Morning Glory at Noon — Ch.9: A Callow Youth (Part 1)
Spring Feelings
My "first love" was a girl like the elder-sister Bao Chai. Strictly speaking, it doesn't count as love — most would agree that love must be mutual. A one-sided childhood crush isn't love; if you drew a dependency tree diagram, it would be an asymmetrical relation. But during the Cultural Revolution years, if you excluded unrequited infatuations, those qualified to speak of first love were remarkably few — perhaps less than five percent, roughly the same proportion as “class enemies”. Most of them were the so-called "bad kids" branded as young hooligans. We revolutionary students, representing ninety-five percent of the youth population, disdained such pursuits. Of course, those people eventually got married when they grew older, but the kind of courtship aimed at finding a revolutionary partner bore little resemblance to "first love" — even less relevant than a secret crush, so let's not speak of it.
Yet Mao Zedong Thought could not govern secret crushes and the stirrings of spring. My crush first sprouted in the first grade, when I was six years old, precisely in 1966 when the Great Revolution erupted. That year our entire family followed our parents from the county seat down to Hewan, a small town, to support the founding and building of a rural clinic. In this remote town surrounded by mountains on all sides, the Little Red Guard rebellion was just as vigorous, determined to overthrow the school's capitalist-roader authorities. Too young to participate in this revolution, I occasionally played the role of paste-bucket carrier, helping the older brothers and sisters put up big-character posters. Since the revolution didn't have much use for me, there was room in my childish heart for petit-bourgeois tenderness, and it all began with the arrival of Elder Sister Bao.
Elder Sister Bao was brought over by a neighbor auntie, who said she was the daughter of a cousin from the county seat, coming to the countryside for a few days' visit. The first time I saw her, it was less Elder Sister Bao than a Sister Lin who had fallen from heaven. But she truly was two years older than me, and unmistakably carried the poise of an elder sister. Elder Sister Bao looked nothing like the snot-nosed, timid country girls around us — you could tell at a glance she was a city child. She wore her hair in little braids, delicate and elegant, well-mannered and poised, and what amazed most was her many talents. When the auntie asked her to recite Chairman Mao's quotations, she rattled off "Serve the People" in flawless standard Mandarin, word for word. Then the auntie asked her to perform a model opera piece, and she sang a passage as Grandma Sha, with perfect feeling and flavor. I was transfixed. At this point, it still couldn't be called love — you could only say that such an enchanting girl planted the seed of love in a six-year-old brat's heart. Like countless life encounters, Elder Sister Bao soon returned to the county seat. Although my older brother's rebel organization, the "Dagger Squad," was growing and striking out, with the campus revolution raging full force, the small town in my heart returned to stillness, undisturbed.
A year later, our whole family moved back to the county hospital, just in time for the real, bloody factional fighting. The county elementary school had more days off than on. By the time the armed struggle subsided and the nation was all red, with the various revolutionary factions in great unity, we muddled our way up to third grade. I've searched my memory, and for the life of me I can't recall how I reunited with Elder Sister Bao at school. It's a bit of a regret, but that's how life is. In any case, one unknown day, I suddenly discovered that Elder Sister Bao was right there beside me, in the same class. She clearly didn't remember me at all, and from the moment I recognized her until we later went on to middle school together, I never once mentioned that we had met in the small town. Though countless times the words reached the tip of my tongue, I swallowed them back in the end. That meeting in the small town had made me look up to Elder Sister Bao, and it was this reverence that kept me from ever having the courage to bring up our earlier encounter. To tell or not to tell, that is a question — over this I fretted and hesitated more than Hamlet ever did. Eight years passed, until I left home for university, and in the end I never spoke of that earlier connection.
Among the girls of the county seat, Elder Sister Bao wasn't actually that beautiful, but she was lively and outgoing, wrote with a bold hand like a boy's, and her artistic talent was universally recognized. Her specialty was playing elderly female roles. During the school's field training marches, around the campfire, it was always she who would sing a cappella as Grandma Sha or Grandma Li — she was truly the star of the propaganda troupe. In fifth grade, when the school organized the propaganda team to stage the full-length "The Red Lantern," she was naturally the only choice for Grandma Li. During open auditions, I got into the cast because word had it I could recite all eight model operas backward and forward, but the director soon discovered that while I could deliver every line, aria, and percussion cue in one seamless flow, I was simply not a performer — no voice, no stage presence. As a makeweight, I was assigned to play a walk-on, Japanese Soldier A, with not a single line in the entire play, merely kicking over a chair or table when I came on. The cast had three stars: a dashing boy playing Li Yuhe, Elder Sister Bao as Grandma Li, and a petite girl as Tiemei. These three not only commanded everyone's attention but also enjoyed special treatment during rehearsals, receiving all kinds of perks that made others envious. Playing a walk-on was somewhat discouraging, but at least I could observe Elder Sister Bao and little Sister Tiemei up close, sometimes holding their coats or bringing them water, earning a "thank you" that felt rather wonderful. This was the only time in my life I ever joined a theater production, and many years later, when I occasionally look in the mirror, I still can't shake the unsightly face of Japanese Soldier A.
