《时代的齿轮：1978年的两记闷棍，与那些散落世间的奇妙重逢》

一、遲到的「真相」

2026年7月底上網查資料，才知道1977年的高考是各省自主命題，而1978年的是全國統一命題。78年全國高考作文是要考生把一篇長文縮寫成500至600字的短文。那篇文章的題目是《速度問題是一個政治問題》意在考察學生對核心觀點的提煉能力。題目材料以華國鋒等領導人講話為核心，強調經濟發展速度對國家政治穩定的重要性。文中引用毛澤東的建設方針；批判「四人幫」的錯誤路線。

二、自嘲與當下的AI

天哪！老實說 估計從考場出來的那一剎那，我就已經將語文考的是什麼徹徹底底地給忘到爪哇國去了。多麼枯燥的內容啊！我一向對政治不感興趣，又缺乏提煉、縮寫的能力，難怪會考的不及格！我只考了54分。

提煉核心觀點 總結內容綱要，這種能力是我至今的短板。現在做油管短視頻，我把故事記錄下來後，都要請 Gemini AI 幫我做個內容提要、簡介的。

三、中學的「陰影」

記得在中學時代，我們班48個學生分成四組，老師讓我當第四組的小組長。每次小組討論後，各組長都要站起來面對全班同學，簡明扼要地匯報小組的討論情況和結果，那是最令我難堪的事。

打小母親就不讓我與女孩子們扎堆兒，說那是嘰嘰喳喳 瘋瘋癲癲沒教養。所以我沒有練嘴皮子的機會，說話拙嘴笨舌，再加上我是第四個小組長，發言排在最後一個。輪到我時總是心裡慌亂，總覺得想說的，該說的都已經被前面幾個組長講完了。我的發言總是吭吭哧哧的，心裡好不願意當這個組長。根本沒體會到這正是余老師培養我提煉、總結能力的機會呢。

四、1977年的「拔苗助長」

扯遠了，再說我1977年高考落榜，是有心理準備的。從那年10月突然得到激動人心的恢復高考消息到冬季的高考，只有2個月的復習時間。對一個荒廢了四年多學業的我來說，拿起課本復習數理化知識，簡直就是無中生有，拔苗助長，太難了。

五、1978年，我唯一的出路

當時要想離開農場只有兩條出路：一「招工上調」，二復習再考。不說「招工上調」過程中還存在著一定的貓膩，就是論資排輩熬年頭，就令人覺得虛無縹緲。而繼續復習準備參加下一年的高考，才是我唯一的出路。1978年的高考是在7月份，好歹有半年多的時間復習。

六、新樓房與熱鬧的漁業隊

1977年還沒有「恢復高考」時，我們就搬進了新建的兩層的樓房。在老宿舍以西，大約100多米的地方。新樓的樓梯在樓東側是露天的，我們會計室是在二樓樓梯口第一間。D會計的臥室在邊上第二間，再後面是醫務室、織網間 會議室和娛樂室。娛樂室內有電視機和乒乓桌。我們女生宿舍還要往裡走。

那時候新場部已經建成一年多了，場部的一些機關人員，陸陸續續也都搬了過來。新場部與我們漁業隊就隔了一條夯土大堤，走路5分鐘都不用，就有不少人到處轉轉。當時，我們住的地方前不著村後不著店兒的，其他連隊都比較遠。場部的人就轉到我們漁業隊來了，買點魚改善改善伙食。熟悉後也會跟我這兒聊一會兒。

七、意外的「悄悄話」

我77年冬季高考落榜後，D會計看我整天復習功課挺努力的，便也看在眼裡記在心裡。一天午後，D會計面帶笑意走進辦公室，告訴我大學生正在隔壁D會計的寢室，叫我過去。大學生經常來我們這串門兒，熟門熟路的都是到會計室來聊天兒的，今天怎麼他會呆在D會計的寢室裡叫我過去？想起母親說的「好話不背人，背人沒好話」，我納悶兒著走到隔壁。

八、定格在陽光下的畫面

那個寢室有四張雙人床，D會計的床在北窗左側的下鋪。看到床上棉紗帳的帳門撩開著被兩側的帳鉤掛住。草編涼席上，大學生老S正架著兩條腿，仰躺斜靠在D會計的被垛上，一個小草帽遮住了臉。剎那間，彷彿看到在溫暖的陽光裡，一個悠閒的西方垂釣者翹著一條腿，用草帽遮著臉，興許嘴裡還咬著一根兒乾草，仰躺在河邊岸坡大樹下的草地上休憩。

九、溫暖的謎底與鏡頭前的僵硬

我有點束手無策，怎麼叫我過來他自己卻躺在這兒，還遮著臉。好在這尷尬的場面持續的時間不久。大學生自己一下子取下草帽，笑著坐了起來。也沒有什麼要緊的事兒，找我過去只是問了問我複習的情況。原來是D會計剛剛和他談過，請他幫我輔導功課。這就解釋了剛剛D會計為什麼面帶笑意地叫我過去。

老S三十出頭，是一位文革前的大學生。我們平時就叫他「大學生」，是場部的攝影師。1977年7月他還幫我拍過一些風景照呢。我跟他說要抓拍「給我拍得自然點啊」我說。過去曾有過牙齒不整齊，被當眾羞辱的經歷，造成我在鏡頭前不會笑，面部表情僵硬。結果這幾張拍的還算滿意。

十、福建的驕傲與思鄉情

大學生老S的妻子在家鄉，他總盼著有朝一日能調回福建去。他很為福建考生在歷年的高考中名列前茅而自豪。

十一、D會計的默默守護與那些隱藏的「學霸」

D會計比較嚴肅認真內向，心底很善良。估計是為了讓我更安心不受干擾地複習功課，平時都在隔壁的寢室裡。有人來聊天兒，就會坐在我對面的D會計的辦公桌前。但是我發覺，只要一有人來閒聊，D會計就會走過來開抽屜拿東西，敏感的人就比較尷尬，从此就不再來了。

後來聽說其中一位聊天受阻的場部工作人員，1978年考進了復旦大學新聞系。還有一位也是後來不再來聊天的場部的播音員，聲音很有磁性，好像還是場部文藝宣傳隊的。當時他坐在會計室裡跟我說他們正在排演話劇《於無聲處》。後來查閱歷史資料才知道《於無聲處》的創作時間是1978年5月，首演時間是9月23日。那麼這位播音員與我聊天的日子應該是1978年9月以後的事了，高考也結束了的那段日子裡。

十二、重逢在華師大——這世界真小

奇怪的是，後來我在華師大工作後，有一次大禮堂有人做報告。具體是什麼報告記不清了，但是做報告的人就是那位播音員！還有，我們漁業隊的司務長，多年後居然穿著製服在師大門口當門衛。還有一位，我在紙袋廠工作時，在同一車間裡漂亮的女同事，比我大一屆，很清高的。我們之間幾乎沒有說過一話，當時我還是車間副主任呢。多年後居然看到她每天上下班路過我家窗前。據說她回上海後，嫁給了我的一位中學男同學的哥哥，就住在我們前排樓裡。

好玩兒吧？這個世界真小。

十三、錯過的遺憾，與驚艷時光的「五朵金花」

有時候世界雖小心卻太遠，那年月人都比較含蓄，遇到多年前的老同事、老朋友幾乎都不好意思上前打招呼。回頭想想就很遺憾。

蓉蓉是我在紙袋廠時的小姊妹，我去了漁業隊後，偶爾還會回工廠探望她，晚上，我就擠在她那張八人宿舍的單人床上，兩個人頭挨著頭說悄悄話。我也去過她在上海愚園路弄堂裡的家。後來也就是78年前後，子女頂替政策出台，她便頂替母親進了上海閥門廠，在那裡她被公認為廠裡的「五朵金花」之一。

十四、萬種嬌羞的軍裝女孩與大眼睛的「電影明星」

蓉蓉的美是嫻靜婉約的，有一次跟她走在場部附近的路上，那兒人多。注意到那些回頭看過來的目光，都是集中在她身上的。可蓉蓉面對這些目光，只是瞬間眼眸低垂，那飽含的萬種嬌羞，美極了。

她常穿著一件橄欖綠，四個口袋的軍官制服，她父親是上海警備區的高官。她也送了我一件她哥哥的草綠色士兵服，只有兩個口袋。當時年輕人以穿軍服為最高時尚，很難獲得。

那個時候上海電影製片廠的導演，常來農場挑演員。事實上，我們紙袋工廠的一位姓陳的女孩，後來成了電影明星。這裡也有個小插曲。故事是這樣的:一天有人說廠裡來了位「頂特勒」，就都過去看。果然她皮膚白皙，嘴唇紅潤，大眼靈動。

十五、吹不響的口哨與一輩子緣分的「小Z」

一天傍晚我和她還有幾個姑娘在馬路上散步。微風拂煦，大家嘰嘰喳喳好不熱鬧。不知誰先吹了個嘹亮的口哨，於是馬路上口哨聲此起彼伏。小陳能用口哨吹出花樣，我卻只會發「噓噓」聲音。於是她就教我怎麼捲舌頭、怎麼翹嘴唇、怎麼吹氣。可我就是拙嘴笨舌，怎麼也學不會。

歡笑中，我們回到了廠門口。這時 一個在食堂工作的72屆男生小Z，面目清秀一副書生相，很靦腆地走過來，說有事相求。說他將被子拆洗過，但不會縫，問我是否能幫他縫一下。人家都開口了，當然得幫啊。此時，小陳扭過頭來，睜著那雙漂亮的大眼睛，一骨碌往上轉了大半個圈兒，似乎是畫了個大問號。食堂的一間空屋子裡，被子已經鋪在蘆葦杆簾子上了，就等我給縫上。其實在此之前，我也只在食堂買飯的小窗口見過他。

十六、一尺高的打飯窗口，與三十年後的驚人消息

那時候食堂的牆面上就開著兩個一尺多高的小窗口。一到飯點兒，人們就排著兩條長隊等著買飯。那窗口開得低，每個人買飯時都得稍微低下頭，弓著腰，才能跟裡面的工作人員說清楚，今天想要買什麼菜 打幾兩飯。

就是這位在食堂工作的小Z，在1974年的下半年，突然給我打過一次電話，不過那次不是為了他自己，而是替他的一位朋友當傳話筒，約我見面。

任誰也不會想到，三十多年後的2011年，才聯繫到的老同學中，在上海高等教育局工作的老班長提到，他高教局裡的一位同事，聽說了我的名字後，便說他認識我。您猜怎麼著，這位竟然就是當年在食堂工作的小Z！他是在77年高考恢復前，就被保送回上海讀大學的。

十七、滅了的演員夢，與一轉眼的永遠

後來，上影廠的導演也看上了蓉蓉，可廠裡一個女領導一句「作風不正」，就滅了她的演員夢。當時追求她的男生很多，在領導眼中竟成了罪。據說後來有個資本家的後代娶了她，然後遠赴法國。此後很長一段時間裡，蓉蓉常出現在我的夢裡。

幾年後，在上海戲劇用品商店裡，隔著兩個玻璃櫃檯，我一眼看見了她和她母親，我們互相注視了幾秒。可那一刻，我終究沒有上前打招呼的勇氣。那時代的人太靦腆，一個轉身，錯過就是永遠。

十八、老S的「扭身絕技」，與再落榜的高考

思緒又飄遠了，咱回過頭來再聊那個1978年會計室。「大學生」幫我解答過幾道數理化方面的難題，但也沒有教我多少東西，倒是喜歡吹牛、聊天兒。結果，他來聊天兒時，D會計也開始過來開抽屜拿東西了。老S卻比較老資格，仗著與D會計熟，當D會計來開抽屜時，他只是將身子一扭，讓開，D會計離開後接著聊。

1977年的高考錄取率為4.8%，到了1978年，報名人數增長40萬人次，錄取率提高到6.59%。78年高考的錄取線是300分，我只考了290，又一次落榜。

十九、徐家匯到大堤，野花裡的純真抓拍

1978年7月侄女小Y，背著書包跟我一路乘94路車，換44路到徐家匯，換徐閔線到老閔行碼頭，搭渡船過黃浦江到奉賢縣的西渡，再坐西幹線長途汽車。四個多小時的車程到達五四農場的老場部終點站下車，又走了半個多小時，風塵僕僕地來到了隊裡。

D會計的兒子小WX，那幾天也跟著爸爸來隊裡玩兒。他在鏡頭前扭扭捏捏的很害羞。我說WX你去給小Y採些花來，他就在附近的野草叢中，採了些花兒跑過來送給小Y。我趕緊抓拍了這個鏡頭，很自然，很純真。

二十、隨塘河畔的逆光，與解禁的捲瀏海

我請「大學生」在隨塘河畔和夯土大堤上，給我們拍了一些照片。注意到78年的照片中我的瀏海是捲曲的。那年上海大街上，開始有燙長波浪的時髦女郎招搖過市了。我沒那個膽子，只能燙個瀏海卷個辯稍兒。文革中是沒有燙頭髮的，會被作為資產階級的生活作風遭批判的。

西邊的太陽快要下山了，我第一次拍攝逆光照。那時候拍照都以人為主，好像每張照片裡都要拍「我」，覺得光拍風景那是浪費膠卷兒。

二十一、紅燈下的神秘暗房－告別1978

大學生老S還帶我和小Y去了場部的暗房，他一個人工作的地方。第一次進暗房，紅燈光籠罩著神神秘秘，彷彿進入了另外一個世界。看老S沖洗照片十分有趣。他還給我的老照片上了色，有的是上棕色，好像是沖印的液體裡加了點顏色。還有幾張是他手工上的色。當開門走出暗房的一剎那，有些晃眼，還有些對那個神秘感的「世界」留戀。

很久以後，聽說「大學生」如願以償地調回了福建老家。

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The Gears of Time: Two Heavy Blows in 1978, and the Magical Echoes of a Small World

I. The Delayed "Truth"

In late July 2026, while researching online, I finally learned that the 1977 college entrance exam was designed by individual provinces, while the 1978 exam was standardized nationwide. The 1978 essay section required candidates to summarize a long text into a 500-to-600-word essay. The topic was "The Question of Speed is a Political Question," aimed at testing our ability to extract core arguments. The material centered on speeches by political figures like Hua Guofeng, emphasizing how economic speed relates to political stability. The text cited Mao Zedong's development guidelines; it also criticized the erroneous line of the "Gang of Four."

