A candid memoir of growing up during the Chinese Cultural Revolution that is sure to inspire.
Da Chen grew up as an outcast in Communist China. His family’s legacy had been one of privilege prior to the revolution, but now in the Chairman Mao era, they are treated with scorn. For Da Chen, that means that all of his successes and academic achievements are nullified when one teacher tells him that, because of his “family’s crimes,” he can never be more than a poor farmer. Feeling his fate is hopeless, Da responds by dropping out.
Da’s life takes a dark turn, and he soon begins hanging out with a gang. However, all is not lost. After Chairman Mao’s death, Da realizes that an education and college might be possible. He begins to study–all day and into the night. His entire family rallies to help him succeed, working long hours in the rice fields and going into debt to ensure that Da has an education.
Their struggle would not be in vain. When the final exam results are posted, Da has one of the highest scores in the region, earning him a place at the prestigious Beijing University and a future free from the scars of his past.
This inspiring memoir, adapted for young readers from Colors of the Mountain, is one that will rally readers to defy the odds.
Praise for China’s Son
“Humor and unflinching honesty inform the narrative, which is shot through with lyrical descriptions.”—Publishers Weekly
“Da Chen’s narrative moves smoothly, communicating setting and character with an immediacy that will draw young readers in.”—Kirkus Reviews
An Excerpt fromChina's Son
I was born in southern China in 1962, in the tiny town of Yellow Stone. They called it the Year of Great Starvation. Chairman Mao had had a parting of the ways with the Soviets, and now they wanted all their loans repaid or there would be blood, a lot of it.
Mao panicked. He ordered his citizens to cut down on meals and be hungry heroes so he could repay the loans. The superstitious citizens of Yellow Stone still saw the starving ghosts of those who had died during that year chasing around and sobbing for food on the eve of the spring Tomb Sweeping Festival.
That year also saw a forbidding drought that made fields throughout China crack like wax. For the first time, the folks of Yellow Stone saw the bottom of the Dong jing River. Rice plants turned yellow and withered young.
Dad wanted to give me the name Han, which means "drought." But that would have been like naming a boy in Hiroshima Atom Bomb. And since the Chinese believe that their names dictate their fate, I would have probably ended up digging ditches, searching for water in some wasteland. So Dad named me Da, which means "prosperity."
The unfortunate year of my birth left a permanent flaw in my character: I was always hungry. I yearned for food. I could talk, think, and dream about it forever. As an infant, I ate with a large, adult spoon. I would open wide while they shoveled in the porridge. My grandmother said she had never seen an easier baby to feed.
Ours was a big family, and I was at the bottom. There were a great many people above me, with, at the top, my bald, long-bearded grandpa and my square-faced, large-boned grandma. Dad looked mostly like Grandma, but he had Grandpa's smiling eyes. Mom seemed very tiny next to my broad-chested dad. Sister Si was the eldest of my siblings, a big girl who took after Dad in personality and physique. jin, my brother, had Mom's elegant features; we still haven't figured out just who my middle sister, Ke, looks like. Huang, who is a year older than me, grew up to be a tall, thin girl, a beauty with enormous eyes.
We lived in an old house that faced the only street in Yellow Stone. Our backyard led to the clear Dong Jing River, zigzagging like a dragon on land. The lush, odd-shaped Ching Mountain stood beyond the endless rice paddies like an ancient giant with a pointed hat, round shoulders, and head bent in gentle slumber.
We rarely left our house to play because Mom said there were many bad people waiting to hurt us. When I did go out to buy food in the commune's grocery store a few blocks away, I always walked in the middle, safely flanked by my three sisters as we hurried in and out. Neighborhood boys sometimes threw stones at us, made ugly faces, and called us names. I always wondered why they did that. It was obviously not for fun. My sisters often cried as we ran and dodged and slammed our door shut behind us.