Chairman Mao Character Analysis

“Good, very good!” Teacher Song paused. She glanced over the class. “Yes, we want to wish Chairman Mao a long long life, because our great leader saved us. I’m sure your parents have told you many stories about the cruel life they lived under Chiang Kaishek’s Guomindang regime. They were cold, dark days indeed. That government only cared for the rich. Children like you couldn’t even dream of sitting here, but Chairman Mao made it possible in China to have this privilege. Today, I’ll teach you how to write ‘Long, long live Chairman Mao, I love Chairman Mao, you love Chairman Mao, we all love Chairman Mao.’ I’ll now write them on the blackboard. Pay special attention to the sequence of the strokes.” She turned to the blackboard and wrote several lines with furious pace.

I was stunned. I didn’t get the sequence of the strokes at all!

Everyone of all ages in China was encouraged to learn from [Lei Feng]. Everyone wanted to be a “Living Lei Feng.” […]

For a brief period some students stopped attending school or were late for classes because they said they were helping the elderly and the needy just like Lei Feng. But they were just being lazy, and the teachers soon found out. A moral, a “tonic story,” for these students were told in our class:

One day, Lei Feng was late for his military activity because he was carrying home an elderly lady with bound feet. The head of his army unit criticized him without knowing the real reason behind his tardiness. Lei Feng apologized and wrote in his diary that he should be able to do kind things for the needy as well as carrying out the normal required activities.

The numbers, our political heads explained, referred to 7 May 1970, when Madame Mao delivered a famous speech to the arts and education communities, using Chairman Mao’s philosophies to encourage all intellectuals to engage, both physically and mentally, with the three classes: peasants, workers, and soldiers. They were golden words to the Ministry of Culture, so they proposed that Madame Mao should be the artistic director of this new university, and that it should be located in the heart of the communes, where future artists could learn and work among the peasants every day. In such an isolated site, surrounded by communes and fields, students would be protected from any negative influences from the city. Madame Mao supported this idea, and the project quickly received the central government’s backing.

But in truth I didn’t really believe that playing with the birds would have caused any harm to Chairman Mao’s revolution at all. In truth I felt humiliated. I’d never had to do this in my old school.

My self-criticism passed the test easily, and my teacher and classmates burst into laughter when I read that last line. I also had to stand outside the classroom for a whole hour afterwards. “Cunxin, have you fed the poor birds yet?” the boys teased as they walked past, and my face burned with humiliation.

I hadn’t meant what I’d written. I hadn’t learned anything about serving Chairman Mao. All it made me realize was just how much freedom I was being denied. I would never be able to play with my beloved birds again. Now I was a bird trapped in a cage where even my feet had to conform to the rules.

Inside the envelope I found the most beautiful fountain pen. It was a deep royal blue, my favorite color. I could tell it was an expensive one. It would have cost my dia at least two yuan.

“I hope you will use it every day,” my dia said, “and every time you use it, you will remember your parents and our expectations of you. I don’t know what grades your classmates have received, but I hope you will come home with better grades next year. Don’t let us down. Let us be proud.”

I had expected my parents to talk to me about my poor grades. I had expected harsher words. But that pen, and the few words my dia said then, caused bigger waves inside me than any accusations could ever bring. He didn’t blame me. He didn’t accuse me, but I felt I had let him and my whole family down.

“You can tell this ballet was designed by a capitalist,” our political head said. “He has glorified the rich and portrayed the peasants as whores. What a contrast to our model ballets! Our three classes of people are our heroes!”

We were all Mao’s faithful children and we all wholeheartedly agreed […] but I couldn’t help quietly admiring Albrecht’s brilliant dancing […].

During the Cultural Revolution almost every new creation in art was a joint project. […New] works had to have a Communist Party leader as one of the main creators […]. There would normally be more than one choreographer, set designer, lighting designer, and composer […]. Individualism was firmly discouraged. The Red Detachment of Women, which we’d performed for Madame Mao, was one of those ballets, and it took eight years to complete. But once I’d seen the beautiful Giselle I began to doubt The Red Detachment of Women was quite so artistically brilliant.

“I wish to propose two toasts. The first is to all of you for putting up with me for over five and a half years of shouting and carrying on. This may be our last gathering together. I’m proud to be your teacher and I wish you all the best of luck. You’re Chairman and Madame Mao’s last generation of dancers. You have studied under the most strict and disciplined rules imaginable, but this will give you an edge over the others. You’ll be the last dancers of the era.” Teacher Xiao stopped briefly to calm his emotions. “I’ll boldly make a prediction. Your dance training will never be duplicated. Your dancing will proudly stand high in Chinese ballet history.”

He paused again. “My second toast is to Cunxin’s American trip. I hope you will respect your past and charge toward the future. Perfect your art form. Make all of China proud.”

“I’m only one of millions of victims,” my brother explained to Mary. “I am, like so many people in China, still amazed at how badly I was manipulated and betrayed by Mao and the Gang of Four. The Red Guards of yesterday were the epitome of the communist spirit. Now we are searching for answers. We have to live with our injured pride and lost beliefs.”

I felt so much sorrow for Cuncia. I knew what he said was true—he had spent the best part of his youth pursuing nothing but propaganda. But the Cultural Revolution didn’t just rob him of his youth; it crushed and destroyed his spirit and his soul. His trust in society had vanished. Even his sacred family values had been called into question by Mao and the Cultural Revolution.