II. Self-Mockery and My Present-Day AI Savior

Good heavens! To be honest, the moment I stepped out of that exam hall, I must have wiped that test completely from my memory. What a dry topic! I was never interested in politics and lacked the ability to summarize. No wonder I failed—I only scored 54. 

Summing up core ideas remains my weak spot to this day. Even now, when making YouTube shorts, I have to ask AI to help write my video summaries and descriptions after I draft my stories.

III. The Middle School "Shadow" 

I remember in middle school, our class of 48 was split into four groups, and the teacher made me the leader of Group 4. After every group discussion, each leader had to stand up and summarize our findings concisely to the whole class. It was the most agonizing thing for me.

Since childhood, my mother forbade me from mingling with groups of girls, calling it unmannered, noisy nonsense. So I never developed the gift of gab and was quite tongue-tied. Being the fourth leader, I always went last. By the time it was my turn, panic would set in, as everything worth saying had already been said. I would stutter through my speech, hating every moment of being a leader. I completely failed to realize that Teacher Yu was actually trying to cultivate my ability to summarize.

IV. 1977: Rushing Things Out of Nothing

Digressing a bit—I was fully prepared for my failure in the 1977 exam. From the thrilling announcement of the exam's resumption in October to the actual test that winter, we only had two short months to prepare. For someone like me, who had abandoned academic studies for over four years, picking up textbooks to review math, physics, and chemistry felt like trying to build something out of nothing. It was a rushed, impossible task.

V. 1978: My One and Only Way Out

At that time, there were only two ways to escape the farm: job placement allocation or studying to retake the exam. Job allocation was a dubious process full of favoritism, and waiting one's turn by seniority felt completely hopeless. Continuing my studies for the next year's exam was my only true way out. The 1978 exam was scheduled for July, which at least gave me more than half a year to prepare.

VI. The New Building and the Lively Fishery Team

In 1977, even before the college entrance exams were reinstated, we moved into a newly built two-story building, about 100 meters west of the old dorms. The eastern staircase was open-air, and our accounting office was the very first room at the top on the second floor. Accountant D’s bedroom was next door, followed by the clinic, net-weaving room, meeting room, and recreation room, which had a TV and a ping-pong table. Our female dormitory was further down the hall. 

By then, the new farm headquarters had been up for over a year, and office staff were moving in. Separated from our fishery team by just a rammed-earth levee—less than a 5-minute walk—people often strolled over. Living in the middle of nowhere, with other companies far away, headquarters staff naturally gravitated toward our team to buy fresh fish and improve their meals. Once we got to know each other, they would stop by to chat with me.

VII. An Unexpected Whisper

After I failed the winter exam in 1977, Accountant D noticed how hard I was studying every day and quietly took it to heart. One afternoon, Accountant D walked into the office with a knowing smile and told me "the College Student" was next door in his bedroom, asking for me. He was a regular visitor who usually hung out in the accounting office to chat. Why was he waiting in Accountant D's private bedroom today? Remembering my mother's old saying, "Honest words are not hidden from people, and hidden words are not honest," I walked next door, full of curiosity.

VIII. A Snapshot Frozen in the Warm Sunshine

The dorm room had four bunk beds, and Accountant D’s was the bottom bunk to the left of the north window. The cotton mosquito net was pulled open, hooked back on both sides. On the straw mat, the College Student, Old S, lay with his legs crossed, leaning back against Accountant D’s neatly stacked quilts, a small straw hat tilted over his face. In that instant, drenched in warm sunshine, he looked exactly like a relaxed Western angler—resting on the grassy bank under a massive tree, legs crossed, face covered by a straw hat, perhaps even chewing on a blade of grass.

IX. A Heartwarming Answer and Camera-Shy Stiffness

I stood there a bit helpless. Why call me over just to lie there with his face covered? Fortunately, the awkward moment didn't last long. He suddenly tossed the straw hat aside and sat up with a grin. It wasn't an emergency; he just wanted to ask about my studies. It turned out Accountant D had just spoken with him, asking him to tutor me. That explained Accountant D's mysterious smile.

Old S was in his early thirties, a pre-Cultural Revolution college graduate whom we simply called "the College Student." He was the farm's photographer and had taken some scenic photos of me in July 1977. I remember telling him to take candid shots: "Make me look natural," I said. Because I had been publicly humiliated as a child for having crooked teeth, I never knew how to smile for cameras and always froze up. Surprisingly, those photos turned out quite well.

X. Fujian’s Pride and Homesick Longings

Old S's wife was back in his hometown, and he was constantly hoping for the day he could transfer back to Fujian. He took immense pride in how Fujian students consistently ranked among the top performers in the national college entrance exams.

XI. Accountant D’s Silent Guard and the Hidden Top Scorers

Accountant D was serious, meticulous, and introverted, but possessed a deeply kind heart. To give me a quiet space to study without distraction, he usually stayed in the bedroom next door. Whenever visitors dropped by to chat, they would sit at his desk right across from me. But I noticed a pattern: the moment someone started chatting, Accountant D would walk in, opening drawers to rummage for things. Shrewder guests caught the hint, felt the awkwardness, and stopped coming. 

Later, I learned that one of those interrupted chatters actually got into the Journalism Department at Fudan University in 1978! Another regular who eventually stopped visiting was a farm radio announcer with a beautifully magnetic voice, who also seemed to be part of the propaganda troupe. I remember him sitting in the accounting office, telling me they were rehearsing the play In the Silent Place. Historical records show it was written in May 1978 and premiered on September 23. So, those chats must have happened after September 1978, during those lingering days after the college exams had already ended.

XII. Reuniting at ECNU: This World Is Truly Small

Strangely enough, years later when I was working at East China Normal University, there was a lecture in the grand auditorium. I can't recall the specific topic, but the guest speaker was none other than that very radio announcer! Even more surprising, the quartermaster from our fishery team ended up working as a uniformed security guard at the university gates years later. And then there was a beautiful, aloof female colleague from my days at the paper bag factory. She was a year ahead of me, and though I was the vice-director of the workshop back then, we barely spoke. Decades later, I realized she was walking past my apartment window every single day on her commute. It turned out that after returning to Shanghai, she married the older brother of one of my middle school classmates and lived in the building right in front of mine. 

Isn't it fascinating? This world is incredibly small.

XIII. Regrets of a Missed Hello, and the Breathtaking "Golden Blossom"

Yet, sometimes the world feels vast despite its smallness. Back then, people were reserved; bumping into an old colleague or friend after many years often felt too awkward to say hello. Looking back, I feel a deep sense of regret.

Rongrong was my close sister at the paper bag factory. Even after I moved to the fishery team, I would occasionally return to visit her. At night, we would squeeze together on a single bed in an eight-person dormitory, whispering our secrets head-to-head. I even visited her family home in the traditional lanes of Yuyuan Road in Shanghai. Around 1978, when the policy allowing children to replace their retiring parents took effect, she took her mother’s place at the Shanghai Valve Factory, where she was widely celebrated as one of the factory's "Five Golden Blossoms."

XIV. A Shy Girl in Uniform and the Big-Eyed Future Movie Star

Rongrong possessed a quiet, elegant beauty. Once, walking with her near the crowded farm headquarters, I noticed every turning head was locked entirely on her. Facing those stares, she would simply lower her eyes in a flash—a subtle gesture brimming with a thousand shades of shy grace that was utterly breathtaking.

She often wore an olive-green, four-pocket officer's uniform, as her father was a high-ranking official in the Shanghai Garrison Command. She even gifted me a two-pocket grass-green soldier’s uniform from her older brother. In those days, wearing military attire was the pinnacle of fashion and incredibly hard to come by.

Around that time, directors from the Shanghai Film Studio frequently visited the farm to scout for talent. In fact, a girl surnamed Chen from our paper bag factory actually went on to become a movie star. There is a sweet little interlude here: one day, rumors spread that a "stunning beauty" had arrived at the factory, and everyone rushed over to look. Sure enough, she had porcelain skin, rosy lips, and vibrant, expressive eyes.

XV. An Unblown Whistle and a Lifelong Bound with "Xiao Z"

One evening, she, along with a few other girls and myself, were strolling down the road. A gentle breeze blew as we chatted and giggled lively. Someone suddenly let out a piercing whistle, and soon, echoes of whistling filled the air. Miss Chen could whistle intricate melodies, while I could only manage a faint "shhh" sound. She patiently tried to teach me how to curl my tongue, shape my lips, and blow, but my clumsy tongue simply couldn't master it.

Amidst the laughter, we arrived back at the factory gates. That was when Xiao Z, a refined, scholarly looking boy from the Class of '72 who worked in the cafeteria, nervously approached me. He sheepishly explained that he had washed his heavy quilts but didn't know how to sew them back together, asking if I could help. Since he asked so sincerely, of course I agreed. At that moment, Miss Chen turned her head, her large, beautiful eyes rolling upward in a dramatic arc, practically sketching a giant question mark in the air. In an empty room in the cafeteria, the quilt was already laid out on a woven reed mat, waiting for my needle. Truthfully, before that evening, I had only ever seen him through the small service windows of the cafeteria.

XVI. A One-Foot-High Cafeteria Window, and a Stunning Echo 30 Years Later

Back then, the cafeteria wall had only two small service windows, barely a foot high. At mealtimes, people would form two long queues. Because the windows were built so low, everyone had to duck their heads and bend their waists just to tell the staff inside what dishes they wanted and how many ounces of rice to scoop.

It was this very Xiao Z from the cafeteria who, in the latter half of 1974, suddenly called me out of the blue. However, it wasn't for himself—he was acting as a messenger for a friend who wanted to arrange a meeting with me.

No one could have ever guessed that thirty years later, in 2011, when I reconnected with my old classmates, our former class monitor—who was working at the Shanghai Higher Education Bureau—mentioned a colleague of his. Upon hearing my name, that colleague instantly said he knew me. And guess what? It was none other than Xiao Z from the cafeteria! As it turned out, he had been recommended and sent back to Shanghai for university even before the college entrance exams were officially reinstated in 1977.

XVII. A Crushed Acting Dream, and a Turning Back That Meant Forever

Later, a director from the Shanghai Film Studio scouted Rongrong as well, but a female factory leader crushed her acting dreams with a single, harsh accusation of "improper lifestyle." Having many suitors back then was deemed a sin in the eyes of leadership. Rumor has it that she eventually married a descendant of a capitalist and left for France. For a long time afterward, Rongrong frequently appeared in my dreams.

Years later, inside the Shanghai Theatrical Supply Store, across two glass counters, our eyes met. I saw her and her mother, and we stared at each other for a few seconds. Yet, at that crucial moment, I lacked the courage to step forward and say hello. People of that era were simply too reserved. A single turn of the back, and a missed connection became forever.

XVIII. Old S’s "Dodging Technique" and Another Failed College Exam

My thoughts are drifting again—let us steer back to the accounting office of 1978. "The College Student" helped me solve a few tough math and physics problems, though he didn't actually teach me much; he mostly just loved to brag and chat. Consequently, whenever he came over to talk, Accountant D would start his routine of coming over to open drawers. But Old S was a veteran. Relying on his familiar relationship with Accountant D, whenever the drawers started rattling, he would simply twist his body out of the way, wait for Accountant D to leave, and keep right on talking.

The college exam acceptance rate in 1977 was a meager 4.8%. By 1978, applicants increased by 400,000, bumping the acceptance rate to 6.59%. The cutoff score that year was 300 points. I scored 290, falling short once again.

XIX. From Xujiahui to the Levee: Pure Innocence Framed in Wildflowers

In July 1978, my niece Xiao Y, carrying her backpack, traveled with me. We took the Route 94 bus, transferred to Route 44 to Xujiahui, caught the Xu-Min Line to the old Minhang Ferry, crossed the Huangpu River to Xidu in Fengxian County, and finally boarded the West Main Line long-distance bus. After a grueling four-hour journey, we reached the final stop at the old Wusi Farm headquarters, then walked for another half hour, arriving at the team covered in dust.

Accountant D’s son, Xiao WX, was visiting the team with his father during those days. He was terribly camera-shy and awkward. I told him, "WX, go pick some flowers for Xiao Y." He trotted off into the nearby wild grass, gathered a small bunch, and ran back to present them to her. I quickly captured that shot—so natural, so pure.

XX. Backlight by the Suitang River, and the Liberated Curled Bangs

I asked the College Student to take some photos of us along the Suitang River and the rammed-earth levee. Looking at those 1978 photos, I notice my bangs were curled. That was the year fashionable women with long, permed waves started appearing on the streets of Shanghai. Lacking that level of boldness, I only dared to curl my bangs and the tips of my braids. Perming hair had been strictly forbidden during the Cultural Revolution, condemned as a bourgeois lifestyle.

