“You are suffering from hong yen bing—red eye disease—envy,” I shoot back. But I’m frightened by his comments, because in my mural I was trying to send the message that the Great Leap Forward is a disaster.
Then Tao says something even worse, proving to everyone I’m not only a bad wife but also a traitor to Green Dragon Village and the commune.
“She’s always encouraging me to leave the village. She says I can have a better life if I go elsewhere.”
“That’s a lie!” I exclaim. “You’re the one who’s always asking me to write to my father to see if he can get you a travel permit or an internal passport. You’ve made it very clear that I’m a weight around your neck, preventing you from leaving the village. You’re the one who’s seeking praise and recognition. You’ve tried to claim the mural as your own.”
But who are the people in the canteen going to believe—someone they’ve known their entire lives or me? I’ve always thought of Party Secretary Feng Jin as an honest and straightforward man. I turn to him now, my hands outstretched in supplication.
“You must try to work this out,” he says. “A divorced woman is like a dried-up silkworm—ugly and totally useless to anyone.”
“But Tao has been sharing his time—”
“Enough!” Brigade Leader Lai orders. “Sit down, and let us hear from your comrades.”
Like that, my divorce turns into a struggle session as one after another person gets up to denounce me as a rightist element. They speak in low voices, as though they haven’t had a decent meal in a long time, and they haven’t. Then a young woman I recognize from one of the work teams walks to the area before the tribunal. The way she looks at Tao tells me she’s one of his girls. Seeing her causes my body to tense. Samantha wakes and begins to squirm.
“You wanted to be the star in the play the propaganda team mounted when you first came here,” the girl accuses. “You were always singling yourself out for special treatment. Ever since then, you’ve chosen to work in an individualistic way.”
“I came here to help the People’s Republic of China,” I say staunchly. “I wanted to serve the people, and I have.”
“You use the word I too often,” someone calls out. “I, I, I—that sounds like self-exaggeration, self-expression, and self-glorification of the individual.”
“You speak too frankly,” another states.
“And you brag—”
“Like a foreigner.”
“And your arm movements are too extravagant and expressive.” (This is true. I am more American than Chinese in this regard.)
The brigade leader gestures to the audience to quiet down, and then he addresses me directly. “Your comrades are telling you that your individualism has not yet been washed clean. You’ve also refused to open your heart to the Party. Understand, our criticism is meant to help you.”
Two pairs of arms reach under my armpits and lift me onto a table where people can see me better. More insults and accusations are hurled my way. It’s time for Samantha to eat, and she begins to cry. She’s a tiny little thing, but the sound that comes from her is both angry and desperate. My breasts respond, filling with milk. If I don’t feed her soon, my nipples will begin to leak. My situation should bring some sympathy, but it doesn’t.
“You’re concealing more serious defects by hiding behind trivial flaws,” Brigade Leader Lai says after another half hour of criticisms. “Let us hear more from the people who know you.”
Tao’s mother rises. Our relationship has been uneven at best and Tao is her son, but what she says isn’t as bad as it could be.
“You wanted a wedding ceremony and celebration, but these things aren’t necessary in the New China. You were crowing even then!”
One of Tao’s brothers steps forward. “Sometimes my sister-in-law gets a letter. She says it’s from her mother or aunt, but we can see it’s written in code.” He’s talking about the alphabet. “We have to rely on what she says is written there. She comes from our most ultrarightist imperialist enemy. How do we know she isn’t a spy?”
“What is there to spy on?” I ask, indignant. This boy has benefited from me in so many ways—from the packages of treats my mother and aunt have sent to the food that’s literally been taken from my bowl and put into his. Still, I have to be careful. Asking for a divorce is one thing, being labeled a spy is quite another.
“We sleep together in the main room,” Tao’s brother continues. “She doesn’t do enough to keep the baby from making noise. Just listen to her now.” Samantha helps his case with her cries. “None of us can sleep. My poor brother is so tired he no longer has the strength to paint.”
I want to say Tao’s tired because he’s hungry, working too hard in the fields, and playing around with too many young women, but I don’t because I’m grateful the accusations have turned back to something far less threatening than my being a spy.
He sits down and elbows Jie Jie, urging her to get up and say a few words against me. But she shakes her head no. I wish she had the courage to say something in my favor, but she doesn’t do that either. Still, I take her silence as a small victory.
A few more people criticize me. I didn’t work hard enough during the harvest. I wanted to win the corn-picking contest not for the glory of the team and the country but so I could boast about how important I was. I let my mother hug me in front of everyone.
I stand there, feeling bitter and angry. This is a great way to take people’s minds off their hunger and fatigue—work all day with no food, then come to a struggle session at night. Then someone kicks the leg of the table. It tips, and the baby and I fall. I turn my body so I can land on my back, protecting Samantha. I look up and see Kumei. I reach a hand out to her, believing she’s come to help me as I helped Yong. Instead, Kumei points a finger at me accusingly.
“You took baths—naked—in the villa’s kitchen,” she says. It breaks my heart that Kumei feels she must speak against me. But I understand. She has to protect herself, her son, and Yong. Still, this is stunning—shocking—information. The mood shifts yet again, turning ugly. I think of Yong’s struggle session. Fortunately no one has brought up how I helped her that day. Not yet anyway. But everyone’s hungry, everyone’s tired, and this could get violent.
I get up off the floor. Samantha is what my aunt May would call screaming bloody murder. I look directly at Sung-ling. Please help me. Sung-ling stands and raises her hands for silence. The audience quiets, which makes Samantha’s cries all the more pathetic. The village cadre’s voice is strident and harsh as she addresses me, but her eyes are not. Another show of kindness.