Chapter Thirty-Seven: Xu Chengjun—Don’t Let “Isms” Confine Your Life!

July 16, 1979. Dawn had just crept over the arcades of Changjiang Road in Hefei.

Old Wang, the newspaper vendor, pedaled his Forever-brand bicycle over the blue flagstones.

In the wire basket behind his seat, the freshly printed Anhui Youth Daily still carried a hint of ink. The bold headline on the front page, “Labor Theory from the Weighing Star,” gleamed in the morning mist.

“Special interview with Xu Chengjun! A youth from Fengyang talks about self-employment—What’s the use of arguing over ‘isms’ about labor!” Old Wang’s shout bounced off the gray brick walls and startled a flock of sparrows from the locust trees.

“The educated youth who wrote ‘Weighing Star’?”

Workers in blue overalls, just off the night shift, their enamel mugs still steaming, crowded around the stall. “I’ll take a copy! Heard on the radio yesterday this article would stir things up!”

Old Li, the lathe operator, stuffed the paper into his toolbox. The clatter of metal was mingled with his laughter: “Tonight, I’ll tell my wife we should set up a shoe repair stand!”

...

The flagstones at the post office entrance gleamed from countless footsteps. Old Zhang, the doorman, had barely placed a stack of Anhui Youth Daily on the window sill before a crowd closed in.

A worker in blue overalls clutched two fen in his fist, tapping the headline, “Labor Theory from the Weighing Star,” again and again. “Give me one! Heard Xu the educated youth scolded those ‘ism’ arguments—I have to see for myself!”

Old Zhang tied the newspapers into small bundles with hemp string, sweat from his brow dripping onto the bold words, “What’s the use of arguing over ‘isms’ about labor.” “Don’t rush! One copy per person—the comrades from the factories are still waiting!”

He spotted a girl in a floral blouse craning her neck and handed her a copy. “Isn’t your father thinking about setting up a sewing stall? This paper is as good as a protective talisman!”

Beneath the plane trees at the university entrance, students in school badges crowded around the bulletin board, their fingertips tracing white marks across the line “Youth Must Be Wild.”

“He says, ‘If you’re afraid of being laughed at, you’ll never get anything done!’” A ponytailed girl folded the paper into a square and tucked it into her textbook. “I’ll use this line at the debate with the department chair this afternoon!”

A bespectacled boy beside her tugged her sleeve. “Lu Xiaoxiao! Mind your words!”

...

At the Mingjiao Temple market, dew still clung to the string beans as the vendors set up their stalls. Suddenly, a rush of hurried footsteps disturbed their morning.

A young man with an army-green satchel weaved through the crowd, clutching the Anhui Youth Daily. “Special interview with Xu Chengjun! ‘Labor Theory from the Weighing Star’—There’s no shame in being self-employed!”

The woman selling sweet potatoes straightened and spread the paper out over her pile, running her finger over the line “What’s the use of arguing over ‘isms’ about labor.” Suddenly she slapped her thigh. “Isn’t it true! I sell sweet potatoes, he repairs bikes—we all earn honest money!”

At the meat stall, the butcher snatched the paper with greasy hands, the meat hooks still swaying. “‘If you’re afraid of others talking behind your back, don’t take on big responsibilities’—that’s powerful!”

He brought his cleaver down on the chopping block, a splatter of fat landing on the paper. “My brother’s trading Dacron in Shanghai, always afraid of being called a ‘speculator’—I have to mail him this paper!”

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The housewives in blue blouses passed the paper around the vegetable stand, the eggs in their bamboo baskets knocking softly together. “Look at old Zhou, had his sign torn down three times and still carries on,” “I’ve been thinking about sewing cloth shoes to sell at the market—always afraid the neighbors would laugh…”

A nearby aunt snatched the words: “Laugh at what? Xu the educated youth said it—if you make a living with your own skills, you can stand tall!”

At the tofu stall around the corner, the shopkeeper pasted the paper to a wooden board, brushing it smooth with glue. “Let’s read it together!”

He knocked his copper ladle against the vat. “‘The individual is a stream, the collective a great river.’ We tofu sellers add water to the river, too, don’t we?”