As the western sun began to dip below the horizon, I took my very first backlit photo. In those days, photography was strictly centered around people. It felt like "I" had to be in every frame, because capturing just the scenery seemed like a total waste of precious film.

XXI. The Mysterious Darkroom Under the Red Light: Farewell to 1978

Old S even took Xiao Y and me into the farm's darkroom, his solitary workspace. Stepping inside for the first time, enveloped in a mysterious red glow, felt like entering an entirely different world. Watching him develop photos was fascinating. He even hand-colored some of my old photographs—toning some in sepia, seemingly by adding dye to the developing fluids, while meticulously painting others by hand. The moment the door opened and we stepped back outside, the sudden light was blinding, leaving me with a lingering nostalgia for that mysterious world inside.

Long afterward, I heard that "the College Student" had finally granted his wish and transferred back to his hometown in Fujian.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百五十五篇

《大括號外的「零次方」啟蒙，與我那三個在時光中避開的擁抱》

 一、 十二個班的選拔驕傲，與糞池邊上的「資產階級思想」

有一次，班裡就我一個人被年級裡調去參加年級的學農小組。我們年級有12個班，每班調一人參加。當時覺得被挑選出來，參加某項活動，那是自己比較優秀，心裡還真有點兒沾沾自喜。

我們在一位姓曹的老師帶領下，在校園裡以及周圍的村邊地頭，尋找識別辨認草藥。曹老師實地講解草藥的知識和功效。比如車前草是涼性的，人受外傷時，可以把新鮮的車前草弄成糊狀敷在傷口上，就能快速止血。等等，都是我第一次聽到的知识，覺得好新奇好开眼界。

我們在校園一隅種有兩壟青菜地。我們給菜地施肥，起先我們都不願接近糞池。挑糞時小心翼翼地走，怕糞水晃出來弄髒了鞋襪。結果越小心，這擔子越不聽使喚。當然怕髒怕臭都是「資產階級思想」。

二、駱老師挑起的艱難擔子，與食堂裡熱氣騰騰的大塊肥鹹肉

我的肩膀由於挑擔子，第一天就被磨破了皮，腫了起來，火辣辣的痛了一晚。第二天我就換個肩膀挑，結果雙肩都被搞得疼痛難忍。

一天年級組長駱群老師看到我弓著背，幾乎用背部扛著擔子，依裡歪斜步履艱難地樣子。便走過來幫我將糞桶挑到了地裡。駱老師個兒不高四十歲上下，一雙鹿一樣的大眼睛透著智慧和善良，很受學生們尊敬。他還告訴我要堅持不要放棄，要不怕吃苦才能磨練出鐵肩膀。一些日子下來嗅覺功能真是遲鈍了許多。「久在茅廁之地，不聞其臭。」真是的哎！哈哈。

肩膀也磨得結實了，挑擔時一步一顫的，還很像那麼回事兒。地裡的青菜秧子長成了綠油油的一片，很喜人。

不久後，我和另外一個女生被派去曹楊中學，學習「920」農藥的接種與培養。我們每天自己帶飯，到了學校先將飯盒送到他們的食堂裡，吃午飯時候去取。食堂會把許多飯盒兒摞一起，蒸得熱氣騰騰的。記得，我媽總是給我的飯盒裡，放一大塊兒肥瘦相間的鹹肉，沒有別的菜，但蒸出來的米飯很香很香，很好吃。如今人們的生活條件都好了，健康意識增強了，就都不碰肥肉了。但是在那個物資貧乏的年代，肥肉可確實是香！

三、錯過矩陣與數列的後悔，與政治考場上的耳畔私語

但也因為參加了學農小組，一個學期的文化課我們都沒上。余老師教的數列、矩陣、排列組合等課程，我都錯過了，只能靠自學，心裡有些後悔。不過，期末考試我還是取得了好成績。當然，這個好成績裡藏著兩位老師在不同的考堂上，給我的「小小提示」。

政治課考試時，有一道關於資本主義剩餘價值，也許是巴黎公社的考題，是我沒有學過的。那天考場裡靜悄悄的，政治課王老師在監考。她走過來看我愣在那道題上，便伏下身在我耳邊，將答案小聲地告訴了我。

四、被大括號遮蔽的整體視野，與余老師戳破的「零次方」神技

而在數學考試時，我被一道複雜的數學題給卡住了，無從下手的感覺讓我愣住了。余老師走過來，我低著頭漲紅了臉，稍稍讓開一點身子讓他看卷子，我用筆尖輕輕點點那道題，下意識地暗示了他，我被阻在了這道題上。余老師彎下身，用一隻手遮住嘴巴，悄悄提示道：「任何數的零……」哇！這才看清那道題的最外邊有個大括號，右上角還有個0。不等他「次方」二字出口，我迅速在等號右側劃了一個長長的1。那麼容易的一道題，居然讓我費了好多神！眼界太小了，注意力聚焦在大括號裡面，忽略了看整體！

五、小河水清悠悠的放歌，與余老師搶過菜筐的上海話揶揄

就快畢業了，我們去上海郊縣學農。余老師將我分配在廚房裡幹。這樣能天天跟兩位老師在一起，心裡有一種說不出的高興。

一天晌午，余老師叫我去洗菜。我拎起一大筐沉甸甸的青菜，來到村頭的小河邊。村裡的勞力和班裡其他的同學都到地裡幹活兒去了。滿目秋色加上耳畔的啾啾鳥鳴，令人心情舒暢。我把沒洗過的青菜，倒在大青石上。將每一棵青菜一瓣一瓣掰開，在水中涮洗。用手指輕輕抹去菜幫根部的泥沙。清清的河水在我手下蕩開了層層漣漪，白雲倒映在水波中溫柔嫵媚。我輕輕哼起了歌兒。不知不覺哼唱變成了放歌：「小河的水清悠悠，莊稼蓋滿了溝……」嘹亮歌聲在水面上散開。

不知過了多久，身後傳來余老師聲音：「芬，儂辣辣做啥？廚房裡還等勒嗨炒菜唻，儂倒好，辣辣此地唱歌。」

轉過頭來，看到他站在右後側河岸的斜坡上，但並沒有責怪我的樣子。也不知道他聽了多久，我的臉刷地一下紅了起來。

「平常聽儂講閒話，喉嚨粗粗搿，想勿到儂還會得唱歌。」話中隱隱帶著一絲絲善意的揶揄。說著，他走下來，將洗過沒洗過的青菜一並丟進筐裡，提起來連筐帶菜，一起浸到河水中，用力搖晃推搡幾下，拎出水面上下顛了顛，瀝了瀝水，拎著就往回走。

「哎，哎，余老師，迭個菜還呒沒掰開來汏過唻……」我略帶羞澀地小聲說。「油鑊子已經燒烊忒勒，像儂格恁汏法，汏到明早都汏勿好。」我羞愧地快步跟在後面上了斜坡。隱隱約約地遺憾著，沒能跟余老師一起在這迷人的河邊多洗一會兒菜。

六、寂營農舍間的第六感，與那段老擔心自己背影難看的漫長小路

有一天我正走在農舍間的一條小路上，農民和同學們都下地去了，村子裡很寂靜。突然覺得有點不自在，回頭一瞅，果然余老師在後面。都說女人的第六感很準，確實我後腦勺上像長著眼睛。本該跟余老師打聲招呼的，但是張不開口。他也沒走上來跟我說話，就這樣一前一後地走著。老擔心自己背影難看，太高了，太瘦了，或是衣服不合身兒，穿得「吊八斤」。啊呀，覺著這路好長。

七、狂風麥浪裡的恍惚駐足，與被余老師一語喚回的夢境海洋

一天下午，余老師帶著同學去海灘。據說那裡是當年淞滬會戰時，日軍登陸的地點之一。聽一位老農講述當年日軍登陸那天的情景時，余老師悄悄走過來，要我趕快回村去取一張，他忘了帶的地形圖，他要給同學講那場戰爭。我撒腿就往村裡跑。

途經一大片麥田。晴朗的天空中，刮著不覺冷的狂風。麥田，波浪般跌宕起伏，沙沙作響。在麥浪中徜徉、徘徊、踟躕、駐足、發愣……忘了為什麼來到這裡。在這無人之境，我把時間也給忘了。被迷在了這片攝魂捏魄的麥田裡。耳邊彷彿回盪著，郭蘭英的美妙歌聲：「麥浪滾滾閃金光……」

「芬，勒勒到處尋儂呢！」余老師的聲音霎那間將我從夢境拉了回來。扭頭一看，右後方七八米處，余老師正看著我呢。從臉上既看不出總算找到了的神情，也沒有責備我的樣子。

我恍恍惚惚，帶著些許的羞愧和遺憾，乖乖地跟著余老師往回走，離開了那片麥的海洋。要不是他找到我，估計天黑了我都找不著北。

八、井台邊美滋滋的半邊分擔，與金黃打穀場上的那首手鼓歌

夥房裡還有一個女生，幾年前學校進行夜間緊急集合演習時，被不明飛石打傷一隻眼，近乎失明，需要照顧。在夥房工作，不用下大田。一天下午，我們倆抬著一籮筐夠50人吃的米去井台淘洗。濕漉漉的米筐沉甸甸的，回夥房的路上，我倆弓腰駝背小步疾走，時不時還要停一停伸一伸腰。這時余老師從後面走來，二話不說接過了我手中的拎把，與那女生一起一口氣，抬著籮筐回了廚房。看著那女生累的樣子，我想余老師應該去幫她的。但我的心裡還是美滋滋的。

學農結束的那天下午，金黃的陽光灑滿了村頭。全班同學在打穀場上集合，準備返校。這時，余老師突然點了我的名，讓我出列給大家唱一首歌。在眾目睽睽之下，我登時紅了臉，心慌得不行，只能無比害羞地唱了一首關牧村的：《打起手鼓唱起歌》。那嘹亮的歌聲在打穀場上空飄蕩著，算是我為這段難忘的學農歲月，畫上的一個青澀而美麗的句點。

九、石泉路貨場的縫補組，與縫紉機旁那句「海綿吸水」的啟蒙之源

學農回來後，我們立刻又去石泉路貨場學工。那是上海鐵路樞紐的主要貨運站之一。余老師將我和另外兩個需要照顧的女生分配在縫縫組裡。一位是那隻眼受傷的女生，還有一位是小矮個兒。當時我認為在車間裡做車工鉗工什麼的挺神氣的，而在縫紉組裡拆拆洗洗，縫縫補補不體面。

余老師坐在我的座位上，腳踩著縫紉機踏板，忙活著頭也不抬，表情平靜地對我說：「幫儂分到搿搭，是想小姑娘應該學點針線。」其實，打小母親就培養我做女紅了。那個年代一般人的家庭是不買成衣穿的。都是母親一針一線縫出來的。女孩子也要自己學做衣服穿。我大哥1966年成家時，嫂子陪嫁了一台縫紉機。我就用那台縫紉機，做自己的衣服穿。

學工期間，余老師每天都會來縫紉組。只要看到他的身影從窗前走過，還沒進屋，我的心就開始噗噗亂跳。他一進來，組裡的幾位師傅和我們仨都不說話了。屋子裡就只有縫紉機「咔嗒咔嗒」的聲音。

余老師讓我坐在邊上歇著，替我幹起來。余老師總是邊幹活兒，邊小聲地跟我聊天兒。問我這本書看過沒？那個作家知道不？我總是羞愧地低頭搖頭。母親家教極嚴，從不許我看閒書。

余老師邊踩著縫紉機邊對我說：「趁著年輕你要像海綿吸水一樣大量汲取知識。要如飢似渴地博覽群書，不論古今中外的名著，還是詩歌散文。要有強烈的求知慾，不斷開拓自己的視野，豐富內心世界。」我聽得一愣一愣的，納悶兒余老師怎麼會叫我看這些「毒草」書呢？他又叮囑我：「做事要謹慎，不該做的事千萬不要做，『若要人不知除非己莫為』」

十、洗刷床單時的例假尷尬，與余老師無聲接過的那把刷子

一天我們在樓下洗刷值班人員的床單被褥。那天我剛好來了例假，弄髒了褲子。好在小矮個兒同學正好穿了兩條長褲。便借了一條給我穿。穿了那褲子，我的小腿兒部分就露在了外邊。我心裡暗暗企盼，余老師別來或者晚點兒來。結果他偏偏來了，他什麼也沒說，接過我手裡的刷子，便替我幹了起來。

十一、弄堂生產組的沉悶陰影，與高個子女孩「決不將就」的掃馬路抉擇

學工結束後，便迎來了決定命運的畢業分配。根據當時的分配原則，我留在上海的條件並不够「硬」，原因是我五個哥哥中，大哥和五哥在上海國營企業工作，三哥在貴州，六哥在雲南，四哥在上海郊區。按照當時的分配原則，我留在上海進國營企業的條件不夠硬。只能面臨進里弄生產組或是環衛所的命運。

小學時，學校組織我們參觀過五卅運動的遺址。那時看到工廠車間裡那些黑漆漆，交錯盤旋的舊管道，在我心裡留下了極大的陰影。那種沒來由的害怕，讓我那時便暗下決心：長大後絕不能在這種壓抑，沉悶的環境中工作。