“Good, very good!” Teacher Song paused. She glanced over the class. “Yes, we want to wish Chairman Mao a long long life, because our great leader saved us. I’m sure your parents have told you many stories about the cruel life they lived under Chiang Kaishek’s Guomindang regime. They were cold, dark days indeed. That government only cared for the rich. Children like you couldn’t even dream of sitting here, but Chairman Mao made it possible in China to have this privilege. Today, I’ll teach you how to write ‘Long, long live Chairman Mao, I love Chairman Mao, you love Chairman Mao, we all love Chairman Mao.’ I’ll now write them on the blackboard. Pay special attention to the sequence of the strokes.” She turned to the blackboard and wrote several lines with furious pace.

I was stunned. I didn’t get the sequence of the strokes at all!

Everyone of all ages in China was encouraged to learn from [Lei Feng]. Everyone wanted to be a “Living Lei Feng.” […]

For a brief period some students stopped attending school or were late for classes because they said they were helping the elderly and the needy just like Lei Feng. But they were just being lazy, and the teachers soon found out. A moral, a “tonic story,” for these students were told in our class:

One day, Lei Feng was late for his military activity because he was carrying home an elderly lady with bound feet. The head of his army unit criticized him without knowing the real reason behind his tardiness. Lei Feng apologized and wrote in his diary that he should be able to do kind things for the needy as well as carrying out the normal required activities.

The numbers, our political heads explained, referred to 7 May 1970, when Madame Mao delivered a famous speech to the arts and education communities, using Chairman Mao’s philosophies to encourage all intellectuals to engage, both physically and mentally, with the three classes: peasants, workers, and soldiers. They were golden words to the Ministry of Culture, so they proposed that Madame Mao should be the artistic director of this new university, and that it should be located in the heart of the communes, where future artists could learn and work among the peasants every day. In such an isolated site, surrounded by communes and fields, students would be protected from any negative influences from the city. Madame Mao supported this idea, and the project quickly received the central government’s backing.

But in truth I didn’t really believe that playing with the birds would have caused any harm to Chairman Mao’s revolution at all. In truth I felt humiliated. I’d never had to do this in my old school.

My self-criticism passed the test easily, and my teacher and classmates burst into laughter when I read that last line. I also had to stand outside the classroom for a whole hour afterwards. “Cunxin, have you fed the poor birds yet?” the boys teased as they walked past, and my face burned with humiliation.

I hadn’t meant what I’d written. I hadn’t learned anything about serving Chairman Mao. All it made me realize was just how much freedom I was being denied. I would never be able to play with my beloved birds again. Now I was a bird trapped in a cage where even my feet had to conform to the rules.

Inside the envelope I found the most beautiful fountain pen. It was a deep royal blue, my favorite color. I could tell it was an expensive one. It would have cost my dia at least two yuan.

“I hope you will use it every day,” my dia said, “and every time you use it, you will remember your parents and our expectations of you. I don’t know what grades your classmates have received, but I hope you will come home with better grades next year. Don’t let us down. Let us be proud.”

I had expected my parents to talk to me about my poor grades. I had expected harsher words. But that pen, and the few words my dia said then, caused bigger waves inside me than any accusations could ever bring. He didn’t blame me. He didn’t accuse me, but I felt I had let him and my whole family down.

“You can tell this ballet was designed by a capitalist,” our political head said. “He has glorified the rich and portrayed the peasants as whores. What a contrast to our model ballets! Our three classes of people are our heroes!”

We were all Mao’s faithful children and we all wholeheartedly agreed […] but I couldn’t help quietly admiring Albrecht’s brilliant dancing […].

During the Cultural Revolution almost every new creation in art was a joint project. […New] works had to have a Communist Party leader as one of the main creators […]. There would normally be more than one choreographer, set designer, lighting designer, and composer […]. Individualism was firmly discouraged. The Red Detachment of Women, which we’d performed for Madame Mao, was one of those ballets, and it took eight years to complete. But once I’d seen the beautiful Giselle I began to doubt The Red Detachment of Women was quite so artistically brilliant.

“I wish to propose two toasts. The first is to all of you for putting up with me for over five and a half years of shouting and carrying on. This may be our last gathering together. I’m proud to be your teacher and I wish you all the best of luck. You’re Chairman and Madame Mao’s last generation of dancers. You have studied under the most strict and disciplined rules imaginable, but this will give you an edge over the others. You’ll be the last dancers of the era.” Teacher Xiao stopped briefly to calm his emotions. “I’ll boldly make a prediction. Your dance training will never be duplicated. Your dancing will proudly stand high in Chinese ballet history.”

He paused again. “My second toast is to Cunxin’s American trip. I hope you will respect your past and charge toward the future. Perfect your art form. Make all of China proud.”

“I’m only one of millions of victims,” my brother explained to Mary. “I am, like so many people in China, still amazed at how badly I was manipulated and betrayed by Mao and the Gang of Four. The Red Guards of yesterday were the epitome of the communist spirit. Now we are searching for answers. We have to live with our injured pride and lost beliefs.”

I felt so much sorrow for Cuncia. I knew what he said was true—he had spent the best part of his youth pursuing nothing but propaganda. But the Cultural Revolution didn’t just rob him of his youth; it crushed and destroyed his spirit and his soul. His trust in society had vanished. Even his sacred family values had been called into question by Mao and the Cultural Revolution.