HAN-PING CHIN
440
myself from falling asleep. The janitor used a hand bell to mark
the time, and the jingling sound was very comforting. I would
put my head on my desk until my classmates woke me for the
next class.
It
was satisfying to be able to help my father in some
way, and to do something to redeem the loss of the fountain pen.
But my hauling job did not last long. Since inflation had
rendered paper money worthless, a group of middle school
teachers opened up a coal pit as a sideline. They hired Father to
weigh the wheelbarrows and write invoices to the carriers-our
situation turned for the better. The creditors did not come as often
as before, and I didn't have to get up so early. However, I did not
know how long Father could keep his job or how long my
schooling could continue. I was the only one among two years of
elementary school graduates to get into public middle school. A
few students from rich families went to private school, but the
majority of students became child workers, peddlers or peasants.
I felt lucky that my father had not yet yielded to circumstances,
but had persevered so I could continue my studies.
I was awakened to my new fortunate status when I saw a
former classmate, a small fellow named Wong, selling water
chestnuts outside the front door of our middle school. I had al–
ready become estranged from my former classmates. I liked to
play with other children, but I felt guilty when I spent too much
time having fun. I remembered Mother's words and gave up
some of my amusements.
One Sunday afternoon, I was studying by the window
while Father chatted with our neighbors on the porch shared by
the two families . They sat on tiny stools, the men with their tea
cups and water pipes, the women with their needlework. The
topic of their gossip was local news, and for quite a while they
commented on the children in our community. One woman
used me as a shining example of boyhood to lay shame to her
own son, and another woman used me to discredit a boy whose
mother she hated.
When I tried to concentrate on my book, the clanging
sound of a gong came closer, then the rushing footsteps of chil–
dren. A crowd passed our door. From the rhythm of the gong, I
knew there would be a monkey show. The direction of the grad–
ually vanishing noises told me where the crowd was going. My
mind followed them. I thought the best place would probably be