十二、告別大都市的宏大轉折，與奔向廣闊天地的那條一望無際地平線

當余老師找我們逐個談話，詢問志向時，我鼓起勇氣對他說：「與其進里弄生產組或是去掃馬路，我情願去農村，農村有清新的空氣，有宜人的景色，還有一望無際的地平線。」

這一次，我告別了上海，奔向了廣闊的天地…

十三、華師大雕像下的遲到與耽擱，與「讓他等」的一句致命玩笑

後來我在華東師大讀書，校園裡遇到余老師，他那時已經被落實政策，調回師大當教授了。出國後，我給余老師寫過信。1998年回國度假時，約了3月13日中午12點，在「老三館」前的毛主席雕像下見面的。

在這之前我在電教所見老朋友。時間快到了，我隨口跟大夥兒說要出去見個朋友。我那位嬌俏可人、典型的「嗲妹妹」朋友立刻插話了。她是在華東師大教職員宿舍區長大的，脫口而出時帶著那種極具辨識度、別具一格的「華師大普通話」口音。她問：「是男的還是女的？」我回答「男的。」她說：「男噠？哎喲——讓他等！」

因為這一句玩笑和自己的耽擱，向來對不準時赴約很反感的我，那天遲到了。余老師還等在那裡，當看到我時，余老師伸出雙臂想要給我一個擁抱。按理說，我在國外生活了那麼多年，本該能坦然適應這種禮節的。可沒想到我這個「假洋鬼子」，在那一瞬間，扭開了身子。

十四、匯山碼頭與紐約大客廳：生命中那兩場在時光中僵在半空的擁抱

其實，這已經是我生命中第三次對著真摯的擁抱扭開身子了。第一次是在1987年1月，我的男朋友J離開中國後，第一次從日本坐「鑑真號」輪船回上海看我。我去匯山碼頭接他。在熙熙攘攘的會客大廳裡焦急地等了一個多小時，旅客們才陸續走下來。當他向我走來，伸出雙臂想要給我一個擁抱時，我卻下意識地扭開了身子。「你不愛我了嗎？」他僵在原地茫然地看著我。在那個保守的年代，我哪裡敢在大庭廣眾之下做出任何有礙觀瞻，招惹非議的舉動？更何況身邊站著的還是一個西方人。

第二次是在1988年的紐約。J的姑媽和姑父特地從大老遠開車來看望我們。一進門兒，身材高大的J的姑父就張開雙臂熱情洋溢地想要給我一個擁抱。雖然那時我已懂得這是西方人最基本的見面禮節。但我的身體就不聽使喚，怎麼也迎不上去。最後，我只是硬生生地伸出了右手去跟對方握。那一瞬間，J姑父的雙臂尷尬地僵在了半空中。多年後彼此熟絡了，他還笑著跟我提起那次「未遂的擁抱」，他說當時自己心裡納悶極了，又尷尬又羞愧，簡直不知如何是好。

十五、學校後門迎面撞見的凝固空氣，與看過世界後那抹終身遺憾的「這就是生活」

话题扯遠了，回過頭來說1998年。在華東師大的毛主席雕像下，我再一次扭開了身子。隨後，我跟著余老師去了他的辦公室。坐了沒幾分鐘，我便起身告辭。他說要請我吃午飯，我推辭說不用了。其實，那時電教所的一位男同事已經說好，要請我吃午飯。我們隨後在學校後門的一家飯店裡吃了飯。

可命運偏偏捉弄人，吃完飯，我們邊走邊聊，回到校園裡，迎面卻又碰到了余老師。那一刻的尷尬，彷彿將空氣都凝固了。

這麼多年過去，每每想起那個午後，我的心裡便滿是無法釋懷的後悔：第一，我不該遲到，讓那位曾在一片混沌中，為我開智的恩師，在冷風中苦苦等待。第二，我本應該在長大學成，看過世界之後，給余老師一個大大方方的充滿感激的擁抱。

可惜呀，C'est la vie 這，就是生活！

**********************************

The "Power of Zero" Beyond the Brackets, and the Three Evaded Embraces of My Life

Part I: The Pride of the Farming Cohort and the Scent of the Manure Pit

On one particular occasion, I was the singular student selected from our entire classroom to be dispatched to the grade-level "Learn from Farming" cohort. Our entire grade consisted of twelve classes, and exactly one individual was drafted from each class to participate. At the time, being singled out and selected for a specialized activity made me feel as though I was noticeably superior to my peers, and my heart was truly brimful of a tiny, self-satisfied smugness.

Under the leadership of a teacher named Mr. Cao, we trekked through the corners of the campus and along the edges of the surrounding village fields, hunting down and identifying various wild medicinal herbs. Mr. Cao provided hands-on, practical lectures on the characteristics and healing properties of these plants. For instance, he explained that plantain herb (Cheqian Cao) possessed a "cool" medicinal nature; if a person sustained an external wound, fresh plantain could be crushed into a thick paste and slathered over the injury to rapidly staunch the bleeding. All of this represented knowledge that had never reached my ears before, and I found it incredibly novel, fascinating, and thoroughly eye-opening.

Over in a secluded corner of the campus, we cultivated two long ridges of green vegetable plots. When it came time to fertilize the fields, none of us were willing to draw anywhere near the raw manure pit at first. While carrying the shoulder yokes filled with waste, we walked with extreme, painstaking caution, utterly terrified that the liquid manure would slosh out and soil our clean shoes and socks. Yet, as fate would have it, the more carefully we trod, the more disobedient and uncontrollable the heavy yoke became. Of course, looking back, that sheer terror of dirt and stench was precisely what the era branded as "bourgeois ideology."

Part II: Iron Shoulders under the Heavy Yoke and the Steamed Salt Pork Lunchbox

Due to the grueling labor of carrying those heavy shoulder yokes, the skin on my shoulder was rubbed entirely raw on the very first day; it swelled up heavily, burning with a white-hot, stinging pain that kept me awake all night. The following morning, I desperately switched the yoke over to my other shoulder to carry the weight, and as a direct result, both of my shoulders quickly became locked in a state of near-unbearable agony.

One afternoon, the head of our academic grade unit, Mr. Luo Qun, spotted me marching with my spine heavily hunched over, practically utilizing my entire back to hoist the agonizing yoke as I reeled and stumbled along with tortuous difficulty. He immediately walked straight over, relieved me of the burden, and hoisted the manure buckets all the way into the fields himself. Mr. Luo was not a tall man, somewhere in his early forties, with a pair of large, magnificent eyes like a deer that radiated profound wisdom and genuine kindness; he held the absolute reverence and respect of all the students. He gently admonished me that I must endure and never give up—that only by refusing to fear hardships could one forge a pair of "iron shoulders." True to his word, after a few weeks slipped by, my olfactory senses grew remarkably dulled. As the old adage proclaims: "He who lingers long in a latrine ceases to notice its stench." How incredibly true that turned out to be! Haha. Eventually, the skin on my shoulders hardened and grew robust; whenever I carried the yoke, my stride took on a beautiful, rhythmic bounce that looked entirely authentic. Meanwhile, the green vegetable seedlings in our plots matured into a lush, shimmering expanse of vibrant emerald, which filled our hearts with immense delight.

Not long afterward, another girl and I were dispatched to Caoyang High School to study the inoculation and cultivation techniques of the "920" agricultural pesticide. Every day, we packed our own lunches, heading straight to their communal cafeteria upon arrival to deliver our tin lunchboxes, which we would retrieve when lunchtime rolled around. The cafeteria staff would stack scores of these metal boxes together in a massive array, steaming them until they were roaring and piping hot. I vividly remember that my mother would invariably pack a massive chunk of cured salt pork—perfectly layered with thick fat and lean meat—right into the center of my lunchbox. There wasn't a single secondary side dish to accompany it, yet the white rice steamed beneath that rich pork rendered it incredibly fragrant, savory, and spectacularly delicious. Nowadays, everyone’s living standards have risen so high and health consciousness has intensified to the point where nobody will touch fatty meat anymore. But in that era of extreme material scarcity, a piece of rich, fatty meat was an absolute, undisputed heaven of pure fragrance!

Part III: Groping in the Dark of Matrices and the Whispered Paris Commune Answer

Yet, precisely because I was drafted into this agricultural group, we missed out on an entire semester's worth of core academic classes. The vital lessons taught by Mr. Yu—including mathematical sequences, matrices, permutations, and combinations—passed me right by, leaving me with no choice but to awkwardly attempt self-study, which filled my heart with a quiet pang of deep regret. Nevertheless, when the final term examinations arrived, I still managed to secure excellent marks. Though in all honesty, wrapped inside those high scores were a pair of "tiny secret prompts" granted to me by two different teachers in separate examination rooms.

During the political ideology examination, there was a complex essay question concerning the capitalist theory of surplus value—or perhaps it dealt with the legacy of the Paris Commune—which belonged to the exact curriculum I had never been taught. That afternoon, the entire examination hall fell into a dead, heavy silence, with our politics teacher, Ms. Wang, presiding over the room as the proctor. Spotting me sitting completely frozen and staring blankly at that specific question, she quietly glided over, leaned her body down right against my ear, and softly whispered the entire standard answer straight to me.

Part IV: Blinded by the Giant Brackets and the Magic Power of Zero

Then, during the mathematics exam, I ran dead into a wall against an incredibly tortuous and complex problem; the total sensation of having absolutely no entry point to begin solving it left me utterly paralyzed. Seeing this, Mr. Yu stepped over to my desk. Keeping my head pinned down, my cheeks turning a burning crimson with embarrassment, I subtly shifted my frame slightly to the side so he could inspect my test paper, gently tapping the tip of my fountain pen against the equation to subconsciously signal to him exactly where I had been completely blocked.

Mr. Yu leaned his upper body down, cupping one hand completely over his mouth, and quietly dropped a whispered hint: "Any number raised to the zero..." Wow! It was like a lightning bolt struck my brain—only then did I finally see that the absolute outermost boundary of that massive equation was wrapped in a giant set of brackets, with a tiny number '0' perched quietly in the upper right-hand corner. Before the final word "power" could even escape his lips, my hand whipped across the page, drawing a magnificent, long number "1" right to the right of the equal sign. Such a hilariously simple problem had actually caused me to waste an immense mountain of mental energy! My vision had been entirely too narrow—my focus had been trapped entirely inside the intricate belly of the brackets, causing me to completely ignore the big picture of the whole composition!

Part V: Layered Ripples by the Stream and the Shanghai Satire

Graduation was looming on the horizon when we departed for the suburban counties of Shanghai for our formal "Learn from Farming" residency. Mr. Yu went out of his way to assign me to work inside the communal kitchen. Being able to cross paths and spend every single day alongside my two beloved teachers filled my heart with an indescribable, quiet surge of immense joy.

One afternoon, Mr. Yu instructed me to go wash the vegetables. Lifting a massive, heavy wicker basket densely packed with green bok choy, I wandered over to the little riverbank sitting at the edge of the village. The local village laborers and the rest of my classmates had long since departed to toil deep in the fields; the entire landscape was brimful of rich autumn colors, and the gentle chirping of birds ringing in my ears made my spirit feel exceptionally light and free. I tumbled the unwashed green vegetables onto a massive flat boulder by the water, plucking each stalk apart leaf by individual leaf, rinsing them gently through the current. With the pads of my fingers, I softly wiped away the lingering sand and silt clinging to the roots. The crystal-clear river water rippled outward in layered, elegant rings beneath my hands, while the reflections of fluffy white clouds danced softly and gracefully across the undulating surface. I began to hum a soft tune under my breath. Without my even realizing it, the soft humming swelled into a full, unbridled song: "The waters of the little river run clear and free, while the sprawling crops blanket the valley..." My resonant voice drifted and scattered beautifully across the open water.

I truly had no concept of how much time had slipped away when, out of nowhere, Mr. Yu's voice materialized directly from behind me in our native tongue: "Fen, what on earth are you doing out here? The kitchen crew is back there waiting desperately to throw these greens into the hot wok, yet here you are, having a grand old time singing your heart out by the water."

Whipping my head around, I spotted him standing on the grassy slope of the riverbank just to my back right. Yet, there wasn't a single shred of genuine rebuke written across his face. Having absolutely no inkling of just how long he had been standing there listening to me, a burning crimson flush instantly scalded my cheeks. "Normally when I hear you talk, your voice sounds rather gruff and heavy, so I never would have guessed you could actually carry a tune so beautifully," he remarked, his tone laced with a faint, good-natured trace of Shanghainese mockery. Before the words could even finish drifting, he stepped down the slope, scooped up the remaining washed and unwashed vegetables alike, threw them all pell-mell back into the wicker basket, and plunged the entire load directly into the river current. He gave the basket several violent, heavy shakes and thrusts through the water, hauled it clear of the surface, gave it a couple of sharp upward shakes to drain the excess water, and instantly turned on his heel to carry it back.

"Wait, wait, Mr. Yu! Those greens haven't even been plucked apart and scrubbed individually yet..." I squeaked out in a tiny, bashful whisper. "The oil in the wok has already completely melted and scorched away! If we washed things according to your meticulous methods, we wouldn't finish this meal until tomorrow morning," he countered. Consumed by a wave of sheepish embarrassment, I quickened my stride to follow directly behind him up the embankment, harboring a faint, lingering pang of deep regret that I hadn't been permitted to linger just a little bit longer alongside Mr. Yu, washing vegetables by that enchanting riverbank.

