the th of the ugly man
i was born in a state-owned factory in south China in Dec 1981. Back then, only five years after the Decade, a state-owned factory was still the main form of economy across the country. it was usually very large with tens of thousands of people employed, and located away but not too far from downtown. mine was about 15km from town and it took 1 hour to go there by bus. this factory, as any other factory, had all the accoutrements there was to be, a hospital, a nursery, a school complex, a public shower lounge, a dining hall, living quarters and dorms... anyway this was a mini-town where people worked together and thus get more closely related, in both good and bad sense. At that time it would make one feel superior if he worked in a factory as workers had been claimed one of the major leading forces of the country and did enjoy a better living standard. but this sense of superiority was not so obviously felt since everyone around you were the same. as there wasn't huge disparity in pay, welfare or ranking, the most easily heard stories were about minor interests such as who took a little bit more space in the landing or who raised chickens which gave off bad smell all over the neighborhood. sometimes they were quite something to see.
my father was a repairman. he went on call for repairing different things, gates, chairs, nozzles, parts from machines. he also did plumber's work and was able to make things like a small table or box. in a word, he went on site, checked the situation and solved the problem. he was a conscientious worker and his work, though usually not beautifully or neatly done, was passable. he was not the best, but he always had an idea and did it with determination and full execution. things always worked after being tinkered by him. and i, his only son, have been one of those fixing jobs. the only difference: i was a long-term one. once a model works in one thing, you tend to think it will also work in another. that's a mystery of life, because you would never expect what you have already know to be good or successful may not be reliable when something else comes in question.
wrench and hammer were used on the repairing tasks, while slapping and slashing were on me. it's ok for a father to beat his child in Chinese culture as long as he thinks all right. and it's only until recently that alternative ways of discipline on children's development are seen as more human. other kids were also disciplined this way. so i accepted it, i had to, even if it was too frequent, hard, humiliating and unpredictable. i don't remember how many times, but every time it must have been a big scene, with him yelling at the top of his lung and me crying at mine. it must have been heard by all the neighbors because even my far-away-living classmates who i met the next day would sometimes ask me if i had been beaten again. i remember one of the most frequently used tools for beating me was his belt, the most comfortable one as i felt it. i would cry for sure, but seeing him unbelting himself was a kind of reassurance: "luckily" it's not something else. the width of the belt would reduce the intensity and usually it wouldn't break the skin, otherwise the wound would be sensitive to water or any touching. the most horrible thing was the bamboo branch which could easily been dragged out from brooms. it had won a fame for its availability, tremendous and long-lasing pain, and a visible area of scar or wound as reminders of pain and shame. i still remember people's silent eyes in the public shower lounge when they saw it. he told me he never hit me in the chest, abdomen, back, the back of my head or between the legs, so as to protect me from serious injury, which was true. he said he did that to mean he didn't really want to hurt me and beating was a form of love from parents. maybe he was right, i was a naughty boy. but this placed my butt in an awkward situation, because that would be the thing i needed to sit on in school everyday. i needed to keep switching in the seat.
One typical spectacle of beating, going on 15 to 30 mins, was like this: i would be stripped up to the chest, my cloth stuffed tightly around my neck and my back exposed for pressing, and down to the knees, my trousers tangling my step if i tried to run away and my butt exposed for slashing. he had the overwhelming palm that could almost cover my whole back. when my abdomen was pressed against the cold stool, there would not be anything else for my hands to clutch except the stool legs. neither could i see anything but the ground, so i had to drop my tears directly there. at beginning my stupid butt was trying vainly to avoid the strike by twisting to the side. it would take some time for it to learn the lesson, the first of which was to meet the strike with different areas each time. a stricken area as large as possible would not leave one particular part with too much pain. my soul was in tears but my rational butt would get used to the rhythm of his strike. gradually it got to learn that it would be a little bit more comfortable if the muscle on it contracted at the very moment of the strike. it didn't work only occasionally when he got out of breath in yelling or decided to take a rest for a new round of strikes. man gets tired. it was not my fault to contract at the wrong timing. i couldn't see it. and to take a breath and rest was also what i needed. besides that, i could hear the steps of my mom and voices of my neighbors, coming and going.
slapping in the face, as i remember from now, was no less devastating even if i didn't realize that then. he was such a perfect slapper that if there were a kid-slapping Olympics he would win the gold medal hands down. with such accuracy, swiftness and unpredicability, it was like the strike of a coiled viper. the real horrifying elemnt in slapping was mental. since it usually came without any sign and it took no time for a man to raise his hands. in my memory, it was the first time i felt the swell of adrenalin but after many times of practicing, i got a skill of my own -- to let it not interfere with my mind and stay there gazing into the distance. it often preceded a real slashing session, but not necessarily. his slapping skill was so masterfully exercised that those reported cases of deaf children after being slapped never happened to me, in the name of love, i guess. i can still hear things with both ears now.