My infatuation with Elder Sister Bao grew slowly and stubbornly, spanning my entire elementary and middle school years, but it was an absolute secret buried deep in my heart. Male and female classmates were separated as if by the Chu River and Han border; the distance between Japanese Soldier A and Grandma Li was vaster still — I wouldn't have dared dream of reaching so high. But then in middle school, we enjoyed a little over a year of good times known as the "Revisionist Resurgence," when teachers, parents, and students all began to value academic study once again. Students who did well in their lessons saw their social status soar. As study monitor and math class representative, I began to distinguish myself. My writing was read aloud as model compositions. The homeroom teacher, who also taught math, assigned me to lecture from the podium during self-study periods, tutoring classmates, and even let me grade homework and quizzes — I became something of a little teacher, swelling with pride. Elder Sister Bao, along with the female class president and the female Party secretary, were all on the class committee with me, and we began to interact. The distance between us gradually narrowed; she was now just a step away. Even so, I could only bury my feelings for Elder Sister Bao deep in my heart, until one day I nearly gave myself away. It was during the school sports meet. Seeing her watching the high jump finals, I drifted over to watch her. The universe floated away with the wind; the cheers sounded like voices from another world, flickering in and out. I sank into my own world, studying that face — not stunning, yet I could never look at it enough — acutely aware of my own guilty thoughts, and utterly brazen. Just then, she seemed to sense something and glanced back at me. That one look was sharper than a needle. I felt my secret pierced, found nowhere to hide, and fled in panic. For months afterward, I avoided her, never daring to meet her eyes even once.
By the time I took the college entrance exam in 1977, out of over two hundred classmates in our grade, only three were admitted to undergraduate programs in the first round. My brother and I occupied two of those seats. Classmates streamed to our home to offer congratulations. She came too, giving me a small notebook. On the first page she wrote: "Fly, favored child of heaven!" — a bold, sweeping hand, ethereal as if touched by the immortals.
— Written on October 10, 2013
Disappointed Sunshine
From elementary school through middle school, I was always a class officer — either study monitor or vice class president. After holding office so long, I took it for granted. When I entered high school, two schools merged, and a batch of students from No. 2 Middle School joined us. The new homeroom teacher was a bald old man — whether I had somehow offended him or he simply hadn't studied my record, the result was that he decided to exclude me from the class committee (the equivalent of the Politburo Standing Committee or senior management) and gave me the title of group leader (roughly equivalent to an alternate Politburo member or a supervisor at the grassroots). A class had four group leaders, each responsible for collecting homework from their group, but unable to participate in class committee decisions unless a major matter called for an "expanded standing committee meeting." At the time, I truly felt the sky was falling. The gloom of adolescent disappointment was something I couldn't share with anyone. Disheartened and listless, with no outlet, I turned somewhat cynical. Now I understand — politics is exhausting. No wonder those who flounder in officialdom seem so anguished.
In this time of political difficulty, one warm remark has stayed with me, never forgotten. There was a new female classmate from No. 2 Middle School, with two thick, dark braids, a poised and graceful manner, and a brilliant smile. She was the newly elected arts and culture committee member of our class, able to sing and dance, and all the boys liked her. Somehow, she sensed my disappointment and said to me: "It's all my fault, I'm the one to blame. I took your slot." To this day I have no idea why she said this — that by becoming the arts committee member, she had taken my place on the class committee. The study monitor position was held by a brat from No. 2 who was decent at Chinese; but the vice president post, an honorary role, could certainly have accommodated a six-term veteran like me if I had been admitted. Yet it was the homeroom teacher's dictatorship — whether I made the cut was entirely his call. In any case, that she could say such a thing truly moved me, especially coming from a girl of such sunny disposition whom everyone adored. She had a wonderful temperament, perceptive and empathetic, putting people at ease. Several later interactions only deepened this good impression.