Part VI: The Sixth Sense on a Silent Trail and the Insecurity of the Back View

One afternoon, I was walking along a narrow, winding dirt path nestled between the rustic farm cottages. The local villagers and my classmates had all departed to toil deep in the fields, leaving the entire hamlet wrapped in a profound, heavy silence. Suddenly, a strange, prickling sensation of unease washed over me; whipping my head back to sneak a glance, sure enough, Mr. Yu was walking a short distance behind me. People always say a woman’s sixth sense is flawlessly accurate, and it truly felt as though I possessed a secret pair of eyes rooted in the back of my head. By all accounts of social grace, I absolutely should have offered a polite greeting to Mr. Yu, yet my mouth remained stubbornly locked, completely unable to utter a sound. He didn't quicken his pace to close the distance or converse with me either; we simply maintained that silent, synchronized formation, walking one directly behind the other. A frantic wave of worry began to consume my thoughts—I became intensely anxious that my back view looked horribly unappealing, that I was entirely too tall, too gaunt, or that my clothes looked comically ill-fitting and hung short like dangled rags (dia-bah-jin). Ah, heavens, it felt as though that short path stretched out into an absolute eternity.

Part VII: Lost in the Soul-Stirring Ocean of Wheat and the Abrupt Awakening

One afternoon, Mr. Yu led our class out toward the coastal beach. Word had it that this very shore was one of the historical landing sites utilized by the invading Japanese military during the Battle of Shanghai. As we stood listening to an elderly local farmer recount the vivid, harrowing scenes of the day the Japanese troops breached the coastline, Mr. Yu quietly glided over to my side. He requested that I bolt straight back to the village at once to retrieve a tactical topographical map he had accidentally left behind, which he required to lecture the class on the history of the battle. Without a single second of hesitation, I kicked up my heels and bolted back toward the village.

Along the way, my path sliced directly through a massive, sprawling expanse of wheat fields. Beneath a flawlessly clear, bright sky, a fierce, roaring gale swept across the landscape, yet the wind carried no chill. The vast sea of wheat surged and rolled in magnificent, crashing waves, rustling with a heavy, collective sigh. Trapped in the thrall of those green waves, I wandered, lingered, hesitated, came to a dead stop, and simply stared blankly into space... completely forgetting the entire purpose of why I had journeyed out there in the first place. In this absolute vacuum of human presence, I lost all comprehension of time itself. I was completely spellbound, my very consciousness seized and stolen away by the hypnotic rhythm of that soul-stirring ocean of wheat. Faintly, as if echoing from the deep chambers of my mind, the magnificent voice of Guo Lanyin began to drift: "The rolling waves of wheat shimmer with brilliant gold..."

"Fen! I've been searching all over creation for you!" Mr. Yu’s voice shattered the air, instantly ripping me out of my waking dream. Whipping my head around, I spotted him standing a mere seven or eight meters away to my rear right, his eyes fixed calmly upon me. Looking at his face, one could detect absolutely no trace of relief at finally tracking me down, nor was there a single shred of anger or reprimand written across his brow.

Thoroughly dazed and floating in a haze of mild shame and quiet regret, I followed directly behind Mr. Yu like a well-behaved child, charting our course back and leaving that vast, rolling ocean of wheat behind us. In all honesty, if he hadn't journeyed out to hunt me down, I suspect the dark cloak of night would have completely swallowed the fields before I ever figured out north from south.

Part VIII: The Heavy Rice Basket at the Well and a Golden Sunset Finale

Working alongside us in the kitchen crew was another girl who required special consideration; several years prior, during a midnight emergency mobilization drill at school, a stray, airborne rock had struck her in the eye, leaving her virtually blind in that socket. Working inside the kitchen allowed her to avoid the brutal labor of the open fields. One afternoon, the two of us were tasked with hoisting a massive wicker basket packed with enough raw rice to feed fifty people, heading over to the village well-platform to wash it. Once soaked, the wet basket grew incredibly, soddened heavy. On the journey back to the kitchen, our spines were heavily hunched as we took rapid, tiny, frantic steps, constantly forced to come to a dead stop just to stretch out our aching backs. Right at that moment, Mr. Yu materialized from behind us. Without uttering a single word, he reached down, snatched the heavy handle straight out of my hand, and synchronized his stride with the other girl, hauling the massive load all the way back into the kitchen in one single, uninterrupted breath. Looking back at how thoroughly exhausted that poor girl had been, my rational mind knew that Mr. Yu had simply stepped in to relieve her burden. Yet, inside the secret chambers of my heart, a beautifully smug, sweet surge of pure delight washed through me anyway.

On the final afternoon of our farming residency, a brilliant, molten golden sunshine completely blanketed the entrance of the village. The entire class had gathered on the sweeping threshing floor, organizing our gear to return to school. Right at that moment, Mr. Yu suddenly called my name out loud, commanding me to step out of the formation and perform a song for everyone. Standing there beneath the collective, burning glare of a crowd of onlookers, my face instantly turned an intense crimson, and my pulse raced into an absolute panic. Left with absolutely no choice, overcome with bashful shyness, I sang Guan Mucun's iconic anthem: "Beat the Hand-Drum and Sing a Song." That resonant, clear melody soared and drifted high into the open air above the threshing ground—serving as a beautifully raw, green, and exquisitely elegant exclamation point to draw the curtain on those unforgettable farming days.

Part VIIII: The Rhythmic Clicks of Shiquan Road and the Manifesto of the Sponge

The exact moment we returned from our farming residency, we were immediately dispatched to the Shiquan Road Cargo Yard to undergo our practical labor training in industry. That facility stood as one of the primary, massive freight hubs for the entire Shanghai railway network. Mr. Yu chose to assign me, along with two other girls who required lighter duties, to the mending and sewing brigade. One was the poor girl who had sustained that blinding eye injury during the night drill, while the other was a remarkably petite classmate. At that time, my youthful vanity made me look at the factory floor with intense longing; I believed that operating heavy lathes or working as a bench mechanic looked incredibly grand and proud, whereas washing, ripping seams, and darning clothes inside a sewing brigade felt utterly unglamorous and beneath one's dignity.

One day, Mr. Yu sat down directly in my seat, his feet pumping the treadle pedal of the sewing machine. Working away without so much as lifting his head, his face entirely calm and serene, he remarked to me softly in our tongue: "I assigned you to this sector because I believe a young girl ought to master the art of needlework." In truth, from the time I was a little girl, my mother had already strictly trained me in the domestic arts of embroidery and sewing. In that era, common working-class families never purchased ready-made garments from retail shops; everything we wore was crafted by our mothers, stitch by careful stitch. Young girls were fully expected to learn how to tailor their own clothes to wear. When my eldest brother married in 1966, my sister-in-law brought a sewing machine along as part of her bridal dowry. It was upon that very machine that I taught myself to stitch and assemble my own garments.

Throughout the duration of our industrial training, Mr. Yu made a point of visiting the sewing room every single day. The mere glimpse of his shadow gliding past the exterior windowpane—even before his foot could cross the threshold into the room—was enough to send my pulse into a frantic, wild fluttering. The second he stepped inside, the local factory masters and the three of us girls would instantly lapse into a dense, heavy silence. The entire room would be swallowed by nothing but the mechanical, hypnotic click-clack, click-clack of the sewing machines.

Mr. Yu would frequently command me to sit to the side and rest, stepping in to finish the labor in my stead. As his fingers worked the cloth, he would invariably engage me in quiet, whispered conversations, asking: "Have you read this particular volume? Are you familiar with that specific author?" Overcome with a deep, sheepish embarrassment, I would keep my head pinned low, shaking it in silent denial. My mother enforced a terrifyingly strict household discipline; she absolutely never permitted me to lay eyes on any "leisure books" or outside literature.

As his feet pumped the sewing machine treadle, Mr. Yu looked at me and delivered words that would stay with me for a lifetime: "While you are still in the prime of your youth, you must absorb knowledge the way a sponge absorbs water. You must devour books with a ravenous, unquenchable thirst, reading broadly across everything—whether they be classical masterpieces from China or the West, or volumes of poetry and prose. You must foster a fierce, burning desire for knowledge, constantly broadening your horizons and enriching the inner landscape of your spirit." I sat there completely stunned and listening in absolute bewilderment, wondering to myself how on earth a revered teacher like Mr. Yu could encourage me to read those heavily condemned "poisonous weeds." He then added a grave piece of caution: "Be exceptionally prudent in everything you do; never, ever touch things that ought not to be done. For as the old text warns: 'If you wish for others to remain ignorant of your deeds, nothing compares to not committing them in the first place.'"

Part X: The Borrowed Short Trousers and the Silent Brush by the Tub

One morning, we were stationed downstairs, scrubbing the sheets and bedding utilize by the overnight duty staff. As fate would have it, my menstrual period arrived that very day, accidentally staining my trousers. Miraculously, my petite classmate happened to be wearing two pairs of long pants layered over each other that morning, and she generously unbuckled one pair to lend to me. Yet, when I pulled those trousers onto my towering frame, the hems rode way up, leaving my entire lower calves completely exposed to the open air. In the secret chambers of my heart, I kept desperately praying that Mr. Yu would either skip his visit entirely or arrive exceptionally late that day. Naturally, cosmic irony dictated that he materialized right on cue. He didn't utter a single syllable about my appearance; he simply reached down, took the heavy scrub brush straight out of my hands, and silently finished the grueling scrubbing in my place.

Part XI: The Dark Shadow of the Factory Pipes and the Unbending Choice

The moment our industrial labor training drew to a close, we were brought face-to-face with the monumental graduation job allocation—the ultimate turning point that would dictate the entire trajectory of our lives.

The credentials for me to remain in Shanghai were not considered "rock-solid" under the strict policies of the era. The underlying reason lay within the geographical distribution of my five older brothers: my eldest brother and fifth older brother were employed at state-owned enterprises within urban Shanghai, my third older brother had been sent to Guizhou, my sixth older brother was out in Yunnan, and my fourth older brother was stationed in the Shanghai suburbs. According to the rigid allocation doctrines of that time, because of this family configuration, my criteria to remain in the city and secure a placement within a state-run enterprise simply did not carry enough weight.

Consequently, I was left facing a grim destiny: either being funneled into a cramped neighborhood production workshop or assigned to the sanitation bureau.

Back during my elementary school days, the school had organized a formal field trip to visit the historical site of the May Thirtieth Movement. Standing inside those sprawling factory floors, staring up at those pitch-black, twisting, and menacingly tangled networks of ancient industrial pipes had seared a massive, terrifying shadow deep into my childhood psyche. That unprovoked, primal dread led me to forge a fierce, secret vow right then and there: When I grow up, I will absolutely never permit myself to work inside such a suffocating, depressing, and soul-crushing environment.

Part XII: Bidding Farewell to Shanghai for the Boundless Horizon

When Mr. Yu summoned us one by one for our private consultations to inquire about our future ambitions, I gathered every ounce of courage in my soul and looked him dead in the eye: "Rather than being buried alive inside a neighborhood workshop or spent my youth sweeping the city asphalt, I would infinitely prefer to go to the countryside. The countryside possesses pristine, clean air, beautifully enchanting landscapes, and a magnificent, boundless horizon that stretches out forever into eternity."

And so, with that unbending choice, I bade my final farewell to the city of Shanghai, and rushed headlong out into the vast, limitless world...

Part XIII: The Tardy Arrival at East China Normal University and the Unintended Blunder

Later on, during my years pursuing studies at East China Normal University (ECNU), I crossed paths with Mr. Yu once again on campus. By that time, the state’s political rehabilitation policies had been fully implemented, and he had been successfully reinstated and transferred back to the university to serve as a proper professor. Following my departure to live abroad, I kept in touch by writing letters to him. In the spring of 1998, while returning to China for a vacation, we arranged a formal reunion. We set the date for noon on March 13, 1998, agreeing to converge right beneath the massive statue of Chairman Mao erected in front of the "Old Three Buildings."

Prior to our meeting, I had stopped by the Audiovisual Education Center to visit some old friends. As the hands of the clock drew close to our appointed hour, I casually remarked to the crew that I needed to head out to meet a friend. A delightfully coquetish female friend of mine—a classic dia-mei-mei (嗲妹妹)—instantly chimed in. Raised inside the university faculty housing compound, she blurted out in that highly distinct, eccentric "ECNU Mandarin" accent: "Is it a man or a woman?" When I responded that it was a man, she threw her head back and scoffed: "A man? Oh, please—let him wait!"

Influenced by that casual jest and my own subsequent dawdling, I ended up arriving late that afternoon—a fact that filled me with immense self-reproach, as I had spent my entire life harboring a profound loathing for unpunctuality. Yet, true to his word, Mr. Yu was still standing there, patiently waiting beneath the monument. The precise instant his eyes caught sight of me, he spread his arms wide apart, moving forward to offer me a warm embrace. By all rational metrics of logic, having lived in Western societies for so many years, I absolutely should have been completely acclimated to such standard social etiquette. Yet, completely beyond my own expectation, the deeply ingrained instinct of this "imitation foreigner" took over; in that split-second of contact, I sub-consciously twisted my entire torso completely away from him.

