boys felt sad, they just smiled saying goodbye to the schoolmates, thin tears rolling only to the the brim of the eye, demonstrating nothing romantic.
The play was over and high time to dismiss.
Then all were on the way back home with things one back or in the hand ,of use or no use at all, mostly on foot.
But I was one of the few exceptions ----- riding a trtactor!
A tractor journey few could enjoy in the year 1975. A treat for both the leg and the mind! The two hours’ jolting on the rocky road tired me out. Soon after a hurried lunch, I went into my own room, a tiny cozy one father had prepared for me as my study as well as a bedroom, fell down on to the bed paralyzed and content, sleeping a sound sleep.
Being the only one child, I am expected to be in good health. It is strategically important for the future of the family. Sleep works when nutrition is short, as my parents always put it in front of me and still do in front of their adult grandson, though we are living in an age of overweight. They never interrupt whenever I am sleeping unless absolutely necessary.
And this time.
Something urgent.
I had a glance at the desk clock: 1:00. No more than half an hour!
Tidy and ready, I opened the door.
Hi, senior graduate. a heavy voice greeted me. A surprise at first but only for the moment. It turned out to be Mr. Huang Shaozong, the Party Secretary of the sixth production brigade!
Hello, Mr. Huang!
I greeted back almost aloud, surprising myself. Me, a nobody said hello to by a somebody of local significance! I was overwhelmed , not knowing how to continue the conversation. Mr. Huang looked at me smilingly. Father came to my rescue.
Don’t be silly, son. Secretary Huang came with something important for you. He turned to the man. Please have a seat, Mr. Huang, said father, pointing to a bamboo chair beside the desk across the room against the wall facing the door. Then, he had me seated on a bench close to Mr. Huang face to face, and next put his thin self into the chair behind me. Nervous but soon at easy when Mr. Huang spoke, smiling a big smile, in a friendly or fatherly voice:
Young man, I came for your help.
My help?A just-graduated senior? I looked up at him, a short but strong man in his thirties managing a brigade of more 5000 peasants, then back at father who smiled a long-used-to humorous smile, nodding encouragement knowingly.
They had talked.
Yes, I need your help. he continued before I could ask him what. You know, this is a primary school. Thanks to hard-working teachers of high esteem like your father, he nodded in father’s direction and I could imagine his rapture on his face without turning around. it’s going on well. Very famous. The parents all know their kids would have a bright future out of this school. Higher-ups think highly of the school, too, even considering setting up a junior high department next year. My pride, of course, as part of my work is in charge of the school. All the eleven teachers, too.
He took the tea cup at hand and had a sip. We are planning to make it bigger. Into a one of more than 700. Mr. Huang stopped and put the tea cup back, but we are short of teachers. With that, he paused.
Like to be the twelfth? Then, he asked me, straight to the point.
Me? said I unbelievingly, though I had known something as he was beating around the bush. Too soon to be prepared!
A primary teacher?
Yes.
I’ve just stepped out of senior school. I’m afraid….
No problem, anyway. Your parents have been in this profession for more than twenty years, much skilled and respected. Mr. Huang smiled. Learn from them and soon you’ll know the ropes. He was quite satisfied with himself when he said “know the ropes”.
I felt an encouraging pat on the shoulder from behind.
But they say a teacher must be qualified.
You are qualified. Mr. Huang emphasized, the other day I came to talk it over with you father. I saw your piece of fine arts, a Chinese brush drawing . I’m impressed---- a teacher’s work that really is!
Thanks. I knew he referred to the one hanging in my bedroom.
Accept it, father said. He wasn’t a man of few words but this time he just listened and approved. In the occasion of great importance father always kept to himself, solemn and wordless. You could never think him to be amiable and talkative, funny.
I had to say yes. I knew that. A good boy in my parents’ eyes. Most of time.
Agreed. said I, looking at Mr. Huang.
That’s the deal. Released, the Party secretary stood up, offering his hand and I jump up in a state of some trepidation. We shook hands. Mr. Huang looked over my shoulder at father. Thank you, Mr. Tang. Nothing makes one feel happier than having a thoughtful son, he said, adding that he must be off now since he found the substitute teacher and lots of greater things were to be done.
We, both father and son, saw him off until halfway to the school gate he insisted no company be kept, saying he had done what he should as leader of the brigade, of course, of the school.
But father did not retreat. They went on. I had not got used to the sudden change of position, standing in the middle of a very large siheyuan-like, or a large quadrangle-like schoolyard and staring blankly at their backs.
Me, now a new substitute teacher of 18?
Unbelievable and even a little unacceptable.
My blankness ended when father entered the school gate and greeted me with his usual humor:
Hi, what’s that for, my teacher son? Making a teaching plan in mind?
No, I stammered, …just… because of…
Fear and uncertainty? Quite natural for beginners. You’ll get over very soon. Me, once a beginner too. Also your mother. We’ve got through and twenty-five years later we are what and where we are… Father hesitated and then concluded, things are not easy and I’m glad you know that.
I nodded and father patted me on the shoulder and went away for his business, excited tears forming in his eyes, which was unusual. I pretended not to have noticed.
I know what it is.
In actual fact, I don’t know whether I was afraid of or uncertain about what would be ahead, don’t even know whether I was overjoyed or anticipated to start a new life as every job-hunter feels nowadays, but I do remember when I was back in my study, I sat in the chair and for a long time looked with fixed attention at the Chinese brush painting that Mr. Huang thought a piece of fine arts:
At dawn, high above, from a lower and narrow concavity at the top of a cliff ,a waterfall is flowing vertically straight down, till at last behind a small temple situated one third of the picture at the bottom, standing out on the top of a knoll with bushes over growing and few nameless trees thrusting upward, slantingly and lazily into the air….
I had never expected this painting, Spring Waterfall at Dawn ,would be of any help in life when working on it.
Mom came back home from the township junior middle school to congratulate and celebrate. A kind but strict, famous Chinese teacher just as father. I admire them both and the subject they were teaching---Chinese. They prepared me a big dinner. We three ate and talked a lot. They did most of the talking, encouraging, comforting, lecturing and brainstorming, with an expectation that I would take the job seriously, thinking of being a primary teacher as a new start of life.
For the first time I knew that I was lucky to be a only-one child in the family who, as the Party’s policy permitted at the time, must be given a job by my local government as an encouragement to those state work personnel doing well in the family planning, otherwise I would have to go and work in the countryside laboring through my days in rain and wind, in sunshine and moonlight. I had a notion to say it is something romantic but I just kept my mouth shut, for it would be a lie----I had seen enough of it living with all the countryside things of the 1970s around.
And I began.