Life and Death are Wearing Me Out

ox-demons and snake-spirits, and the capitalist-roaders. Hong Taiyue had managed to slip by during the Four Clean-ups, but not the Cultural Revolution. A paper dunce cap rested on his head; a big-character poster in forceful ancient script was pasted on his back. One look told me it was more of Ximen Jinlong’s handiwork. Hong was carrying the hip bone of an ox with brass rings on the edges, a reminder of his glorious history. The ill-fitting dunce cap kept tipping to the side, forcing him to reach up and hold it steady with his hand. If he was slow in doing so, a bushy-browed young man behind him kicked him in the rear. Who was he? None other than my half brother, Ximen Jinlong. Publicly he was known as Lan Jinlong. He was smart enough to know not to change his surname, because that would make him the offspring of a tyrannical landlord, a subhuman. My dad was an independent farmer, but his status as a farmhand did not change. The farmhand designation was like gold that glittered brightly during those times. It was priceless.
    My brother was wearing a real army tunic, which he’d gotten from his friend Little Chang. Beneath the tunic, he was wearing blue flannel trousers and plastic white-soled khaki shoes. A wide leather belt with a brass buckle circled his waist; it was the type worn by Eighth Route or New Fourth Army soldiers. Now he was wearing one. He had rolled up his sleeves; the Red Guard armband hung loosely from his upper arm. All the villagers’ red armbands had been stitched together with red fabric, the words added in yellow with a stencil. My brother’s was made of silk, the words embroidered in gold-colored thread. Throughout the county there were only ten of those, all embroidered overnight by the finest seamstress in the county handicraft factory; she spit up blood and died when she was halfway through the tenth one, which, owing to the bloodstains, spoke of the tragedy. That was the one my brother wore; embroidered only with the word Red, and stained with the maker’s blood. My sister, Ximen Baofeng, had embroidered the word Guard fot him. He came into possession of this treasured item when he went to the headquarters of the Golden Monkey Red Guard faction to call on his friend Braying Jackass. The two “jackasses,” excited to see one another again after so long, shook hands, embraced, and shared a revolutionary salute, after which they exchanged news of what had happened since they were last together and talked about the revolutionary situation in the village. Now I wasn’t there at the time, but I’m positive that Braying Jackass asked after my sister, since she was surely on his mind.
    My brother had gone to the county seat to “fetch scriptures.” Trouble was brewing in the village when the Cultural Revolution broke out, but no one knew just how to nip it in the bud. He had a knack for getting to the root of a problem, so all Braying Jackass had to say was: Struggle against the Party cadres the same way we did against the tyrannical landlord! Obviously, no quarter was to be given to the landlords, rich peasants, and counterrevolutionaries already beaten down by the Communist Party either.
    My brother understood exactly what to do as hot blood raced through his veins. As he was leaving, Braying Jackass handed him the unfinished red armband and a spool of gold-colored silk thread. Your sister is a clever girl, he said, she can finish it for you. My brother reached into his knapsack and took out a gift for him from my sister: a pair of insoles embroidered in multicolored threads. For girls from our area to give anyone insoles was a virtual pledge to marry. The pattern was of a pair of mandarin ducks frolicking in the water. The reds and greens, the exquisitely fine stitches, and the poignant pattern all bespoke deep affection. The two “jackasses” blushed. As he accepted the gift, Braying Jackass said: Please tell Comrade Lan Baofeng that mandarin ducks and butterflies all represent sentiments belonging to the landlords and capitalist-roaders. Proletarian aesthetics are found in green pine trees, the red sun, the vast oceans, high mountains, torches, scythes, and axes. If she wants to do embroidery, she should concentrate on those. My brother nodded solemnly, promising to pass on the comment. The commander then took off his army tunic and said in a somber tone: An instructor friend of mine in the army gave this to me. See, four pockets, an authentic officer’s tunic. The guy who