Part X IV: The Anatomy of a Mismatched Gesture and the Stiffened Embraces of Yore

In truth, that fleeting movement marked the absolute third time in my life journey that I had sub-consciously recoiled and twisted my frame away from a genuine, heartfelt embrace. The very first instance materialized in January of 1987. My boyfriend, J, had departed China, and was making his very first return voyage back to Shanghai from Japan aboard the Jianzhen ocean liner just to see me. I journeyed out to the Huishan Wharf to receive him. After pacing anxiously inside the packed, chaotic reception hall for over an hour, the passengers finally began to stream down the gangway. The moment he marched toward me, extending his arms wide to sweep me into a hug, my physical frame sub-consciously dodged and twisted away. "Don't you love me anymore?" he murmured, freezing entirely in his tracks, staring at me with a gaze brimful of utter bewilderment. In that deeply conservative era, how could a young woman ever possess the sheer audacity to display any form of public affection that might offend social decorum or invite ruthless gossip? To make matters worse, a Westerner was standing right beside us in the crowd.

The second instance unfolded in New York in 1988. J’s aunt and uncle had driven a massive distance specifically to visit us. The very instant they crossed our threshold, J’s uncle—a remarkably tall, large-framed man—spread his arms wide with burning enthusiasm, moving in to greet me with a hug. Although by that point in my life, my rational intellect fully comprehended that this represented the most fundamental, standard greeting etiquette in the West, my physical body simply refused to obey the command. I couldn't bring myself to step forward into the gesture. In the end, I merely extended my right hand with absolute, rigid stiffness to offer a formal handshake. In that split second, my uncle-in-law’s arms were left hanging awkwardly, frozen in mid-air. Many years later, once we had grown deeply close and familiar, he would still laughingly bring up that "attempted hug," recounting how thoroughly baffled, embarrassed, and sheepish he had felt at that moment, completely at a loss for what to do with his limbs.

Part X V: The Frozen Air of the Trail and the Enduring Remorse of C'est la Vie

To pull our drifting thoughts back to the spring of 1998—there, beneath the towering statue of Chairman Mao at East China Normal University, I had once again twisted my body away. Afterward, I accompanied Mr. Yu back up to his office. Yet, after sitting there for a mere handful of minutes, I rose to take my leave. He warmly offered to treat me to a proper lunch, but I declined, making an excuse that it wasn't necessary. The uncomfortable truth was, a male colleague from the Audiovisual Education Center had already secured an agreement to buy me lunch that day. Shortly after, the two of us sat down to dine inside a restaurant located right outside the university’s rear gates.

Yet, destiny possesses a truly magnificent flair for playing cruel practical jokes. After finishing our meal, we walked and chatted all the way back onto the campus grounds, where we suddenly ran straight into Mr. Yu coming from the opposite direction. The sheer weight of the awkwardness in that singular split second was so immense it felt as though the very air around us had instantly frozen solid.

So many decades have bled away since that day, yet every single time that particular afternoon drifts back into my thoughts, my heart is consumed by a lingering, unresolvable wave of profound remorse. First, I should have never been late, forcing that beloved mentor—the man who had slashed through my muddled chaos to ignite the spark of intellect within my soul—to stand waiting bitterly in the biting cold wind. Second, having finally grown up, completed my education, and traveled to see the wide expanse of the world, I absolutely should have granted Mr. Yu a magnificent, unreserved, and deeply dignified embrace brimful of infinite gratitude.But alas... C'est la vie. Such is the nature of life itself.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百五十四篇

《落難名師的清雅啟迪，與我那雙在藍棠鞋店搶購的三十八號鞋》

一、曹楊二中的隱世傳奇：新村校園裡的華師大與復旦風骨

剛進曹楊二中上初一時，還沒跟任何同學認個臉熟，課間休息時就聽班裡消息靈通的女生們悄悄傳開：余國培老師才智超群，教學有方。文革前是華東師大的教師，文革初期被打成「右派」後，下放到了這裡。他當數學老師也教過英語。遺憾的是他當時去了一班當班主任。

女生們還知道我們十班的副班主任——教英語的章淑仁老師。章老師因為家庭成分問題，也被打成「右派」。據說她的父親是曾任復旦大學校長的章益。丈夫則是蘇聯駐滬領事館的翻譯。章老師在文革前教過俄語。冬日裡 一件普普通通的藍布罩衫穿在她身上，也顯得是那樣的清雅脫俗。

榮幸的是，到了初二，30出頭的余老師，成了我們的班主任。余老師中等身材，飽滿的額頭，大眼睛，國字臉。上課時聲音洪亮。平時除了課堂上的問答，師生間沒有多少交流。但隨後的兩次野營拉練，卻悄然增進了彼此的了解。跟睿智風趣的余老師，漂亮嫻雅的章老師在一起，總能讓人得到無形的啟迪。

二、野營拉練時的溫柔點撥，與高個子女孩的「偽駝背」

第一次拉練是演習，當天來回不被背包。途中兩位老師走在隊伍的中間。前面是女生，後面是男生。因為我長得高，正好排在女生隊伍的最後一排。

我聽見他倆在後面小聲嘀咕：「芬是挺漂亮的一個小姑娘，要是不駝著背就好了。」說著，章老師就走上前來對我說：「芬，挺起來，這個樣子。」她特意挺直了腰桿示範給我看，並將一只手放在我的背部輕輕地按了一下。「一個漂亮的女孩應該這樣……」

我的臉頓時紅了起來，我不是真的駝背，只是跟矮個子的同學們在一起，總會習慣性地彎下身來聽她們說話。

三、搶購三十八號丁字鞋的自卑，與母親那把不屑的廚房菜刀

那時我對自己的身高确实有点敏感，我媽也曾揶揄我長了個「接駱駝糞的個兒」，也不懂身高自然腳就大了，成比例的嘛。當其他女孩只穿35～36號鞋的時候，我的尺碼是37～38，在那個崇尚小腳玲瓏的意識形態的社會中，我總覺得很自卑。鞋店裡大尺寸的鞋不多，沒有挑選的餘地，做工也明顯比小號的粗糙。當時為了趕時髦，去店裡排隊等開門，買流行款式時，例如丁字鞋等。當店家的玻璃大門還沒大開，人們就擠進去了，衝到櫃檯前搶購。你要是報出38的號碼，櫃檯貨架上還沒有，售貨員要到裡面庫裡去找，有時還沒貨。

年輕時初出茅廬不知天高地厚，也喜歡名牌，記得1974年10月21日那天與隊裡的幾個姑娘摸黑走了18里路去了一趟奉賢縣的縣城。第一次去縣城，我們在那窄窄的、質樸的古街中穿行，吃飯，還買了一塊紅白兩色，菊花圖案的尼龍絲面料，當時的新產品，高高興興拿回上海，在當時南京路上最有名氣的 「朋街女子服裝商店」裡做了件燕子領短袖襯衫，好像花了四毛幾分或是四塊多錢製作費。式樣新穎做工相當考究服貼。穿上身才知道，尼龍絲布料很悶，不透氣，遠不及棉布來得舒服。

六哥對我說不要趕時髦，更不要穿奇裝異服，那些都會很快過時。沒錢也不買便宜的東西，把錢攢夠了，要么不買，要買就買高質量的東西，做衣服要買全棉、全毛、全麻的面料。

聽了他的街頭智慧指導，我也忍了又忍，攢夠了錢才買。買鞋子要到上海最知名的藍堂鞋店去買。手錶也是攢夠了錢買進口兩百多塊的瑞士表。寧願等，也不花六十塊買個錶先戴上。

窮得嗒嗒滴的我很能忍，攢夠了錢買好東西。那時一有機會去「上海」（我們住在曹楊新村的孩子把去市區叫去上海）我一定會去上海大光明電影院邊上的一家上海工藝美術公司工藝美術服務部去看好東西，當然那裡絕對都是我買不起的好東西。但好像那裡的瓷器、玉器、牙雕、黃楊木雕、屏風、箱子等古董都似成相識，看著就很親切。

其實那時的我，很自不量力，不看看自己有沒有消費能力去這種高檔店消費，不在同一深水層中的魚，是很難越界的。

母親曾經就揶揄我是個「小姐的身子，奴才的命」，是「心比天高，命比紙薄」有時候我想母親可能是個世外高人，對我的命，怎麼都看的那麼準。只是如果她看破不說破該有多好。

我那時也曾跟母親怯生生地抱怨過自己的高大，您猜怎麼著？她不屑地看了我一眼說：「趕緊的去廚房找把菜刀，把腳趾給剁了，再不成找把斧子，把腦袋也給砍了不就得了？切！」哦，還有我那口拔掉了那顆小虎牙的牙齒難看極了，哎，我簡直就是個醜女的典型。

四、「阿詩瑪」同桌的幸災樂禍，與長靠椅上的分數暗戰

我的同桌曾說過，一米六才是標準身高。她自己還沒到一米六，卻長著一張像「阿詩瑪」一樣漂亮的臉蛋兒。胸前的衣扣似乎隨時會被裡面的兩顆熟透了的大西瓜崩掉。她說這話時，帶著一種「你已經長得太高了」的幸災樂禍。

這位「阿詩瑪」同桌的功課也很好，在班裡名列前茅，後來還當上了年級的紅衛兵連長。但不知怎的，她似乎對我總有些意見。那時全班一共48個人，我的學號是9號，她則是40幾號。每次考試結束，老師按學號在班裡報分數。因為我排在前面，班裡那四五個滿分裡，第一個被讀到的100分總是我。這或許讓好勝的她，心裡有些不是滋味。

有一次上課鈴響了，同學們都已入座，她卻故意不讓我坐下。我們坐的是同一張長靠椅。教室裡有四列課桌，每列橫向坐兩人，4列6排正好48個人。學生每學期輪換一列。這時她的座位靠窗，卻偏偏霸占了我的位置。

那天正好是余老師的課。余老師正轉身在黑板上寫東西，每當余老師一扭頭，她就即刻滑回自己的位置。我剛要坐下，余老師又轉過去寫字，她便馬上故伎重演，又滑過來將我頂住。余老師自然沒看到她這番靈活的小動作。等再次回頭時，只看到我還傻站著，便點名說：「芬，侬哪能还呒没坐下来？」在全班同學的注視下，我被她搞得無比尷尬。她大概是想在余老師面前看我出丑吧。那時的我哪裡懂得，後來據說女孩子發育成熟了，就不會再長個子。她那幸災樂禍的背後，或許也藏著她自己的敏感。

其實那時候生活條件都不好，衣服不合身是常有的事。她是因為發育得太豐滿，一時間沒有寬敞衣服穿，衣服才顯得緊繃繃的。而我則是恰恰相反，因為一下子「躥個兒」長得太快。衣服褲子的邊兒都放下了還顯短。用上海話說，就是整天穿得「吊八斤」的。

那時候新衣服都做得太大，要新三年，舊三年，縫縫補補又三年，反正是沒有合適的時候。

五、染成褐色的白襪子，與儀仗隊門外那兩分錢的鹽津棗

那時母親對「白色」和「淺色」嚴防死守，一直不讓我穿淺顏色的衣褲。總是嘮叨著說：「不耐髒」。畢竟那個年代大家物資匱乏，外衣褲也不可能天天換洗。

有一次我被選為校「儀仗隊」成員，那不是誰想進就能進的，因而隊員們或多或少有一種自豪感。任務是經過訓練在馬路上舉著紙花歡呼雀躍，高喊：「歡迎！歡迎！熱烈歡迎！」歡迎像西哈努克親王那樣的外賓。學校要求統一穿白襯衣，藍裙子，白球鞋和白襪子。我沒這些行頭，只好臨時跟同學借。自己則用攒下的零花錢，去買了一雙白襪子。小時候母親給我的零用錢是每個月五分，上中學後漲到一毛錢。一雙尼龍絲襪子要2塊多錢呢。

誰知下課一回家，我頓時傻了眼兒。母親為了「耐髒」，竟然已經將我那雙只穿了一次的白襪子，用顏料染成了褐色！我真傷心透了。母親也不准我跟人借鞋子衣服穿。最後只好無奈地「退隊」了。

那時候生活是真的艱苦，看著學校裡其他小姑娘，常有吃零食的習慣。我兜裡沒錢，心裡說不羨慕是假的。實在饞得不行了，我才會奢侈一次。去買一包兩分錢的「鹽津棗」含在嘴裡偷偷咂摸那點酸甜咸鮮的味道。

平時的零花錢會去買兩分錢一張的影印「歌片」。等好不容易攢夠了三五毛，就急急忙忙地給照相館送了去。為此常挨母親的責備，說我有小資產階級思想。

六、褲腳加長四寸的沮喪，與柴老師那記無比誇張的手勢

我當時有一條格外心愛的，米黃色卡其布褲子。那是難得母親允許我自己挑選的顏色。也許她認為我長大了，要培養點自我判斷的能力。我在一刀刀布料中，一下子就看中了米黃色。當然母親還是嘮叨了一句不耐髒。但既然让我自己选了，一言既出驷马难追。

那是我自己踩著縫紉機，一針一線做出來的。後來個子躥得厲害，我只好在褲腳處加長了四寸。可怎麼也配不到同樣顏色的布料，上下兩截帶著明顯的色差。衣服吊著，褲子拽著，這讓處在青春期的我，感到有些沮喪。

記得有一次在校門口，正巧遇到了年級教學組長柴俊海老師。他瞅見我穿著那條自己加長帶著色差的褲子，登時岔開大拇指和食指，對著我做了一個無比誇張的驚訝表情。他那眼神彷彿在說：「芬，這才幾天不見，你怎麼一下子長得這麼高啦？！」