Once, coming downstairs from the second-floor classroom, I casually spat — and to my horror, it landed right on her sleeve as she happened to be at the bottom of the stairs. In those days, nearly everyone spat wherever they pleased, and no one thought it a bad habit. But spitting on a female classmate's clothes — I was mortified beyond words. Yet she wasn't the least bit annoyed, simply wiped it off herself, and walked past me with the same smiling nod, as if nothing had happened. This small incident made her image towering and luminous in my mind — in my heart, she was like a saint.
— Written on December 7, 2008
朝华午拾 · 第九章：青涩少年（上）
春情
我的“初恋”是一位宝姐姐样的女孩儿。严格地说，不算恋，一般以为，“恋”必须是双向的。初次暗恋不算“恋”，画成树形图的话那是依从关系，不对等。不过，在文化革命年代，如果排除单相思，有资格谈初恋的怕是所剩不多了，大概不到5%，与阶级敌人的比例相当，主要分子多是被称为小流氓的“坏孩子”。占少年人口95%的我们革命学生不屑此道。当然，这些人岁数大了也还是结婚了，但为了结婚找革命伴侣的那种交往，与“初恋”意趣相去甚远，比暗恋更文不对题，不提也罢。
可毛泽东思想管不住暗恋和春情。我的暗恋萌芽于小学一年级，当时我六岁，正是大革命爆发的1966年。那年我们全家随父母从县城下放到何湾小镇，支持乡镇医院的开创和建设。在这个四面环山的偏远小镇，红小兵造反运动一样有声有色，要打倒学校走资本主义道路的当权派。这场革命，我太小无从介入，但也时而扮演那提浆糊桶的角色，帮助大哥哥大姐姐贴大字报。既然革命没多少我的事儿，童心中就有了小资温情的空间，这一切应该从“宝姐姐”的到来谈起。
宝姐姐是邻居阿姨带过来的，说是县城表姐的女儿，来乡下玩几天。第一次见她，与其说是宝姐姐，不如说是天上掉下来一个林妹妹。但她确实大我两岁，而且显然有小姐姐的范儿。宝姐姐长得与身边拖着鼻涕怯生生的乡镇小姑娘完全不同，一看就是城里人。梳着小辫儿，清秀端庄，乖巧大方，最让人赞叹的是她的多才多艺。阿姨让她背毛主席语录，她就伶牙俐齿用标准的普通话背诵《为人民服务》，一字不拉。阿姨又让她表演一段样板戏，她就唱了一段沙奶奶，有滋有味。我看得呆了。事到此，还不能算恋，只能说这样可人的女孩儿，让六岁的小屁孩儿心里种下了恋的萌芽。与无数人生邂逅一样，不久，宝姐姐就回县城了。虽然我老哥发起的造反组织“匕首小分队”成立壮大，不断出击，校园革命正如火如荼，但我心中的小镇却重归平静，不起波澜。
一年后，我们全家回到县城医院，正赶上真刀真枪的武斗岁月。县城小学停课多于上课，等武斗消停，全国山河一片红，各派革命大团结的时候，我们也糊里糊涂地升到了三年级。我搜索记忆，无论如何也想不起来如何与宝姐姐在学校重逢的了。这多少有些遗憾，但生活就是这样。总之，不知何年何月何日，我突然发现宝姐姐就在身边，与我同班。她显然完全不记得我了，而我从认出她那一刻起，直到后来一起上了中学，一直也没有跟她提起我们曾经相识于小镇。虽然很多次话到了口边，终于还是咽回去了。小镇上的邂逅让我对宝姐姐仰视，是这种仰视使得我一直没勇气提起我们以前曾经相遇。To tell or not to tell, that is a question, 为此比哈姆雷特还苦恼犹疑。一去就是八年，直到离乡上大学，终于未曾提起这段前缘。