sometimes i succeeded holding up crying out loud but mostly it was unbearable and i had no time to gather strength in my heart before the blows stormed on me. mom usually offered no cover.
my father was a repairman. he went on call for repairing different things, gates, chairs, nozzles, parts from machines. he also did plumber's work and was able to make things like a small table or box. in a word, he went on site, checked the situation and solved the problem. he was a conscientious worker and his work, though usually not beautifully or neatly done, was passable. he was not the best, but he always had an idea and did it with determination and full execution. things always worked after being tinkered by him. and i, his only son, have been one of those fixing jobs. the only difference: i was a long-term one. once a model works in one thing, you tend to think it will also work in another. that's a mystery of life, because you would never expect what you have already know to be good or successful may not be reliable when something else comes in question.
wrench and hammer were used on the repairing tasks, while slapping and slashing were on me. it's ok for a father to beat his child in Chinese culture as long as he thinks all right. and it's only until recently that alternative ways of discipline on children's development are seen as more human. other kids were also disciplined this way. so i accepted it, i had to, even if it was too frequent, hard, humiliating and unpredictable. i don't remember how many times, but every time it must have been a big scene, with him yelling at the top of his lung and me crying at mine. it must have been heard by all the neighbors because even my far-away-living classmates who i met the next day would sometimes ask me if i had been beaten again. i remember one of the most frequently used tools for beating me was his belt, the most comfortable one as i felt it. i would cry for sure, but seeing him unbelting himself was a kind of reassurance: "luckily" it's not something else. the width of the belt would reduce the intensity and usually it wouldn't break the skin, otherwise the wound would be sensitive to water or any touching. the most horrible thing was the bamboo branch which could easily been dragged out from brooms. it had won a fame for its availability, tremendous and long-lasing pain, and a visible area of scar or wound as reminders of pain and shame. i still remember people's silent eyes in the public shower lounge when they saw it. he told me he never hit me in the chest, abdomen, back, the back of my head or between the legs, so as to protect me from serious injury, which was true. he said he did that to mean he didn't really want to hurt me and beating was a form of love from parents. maybe he was right, i was a naughty boy. but this placed my butt in an awkward situation, because that would be the thing i needed to sit on in school everyday. i needed to keep switching in the seat.
One typical spectacle of beating, going on 15 to 30 mins, was like this: i would be stripped up to the chest, my cloth stuffed tightly around my neck and my back exposed for pressing, and down to the knees, my trousers tangling my step if i tried to run away and my butt exposed for slashing. he had the overwhelming palm that could almost cover my whole back. when my abdomen was pressed against the cold stool, there would not be anything else for my hands to clutch except the stool legs. neither could i see anything but the ground, so i had to drop my tears directly there. at beginning my stupid butt was trying vainly to avoid the strike by twisting to the side. it would take some time for it to learn the lesson, the first of which was to meet the strike with different areas each time. a stricken area as large as possible would not leave one particular part with too much pain. my soul was in tears but my rational butt would get used to the rhythm of his strike. gradually it got to learn that it would be a little bit more comfortable if the muscle on it contracted at the very moment of the strike. it didn't work only occasionally when he got out of breath in yelling or decided to take a rest for a new round of strikes. man gets tired. it was not my fault to contract at the wrong timing. i couldn't see it. and to take a breath and rest was also what i needed. besides that, i could hear the steps of my mom and voices of my neighbors, coming and going.
slapping in the face, as i remember from now, was no less devastating even if i didn't realize that then. he was such a perfect slapper that if there were a kid-slapping Olympics he would win the gold medal hands down. with such accuracy, swiftness and unpredicability, it was like the strike of a coiled viper. the real horrifying elemnt in slapping was mental. since it usually came without any sign and it took no time for a man to raise his hands. in my memory, it was the first time i felt the swell of adrenalin but after many times of practicing, i got a skill of my own -- to let it not interfere with my mind and stay there gazing into the distance. it often preceded a real slashing session, but not necessarily. his slapping skill was so masterfully exercised that those reported cases of deaf children after being slapped never happened to me, in the name of love, i guess. i can still hear things with both ears now.
sometimes i succeeded holding up crying out loud but mostly it was unbearable and i had no time to gather strength in my heart before the blows stormed on me. mom usually offered no cover.