七、照進混沌世界的強光，與雨夜屋簷下的尼姑謎題

1971年的正式拉練途中，余老師則常常通過講故事，猜謎語來啟發和培養我們的思考能力。那種感覺彷彿一束強光，突然照進了我這懵懂無知小女生的混沌世界。

他出過許多需要生活經驗的智力題，比如：

樹上有十隻鳥兒，有人開了一槍打下一隻，樹上還留下多少隻？

一隻大船和一隻小船在海面上，兩個甲板間距10米，想從小船登上大船，但沒有梯子。潮水以每小時0.5米的速度上升，多少小時後才能上大船？

還有，街頭一小尼姑扶著醉漢在走。一般來講尼姑是不能接近男人的更不用說醉漢了。人們好奇地跟著。尼姑轉身說：「貧身舅姐醉漢妻。」聽懂了的散開了。又有一群不知情的跟著，尼姑又道：「醉漢妻弟貧身舅。」聽懂了的又離去了，只留下傻瓜還跟著。

遇到這些需要生活經驗的智力題，往往簡單的答案，卻被沒有生活經歷閱歷的我們解得複雜化了。我們連槍聲響過，一隻鳥也不會留在樹上，以及水漲船高的基本常識都沒有。像這樣有趣的題目，余老師一有空就給我們出幾道。那尼姑與醉漢的關係，我是第一個，而且很快就給出答案的。

那天下午，夥房的兩扇油漆剝落，露出原木紋兒的大門敞開著，屋裡屋外圍著七八個同學，他們是分住在幾戶農家小組的小組長，來打飯、打熱水。大家歪著腦袋，蹙著眉，還在琢磨著這尼姑和醉漢到底是什麼關係。天上飄起了小雨，我站在屋簷下，看著他們拿著暖瓶、端著臉盆離開時那迷蒙的目光，心裡為自己沒有成為謎語中的「傻瓜」而暗自竊喜。

八、說不清的複雜情愫，與課堂上那條迫不及待晃動的手臂

懵懂無知的我，被余老師的淵博與風趣深深打動。此後，每每見到他，我的心跳就會加速。那是一種集欽佩、敬仰、自卑和一種說不清道不明的春心萌動於一體的複雜情愫。

平時我根本不敢直視他，連頭都抬不起來。但在課堂上，我總是積極舉手回答問題。我的手臂經常是不等問題說完就迫不及待地伸出去了，舉得高高的還急切地晃動著。

九、現場批改的紅色粉筆，與提早交卷時的無上神氣

看著多數同學還沒理解，而自己已經懂了，心中總有一種小小的驕傲。每次下課前，余老師會在黑板上用粉筆密密麻麻地寫下20道習題，讓同學們在課堂上做，完成不了的就作為回家作業。大多數同學還沒等抄完習題，下課鈴就響了。可我總是邊抄邊做，基本上能在下課前完成百分之八九十。鈴聲一響，立刻舉手請余老師過來給看一下。余老師索性就用紅筆現場給我批改起來。考試時，我也基本上是第一個或第二個交卷的。早早走出安靜的考場，那種感覺在當時，覺得神氣極了。

十、林校長猝不及防的青睞，與考場課桌邊的耳鳴心悸

林則福校長四十出頭，英俊威嚴，玉樹臨風。偶爾在校園裡，同學們見到他，都會畢恭畢敬，異口同聲地說：林老師好！他則略帶笑意。

不知咋地，林校長知道了我的名字。一次期末大考，教學樓裡十分安靜，氣氛緊張。林校長帶著教導主任，年級組長等人，在大樓個巡視。一般他們只是在各教室門口停留一會兒。但那次林校長卻走進了考場，直接來到了我的課桌邊看我答卷。其他老師都在門外等著。我緊張得腦子裡一片空白，心跳到嗓子眼兒，那砰、砰、砰、的聲音震耳欲聾，我低著頭坐在那兒，筆下什麼也寫不出來。

十一、上外保送的朦朧希冀，與母親成分帶來的陰錯陽差之護

還有一次在校園裡，他當著其他同學詫異中夾帶著羨慕的目光，走過來關切地說：「芬你怎麼樣？你的臉色看起來很蒼白啊，要照顧好自己。」

最後一學期某個日光慘淡的秋日，我和幾個女生，課間在校園一隅玩遊戲。先將一個小沙包盡量往遠扔出，但又不能超出界限，再判斷沙包的距離，口中報出估計的數字，然後，腳尖對脚後跟一步挨著一步，量過去。當腳步累積數與預計的數吻合時停下，如果所停地點與沙包的間距不到一脚掌就贏了，大於一脚掌或者超過哪怕半步都算輸。當然如果判斷失誤，也有修正的機會。就是走得步子緊點兒或鬆一點兒，尤其最後幾步。當然過分了就是耍賴了。

此時林校長正好路過。大学都齐声说：「林校长好！」他却徑直走到我面前說：「芬，你怎麼也跟著她們一起玩兒？都快畢業了，你應該抓緊呀，學校可能會有機會，保送學生去上海外國語學院深造。」

短短的幾句話，在我的心裡埋下了一種朦朧默默的期待。我沒有做過任何絲毫的努力，去找過林校長問問。保送尖子生去深造，文革伊始就被停止了。林校長透露出保送會被恢復的可能性。

記得文革前在讀的普陀區中心小學，就有保送去上海外國語學院附屬小學讀書的名額。我班小劉的哥哥就是在二年級時被保送的。然而，文革一開始這套保送機制便猝然停擺。已經在外校就讀的小學生們全都被遣散，回到了原來的學校。

小劉的哥哥回來後曾在全校發言，公开批判他在外語學校住讀時的「資產階級生活方式」。從咖啡、牛奶到麵包、衣食住行全面西化。那當然了，畢竟那是被周恩來總理稱為「文裝解放軍」的隊伍，是當時專門「培養外语外交人才的搖籃」。

直到毕业都沒有再見到過林校长。林校長的這份青睞，在當時是天大的榮耀，也許他知道了因為我母親曾被打成反革命，而我的政審會通不過。如今想來，還好沒被特殊培養了去，要不然很有可能被培養成為一個有特殊任務的人，那命運恐就掌握在別人手裡了。母親的「反革命」身份，陰錯陽差地又一次保護了她的孩子避免誤入歧途。

十二、一百二十次的心跳過速，與青春歲月裡最甜蜜的「病因」

毕业体检时，我竟因「心跳过速」差点拿不到毕业证。复查通知一到，我愈发心慌，那时的我太清楚了，若因体检不合格而被判定为需要「病退」，档案就会被轉到街道居委會，意味着我将彻底失去分配工作的资格，成為一個閒散在家的「社會青年」，仿佛瞬间就成了一个被时代遗忘的「废人」。

在那间安静的醫務室里，听着心跳依旧稳稳地停在120次，医生的眉头紧锁，让我坐在一旁休息。无论我如何努力深呼吸，那心跳就是不肯慢下来。医生哪能想到，这哪是什么病理性的心动过速？这分明是青春期对前途的忧惧，与那份不可言说的「秘密」的共振所造成的按耐不住的心悸。究竟是余老师那束照进混沌的「强光」，还是林校长那份猝不及防的「青睐」，让我的心跳快了节拍？哈哈，这恐怕是我青春岁月里，最甜蜜，也最惊心动魄的「病因」了。

The Elegant Enlightenment of Fallen Masters, and My Size 38 Shoes from Lan Tang

Part I: Hidden Academic Legends: The Spirit of ECNU and Fudan inside a New Village Campus

When I first entered Caoyang No. 2 Middle School as a first-year junior high student, before I could even match a single classmate's name to their face, whispers were already spreading quietly among the well-informed girls during recess: Mr. Yu Guopei possessed extraordinary talent and brilliance, and his teaching methods were masterful. Before the Cultural Revolution, he had been a professor at East China Normal University (华东师大), but after being branded a "Rightist" during the early days of the movement, he was banished down to our school. He served as a mathematics teacher but had also taught English. It was a lingering regret of mine that, at the time, he went to Class 1 to serve as their homeroom teacher.

The girls also knew about the assistant homeroom teacher of our Class 10—Ms. Zhang Shuren, who taught English. Due to her family background and class status, Ms. Zhang had also been branded a "Rightist." It was said that her father was Zhang Yi, the former president of the prestigious Fudan University, while her husband had served as a translator for the Soviet Consulate in Shanghai. Before the Cultural Revolution, Ms. Zhang had taught Russian. In the bitter winter, even a plain, ordinary blue cotton smock worn over her clothes looked extraordinarily elegant, refined, and entirely untainted by the mundane world.

Fortunately, by our second year, Mr. Yu, who was then in his early thirties, became our official homeroom teacher. He was of medium height, with a prominent, full forehead, large piercing eyes, and a square-jawed face. Whenever he lectured, his voice rang out with booming clarity. Normally, aside from the standard questions and answers during lessons, there wasn't much personal interaction between the teachers and students. However, the two rugged camping drills that followed quietly deepened our understanding of one another. Being around the brilliant, witty Mr. Yu and the beautiful, elegant Ms. Zhang always left us with an invisible, profound sense of enlightenment.

Part II: The Gentle Touch on a Camping Trail and the Secret of the Stoop

Our very first camping drill was merely a practice exercise; it was a single-day round trip, so we weren't burdened with heavy backpacks. Along the journey, the two teachers walked right in the middle of our formation, with the girls marching ahead and the boys following behind. Because I was remarkably tall, I happened to be positioned in the absolute last row of the girls’ line.

Suddenly, I overheard the two of them murmuring softly behind me: "Fen is actually quite a beautiful little girl; if only she didn’t slouch and hunch her back like that." Hearing this, Ms. Zhang stepped forward, drew near to me, and said gently, "Fen, stand up straight, just like this." She intentionally straightened her own spine to demonstrate the posture for me, placing one of her hands lightly against my back to give a gentle, encouraging press. "A beautiful girl should carry herself like this..."

My face instantly flushed bright red. The truth was, I didn't actually suffer from a structural hunchback; it was simply that when I hung around my shorter classmates, I had developed a sub-conscious habit of leaning down and stooping my frame just to listen to them speak.

Part III: The Insecurity of Size 38 and Mother’s Razor-Sharp Tough Love

Back in those days, I was exceptionally sensitive about my own height. My mother used to mock-tease me, saying I was "born with a height just right for catching camel dung." I didn't comprehend back then that a tall stature naturally meant larger feet—it was all a matter of proportion! When the other girls wore petite sizes like 35 or 36, my shoe size was already a 37 or 38. In a society that heavily idolized dainty, delicate little feet as the supreme aesthetic ideology, I was consumed by a deep, heavy sense of adolescent insecurity.

Shoe stores rarely stocked larger sizes for women, meaning there was absolutely no room for personal selection, and the craftsmanship on the larger pairs was noticeably cruder than the small ones. To chase the high-fashion trends of the era, we would line up at the shops early in the morning, waiting for the doors to crack open so we could rush in and buy popular styles like the iconic T-strap heels. Before the store's massive glass doors could even swing fully open, the crowd would squeeze their way inside, charging frantically toward the counter to snatch up the stock. If you blurted out a request for a size 38, it wouldn't even be out on the display shelves; the sales clerk would have to trek all the way back into the deep warehouse to search for it, and half the time, they were completely out of stock.

When I was young and newly broken into the world, completely oblivious to my own limitations, I harbored a deep fondness for luxury brand names. I vividly remember October 21, 1974—the date is etched in my mind—when several girls from our team and I set out before dawn, walking eighteen long li in the pitch black just to make a trek to the county seat of Fengxian. It was my very first time visiting a proper county town. We threaded our way through those narrow, rustic, and pristine ancient streets, shared a meal, and I even purchased a bolt of nylon fabric patterned with red and white chrysanthemums—the absolute pinnacle of high-tech textile innovation at the time. Thrilled with my prize, I carried it back to Shanghai and marched straight into "Pengjie" (Bonjour) Ladies' Tailoring Shop—the most prestigious fashion house on Nanjing Road at the time—to have them craft a custom short-sleeved shirt with a swallow collar. I believe the tailoring labor fee alone set me back around four yuan and change. The cut was exceptionally novel, and the craftsmanship was immaculately tailored and form-fitting. Yet, the exact moment I threw it onto my body, the harsh reality struck: synthetic nylon was suffocatingly hot and completely airless, nowhere near as comfortable as honest, breathable cotton.

My sixth older brother, Liu Ge, had always warned me: "Never chase fleeting trends, and absolutely never wear bizarre, flamboyant clothing; those styles will vanish overnight. Even if money is tight, never buy cheap, shoddy things. Save your pennies until you have gathered enough. Either don't buy at all, or when you finally do, buy only the absolute highest quality. When getting garments tailored, choose only 100% cotton, 100% wool, or 100% linen fabrics."

Guided by his invaluable Street Smarts, I exercised immense discipline, suppressing my impulses until I had scraped together enough savings to buy the best. If I wanted shoes, I would only cross the threshold of Lan Tang—the most renowned footwear boutique in Shanghai. When it came to a wristwatch, I stubbornly stockpiled my coins until I could afford an imported Swiss timepiece worth over two hundred yuan. I preferred to endure the long wait rather than settling early for a common sixty-yuan domestic watch just to have something on my wrist.

Penniless and scraping by as I was, my capacity for restraint was monumental, all for the sake of securing true quality. In those years, whenever a rare opportunity arose to go to "Shanghai"—we children raised in Caoyang New Village always referred to heading into the downtown urban districts as "going to Shanghai"—I would invariably make a bee-line to the Arts and Crafts Service Department of the Shanghai Arts and Crafts Company, located right next to the grand Grand Theatre (Grand Cinema). I went there purely to gaze upon beautiful things—things that were, naturally, completely and utterly out of my financial reach. Yet, looking at those porcelain vases, jade carvings, ivory miniatures, boxwood sculptures, folding screens, and antique trunks, a strange wave of deja vu would wash over me. They felt deeply familiar, and gazing at them filled my heart with a profound, instinctual warmth.