在县城的女孩子中，宝姐姐其实并没有那么漂亮，但她活泼大方，写得一手男孩子一般的好字，文艺天赋是公认的。她最拿手的是老旦。学校组织拉练野营在外，围着篝火，清唱沙奶奶李奶奶的准是她，算是宣传队的腕儿了。五年级的时候，学校组织宣传队排演整场的《红灯记》，她自然是李奶奶的不二人选。海选时，我由于据传可以把八个样板戏倒背如流，也进了剧组，可导演老师很快发现我虽然道白唱段连锣鼓歌门儿均能一气呵成倒背如流，但实在不是文艺人，要嗓子没嗓子，要扮相没扮相。滥竽充数被指派跑龙套，扮鬼子甲，整台戏没一句台词，就是上场踢翻一两桌椅而已。剧组的明星有三：一个英气袭人的小子扮的李玉和，宝姐姐扮的李奶奶，还有一个小巧女孩儿演铁梅。这三位不仅千人瞩目，而且在排练中吃小灶，有种种优惠，让人羡慕。跑龙套多少有些让我气馁，但好在可以近距离观察宝姐姐和铁梅小妹妹演戏，有时给她们拿个衣服，递个水什么的，博得一声谢谢，感觉颇不赖。这是我一辈子唯一一次参加剧组，后来很多年以后，我偶然照镜子看自己，依然不改鬼子甲的不雅面相。
对宝姐姐的痴迷缓慢而倔强地增长，涵盖了我整个的小学和初中时代，但那是一个深藏心底的绝对秘密。男女同学楚河汉界，鬼子甲与李奶奶间更有天壤之遥，做梦也不敢高攀。可是到了初中，赶上了一年多“修正主义回潮”的好时光，一时间老师、家长和同学都开始重视文化课的学习。功课好的同学，社会地位就扶摇直上。我作为学习委员和数学课代表，开始在班级崭露头角。我写的东西作为范文被朗诵。班主任兼数学老师指派我每天自习课时间，上讲台讲解习题，辅导同学，还放手让我批改作业和测验题，俨然成了小老师，令我春风得意。宝姐姐、还有女班长和女支书和我都是班委会成员，开始有了接触。两人的距离逐步拉近，伊人只在一步之遥。尽管如此，我对宝姐姐的恋慕也只能深藏心底，直到有一天差点露馅儿。那是学校举行运动会的时候，见到她在观看跳高决赛，我也围过来观看她。宇宙随风飘去，欢呼声有如天外来音，时隐时现。我沉浸在自己的世界里，端详着这张并不艳丽却总也看不够的脸，自我感觉心怀鬼胎，而且放肆。就在这时候，她似有察觉，下意识地与我对视一眼，这一眼比针刺还厉害。我感觉天机被戳穿，无地以自容，赶紧仓皇逃离。此后的几个月，我总躲着她，从来不敢正眼瞧她一次。
到我77年考大学的时候，全年级200多同学，第一批只考取本科三人，我家兄弟占据两席，同学纷纷登门祝贺。她也来了，送我一个小笔记本，开篇写道：飞翔吧，天之骄子！龙飞凤舞，飘逸似有仙气。
记于2013年10月10日
失意阳光
从小学到初中，一直是班干部，不是学习委员就是副班长。这官当长了，就觉得理所当然。升高中，两个学校合并，加入了一批“二中”的人。新班主任是个秃老头，不知道哪里得罪了他，还是他没有研究我的履历，总之是他决定把我排除在班委会（相当于政治局常委或高管）之外，给了我一个小组长的头衔（相当于政治局候补委员或基层管理人员）。一个班有四个小组长，管本组收作业，但不能参与班委会决策，除非遇到大事召集“常委扩大会议”，才介入决策过程。当时真觉得天要塌了。少年失意的心情无法跟任何人叙说，心灰意懒，无所排解，转而很有些玩世不恭的样子。现在理解了，搞政治是很辛苦的，难怪见官场不顺的人显得那么痛苦。
在这仕途艰难之时，有一句温暖的话，让我至今感怀不忘。有一位二中新来的女同学，梳着两条又粗又黑的长辫子，为人落落大方，笑容很灿烂。她就是我们班新当选的文娱委员，能唱会跳，男生都很喜欢她。不知怎么，她察觉了我的失意，跟我说：“都怪我，都是我不好。是我占了你指标。” 我至今也不知道她怎么会有这样的说法，觉得是她当了文娱委员，把我的班委会入围指标占用了。学习委员的位置是二中来的一个语文不错的臭小子占据的，倒是副班长这个虚职，如果我入围，应该可以安置我这样的六朝元老。可是那是班主任独裁的体制，入围与否他老人家说了算。无论如何，她能这样说话，真地让我感激得很，尤其是出自这样一个性格阳光和人见人爱的女孩。她的性情特别好，善解人意，让人舒服。后来几次交往也加深了这种好印象。
有一次从二楼教室下楼，我随口一啐，没想到她正好在楼梯口，不偏不倚落在她袖口上。当年不懂五讲四美，几乎人人都随地吐痰，并不觉得是恶习。可口水吐到了女同学身上，还是羞得我无地自容。可她一点不恼，自己擦去，一样笑吟吟地从身边点头走过，好像什么事也没发生。这件小事使女孩的形象高大光辉起来，在我心目中有如圣女。
记于2008年12月7日
From 朝华午拾: Morning Glory at Noon. Original Chinese: 《朝华之九: 青涩少年》.