The people in line gathered round; someone pulled out a pen to copy sentences onto a cigarette pack, saying they’d take them back to the commune for the educated youth to read.

By the time the sun was high, the paper had reached the hands of the nightsoil worker.

He leaned his carrying pole against the wall, pointed his filthy finger at the line “Youth Must Be Wild,” and grinned. “My kid wants to study and go to college, but he’s always afraid people will say he’s ‘a toad wanting to eat swan meat.’ He needs to see this—‘Don’t believe those binding clichés.’ Daring to dream is true ability!”

...

In the office of the Writers’ Association.

A copy of the Anhui Youth Daily lay on Su Zhong’s desk, several passages marked in red, glaring even in sunlight.

The red pen highlighted:

Ma Shengli: Young people want to set up stalls, want to strike out on their own, but are always told they’re ‘restless.’ What does it really mean to be ‘content’?

Xu Chengjun: Contentment is not squatting in place waiting to die. I’ve seen educated youth in the countryside who could repair radios but were afraid of being called idle, and in the end turned into sullen gourds. If policy opens a crack, you should squeeze through toward the light. If you always wait for someone else to lay the road at your feet, that’s laziness, not contentment.

Ma Shengli: Where do you think writers should stand?

Xu Chengjun: On the side of the wheat fields, on the side of the shoe repair stand, on the side of the sunflower seed vendor. Don’t always write those high-flown ‘grand theories’—look more at the wild grass at the wall’s edge. No one waters it, yet it grows just the same. The pen isn’t for whitewashing peace, but for exposing false propriety.

Ma Shengli: Must the collective and the individual be at odds?

Xu Chengjun: Why so many adversaries? The collective is a great river, the individual a stream. When the streams run dry, the river dries too. Last year, the county’s state-run factory lacked parts—it was the self-employed who worked overnight to make them; when the commune’s granary leaked, it was the villagers who brought their ladders to patch it up. When there’s work, there’s no ‘us’ or ‘them’—but when it comes to ‘isms,’ suddenly everyone gets worked up. Isn’t that just putting on airs?

...

Ma Shengli: Aren’t you afraid people will say ‘this topic is too sensitive’?

Xu Chengjun: I’m writing about people’s hearts, not ‘sensitive’ topics. Just like old Zhou’s sunflower seeds—you don’t know if they’re sweet until you taste them.

Ma Shengli: Any final advice for young people?

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Xu Chengjun: Don’t believe those binding clichés. Your strength is your own, your life is your own—do what you want to do. The sky won’t fall, and if it does, there are those brave enough to hold it up.

...

Su Zhong was enveloped in smoke, silent for a long time.

Only after a while did he let out a snort of laughter: “That rascal!”

...

What Su Zhong didn’t know was this:

Before writing “The Fitting Room Mirror,” Xu Chengjun had gone alone to the Anhui Youth Daily, found Editor-in-Chief Li, felt he hadn’t said enough, and insisted on revising the interview content—he even wanted to change “Anhui Youth Daily Interview Transcript: Xu Chengjun—Labor Theory from the Weighing Star” to “Xu Chengjun: Don’t Let ‘Isms’ Box in Life!”

Editor-in-Chief Li pondered for three days, hesitated for three days, smoked five packs of cigarettes, scolded his son seven times...

In the end, he added the passages Su Zhong had marked in red to the interview, but didn’t change the headline.

When the publication was confirmed, Editor-in-Chief Zhang shook his head again and again: “Earth-shattering! Earth-shattering!”

This column will be a sensation!

Notoriety is still fame!

...

Meanwhile, Xu the educated youth’s “explosive opinions” were spreading like wildfire through every corner of Hefei—from old Wang on his bicycle selling papers, to the post office...

Like a stone thrown into a still pond, it set off a thunderclap in Hefei!

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At that moment, Xu the educated youth was on a train, pondering the mystery of the “special hard sleeper”...

“Hey, big sister, do you think it’s cooler under the seat or sitting up here?”

“I told you intellectuals lack experience—do you even need to ask that…”