In reality, my younger self was completely oblivious to the real world back then, stepping into those luxury establishments without a single thought about my actual purchasing power. I was a fish swimming in a completely different deep-water layer from the elites who truly belonged there, and it is exceptionally difficult for a fish to ever cross those boundaries, haha! My mother used to throw a sharp piece of old folklore at me, mockingly sneering that I was born with "the desires of a high-born lady, but the destiny of a common servant," and that my heart was "loftier than the heavens, yet my fate was as thin as paper." Today, looking back across the decades, I sometimes wonder if my mother wasn't actually some sort of detached, hidden mystic—how on earth did she read the trajectory of my entire life with such terrifying, flawless precision? My only lingering wish is that, back then, she had chosen to see through my fate without ruthlessly breaking the spell aloud.

I remember once timidly complaining to my mother about my towering, oversized frame. And do you know what she did? She threw a completely dismissive look in my direction and snorted, "Well, hurry up then! Go to the kitchen, find a meat cleaver, and chop your toes right off! And if that still doesn't settle it, go track down an axe and lop your whole head off while you're at it! Sheesh!" Oh, and to make matters worse, my teeth looked absolutely dreadful after having that little tiger tooth pulled. Back then, I felt like the absolute textbook definition of an ugly duckling.

Part IV: The "Ashima" Desk-mate and the Silent Rivalry of the Long Bench

My desk-mate once declared that 1.6 meters was the absolute standard height for a woman. She herself hadn't quite reached 1.6 meters, yet she possessed a stunningly beautiful face that looked exactly like the legendary film character "Ashima." The buttons down the front of her shirt always looked as though they were on the verge of snapping off, strained by the two fully ripened melons underneath. Whenever she made these comments, her voice carried a distinct edge of schadenfreude, as if to say, "You've already grown entirely too tall."

This "Ashima" desk-mate also excelled in her studies, consistently ranking at the absolute top of the class, and she later rose to become the commander of our grade's Red Guards company. Yet, for reasons I could never fully fathom, she always seemed to harbor a quiet grievance against me. Back then, our entire class consisted of forty-eight students; my student ID was number 9, while hers was somewhere in the forties. Every time an exam concluded, the teacher would announce the scores in front of the class in the exact order of our student IDs. Because my number put me at the front of the line, whenever there were four or five perfect scores in the class, the very first "100" read aloud was always mine. This likely left a rather bitter taste in the mouth of someone so intensely competitive.

There was one time when the class bell rang and all the students had taken their seats, but she deliberately refused to let me sit down. We shared the exact same long wooden bench. Our classroom was arranged in four long columns of desks, with two people sitting horizontally at each desk—four columns and six rows made up our forty-eight seats perfectly. The students would rotate columns every semester. During this particular rotation, her seat was right next to the window, yet she stubbornly chose to monopolize my side of the bench.

That day happened to be Mr. Yu's class. Mr. Yu kept turning around to write notes on the blackboard, and every single time his head whipped back toward the room, she would instantly slide back into her own designated spot. The moment I attempted to sit down, Mr. Yu would turn back to the blackboard to write, and she would immediately resume her old trick, sliding right back over to block me out. Naturally, Mr. Yu never caught her agile, split-second maneuvers. When he turned around once more, he saw nothing but me standing there like a fool. He called out my name directly: "Fen, why on earth haven't you sat down yet?" Under the collective gaze of the entire class, I was left utterly paralyzed with embarrassment. She had clearly engineered the entire spectacle just to watch me make a fool of myself in front of Mr. Yu. How could my naive younger self have understood back then that once a girl reaches maturity, she stops growing altogether? Behind her smug schadenfreude, she was likely masking her own deep insecurities about her body.

In truth, our living conditions back then were incredibly meager, and wearing ill-fitting clothes was a completely standard reality of life. She struggled because her rapid development left her bursting out of her clothes, making her garments appear tightly strained. I, on the other hand, suffered from the exact opposite problem: I had shot up like a bamboo sprout entirely too fast. Even after the hems of my sleeves and trousers were fully let down, they still looked ridiculously short. In our local Shanghai dialect, I spent my entire youth dressed "dia-bah-jin" (吊八斤)—meaning my clothes were perpetually dangling and riding up my limbs.

In those years, parents always purchased new clothes several sizes too large. It was the law of the era: "New for three years, old for three years, patch and mend for three more years." One way or another, there was simply never a single moment where your clothes actually fit you properly.

Part V: The Brown Dye Tragedy and the Out-of-Reach White Parade Outfit

During that time, my mother maintained a strict, absolute defense against "white" and any "light-colored" garments, refusing to let me wear them under any circumstances. She would constantly nag, "They simply cannot resist dirt." After all, in an era of extreme material scarcity, it was completely impossible to wash and change your outerwear every single day.

There was one instance when I was officially selected to be a member of the school's formal "Honor Guard"—an honor that wasn't open to just anyone, which naturally filled the team members with a profound sense of youthful pride. Our grand mission involved undergoing rigorous training to stand on the public streets, waving paper flowers, jumping for joy, and screaming at the top of our lungs: "Welcome! Welcome! A warm, burning welcome!" We were welcoming elite foreign dignitaries like Prince Sihanouk of Cambodia. The school issued a strict directive: everyone had to wear a uniform consisting of a white shirt, a blue skirt, white canvas sneakers, and white socks. Lacking these essential garments, I had no choice but to frantically borrow them from a classmate. As for the socks, I used my own hard-earned savings to purchase a brand-new pair of white socks. When I was a little girl, my mother gave me a pocket money allowance of a mere five cents a month; once I reached junior high, it was raised to ten cents. A single pair of nylon thread socks cost over two yuan back then!

To my absolute horror upon returning home after class, my mother, purely for the sake of "resisting dirt," had already used dye to turn my precious white socks—which I had only worn a single time—into a dull shade of brown! I was completely, utterly heartbroken. My mother also strictly forbade me from ever borrowing clothes or shoes from others. Left with absolutely no alternative, I was forced to quietly resign from the Honor Guard.

Part VI: Two-Cent Treats, Photographic Indulgences, and the Four-Inch Trouser-Leg Extension

Life back then was truly, grindingly harsh. Watching the other young girls at school who frequently had the pocket money to buy snacks, it would be a complete lie to say I wasn't deeply envious inside. Only when the craving became absolutely unbearable would I allow myself a rare piece of luxury: I would go spend two cents to buy a small packet of Yanjin Zao (salted herbal plums), keeping a single plum tucked inside my cheek, quietly savoring that tiny, slow burst of sour, sweet, salty, and savory flavor.

My regular pocket money was usually spent buying printed "song sheets" for two cents a page. Once I finally managed to scrape together three or five dimes through meticulous saving, I would immediately rush over to hand it straight to the photography studio. For this, I constantly drew sharp rebukes from my mother, who scolded me for harboring "petty-bourgeois ideology."

During that time, I owned a pair of beige khaki trousers that were exceptionally dear to my heart. It was a rare instance where my mother actually permitted me to select the color entirely by myself. Perhaps she believed I was growing up and wanted to cultivate a bit of independent judgment in me. Standing before the immense bolts of cloth, my eyes instantly locked onto the beige. Naturally, my mother still managed to slip in her usual nag about it "not resisting dirt." But since she had given me the choice, a word spoken was like a horse in full gallop—she couldn't take it back.

I sat down at our sewing machine and crafted those trousers all by myself, stitch by careful stitch. Later on, however, my height shot up so drastically that I had no choice but to add a four-inch extension to the bottom of the trouser cuffs. But no matter how hard I searched, it was completely impossible to match the exact same dye lot of the original fabric; as a result, the top and bottom sections carried a glaring, obvious color mismatch. With my shirts hanging loose and my trousers dragging short, I felt a deep, heavy wave of adolescent deflation wash through my core.

I vividly remember one afternoon at the school gates when I happened to cross paths with Mr. Chai Junhai, the head of our grade’s academic teaching unit. The moment his eyes caught sight of me wearing those self-extended trousers with their blatant color mismatch, he instantly spread his thumb and index finger apart, making an incredibly exaggerated gesture of profound shock right at me. The look in his eyes seemed to declare: "Fen, I haven't seen you in just a handful of days—how on earth have you suddenly grown this incredibly tall?!"

Part VII: The Piercing Flash of Enlightenment and the Riddle of the Drunkard

Along the journey of our formal military camping drill in 1971, Mr. Yu would frequently utilize storytelling and riddle-solving to spark our intellect and cultivate our analytical thinking. The brilliant stories and clever riddles he shared felt exactly like a piercing flash of intense light, suddenly illuminating the chaotic, muddled world of an ignorant young girl.

He constantly tossed out intellectual riddles that demanded real-world observation and life experience. For instance:

"There are ten birds perched in a tree. A hunter fires a single shot and brings one down. How many birds are left remaining in the tree?"

Or: "A massive ship and a tiny boat are floating on the sea, with a vertical clearance of ten meters between their decks. A passenger wishes to climb from the small boat onto the large ship, but there is no ladder available. If the tide rises at a steady rate of 0.5 meters per hour, how many hours will it take for the boat to reach the level of the large ship?"

And then, there was this one: "Out on the street, a young Buddhist nun is walking along, propping up and supporting a heavily intoxicated drunkard. Under normal circumstances, a nun is strictly forbidden from ever drawing near to men, let alone a drunkard. Driven by intense curiosity, a crowd of onlookers begins following them. The nun suddenly turns around to face them and declares: 'My maternal uncle's elder sister is this drunkard's wife.' Hearing this, those who comprehended the riddle instantly scattered. Shortly after, another group of oblivious onlookers begins trailing behind them. The nun turns around once more and states: 'The drunkard's wife's younger brother is my maternal uncle.' Those who understood the logic departed as well, leaving behind nothing but the absolute fools who kept trailing after them like idiots."

Whenever we encountered these types of logic puzzles that required basic real-world observation, our group—lacking any real life experience or maturity—invariably overcomplicated the answers. We lacked even the most fundamental, common-sense knowledge that once a gunshot blasts, not a single bird will remain in the tree, or that when the water rises, the boat naturally rises with it. Mr. Yu would casually toss out a few of these delightful riddles whenever a spare moment arose. As for the puzzle of the nun and the drunkard, I was actually the very first one to unravel the logic, delivering the correct answer in a flash.

That afternoon, the two large wooden doors of the communal kitchen—their paint heavily peeling away to expose the raw, natural grain of the timber underneath—stood wide open. Huddled right around the threshold, both inside and outside the room, were seven or eight classmates. They served as the leaders of the various small student cohorts scattered across different local farm households, and they had gathered there to collect the group's meals and hot water. Everyone stood there with their heads tilted sideways, brows tightly knit, still desperately racking their brains trying to decipher what on earth the relationship between that nun and the drunkard actually was.

A fine, gentle drizzle began to fall from the sky. Standing safely beneath the overhang of the roof, I watched them carry away their thermoses and washbasins, their gazes entirely hazy and bewildered, while I secretly rejoiced with quiet, triumphant pride that I hadn't turned out to be one of the "fools" in the riddle.

Part VIII: The Flutter of an Awakening Heart and the Raised Arm of Pride

Muddled and completely ignorant of the world, I found myself deeply moved and captivated by Mr. Yu’s profound brilliance and wit. From that period forward, every single time I caught sight of him, my heart would instantly quicken its pace—stirring a complex tapestry woven of intense admiration, reverence, deep insecurity, and an indescribable fluttering of first romance.

Normally, I didn't even possess the courage to look him directly in the eye; I couldn't even lift my head up around him. Yet, the moment we sat inside the classroom, I became fiercely proactive, raising my hand to answer questions at every single opportunity. My arm would frequently shoot straight up into the air, waving with frantic urgency, completely unable to wait for him to even finish uttering the question.

Watching the majority of my classmates struggle to comprehend while I had already fully grasped the concept always filled my heart with a tiny, secret surge of immense pride. Right before the conclusion of every lesson, Mr. Yu would use white chalk to densely pack the blackboard with twenty complex mathematical exercises, allowing the students to work on them in class, with whatever remained unfinished assigned as homework. For the vast majority of the students, before they could even finish copying the problems into their notebooks, the dismissal bell would explode across the hallway. I, however, always mastered the art of solving the equations simultaneously while copying them down, consistently finishing roughly eighty or ninety percent of the workload before the final bell rang. The exact second the bell chimed, my hand would instantly shoot up to invite Mr. Yu over to inspect my desk. Mr. Yu would simply pull out his red pen right there on the spot, grading and correcting my work live before my eyes. When it came to formal examinations, I was invariably the very first or second student to hand in my test booklet. Walking early out of that dead-silent, high-pressure examination room into the open air felt absolutely, incredibly grand and proud back then.

Part IX: Principal Lin's Sudden Gaze and the Silence of the Examination Hall

Our principal, Lin Zhefu, was in his early forties—remarkably handsome, dignified, and possessed an aura as graceful and striking as a jade tree standing in the wind. On the rare occasions when students crossed paths with him on the school grounds, everyone would offer the deepest, most respectful greetings, calling out in absolute unison: "Good day, Principal Lin!" He would simply respond with a faint, elegant trace of a smile.

For reasons I could never fully fathom, Principal Lin somehow learned my exact name. During one major final examination, the entire teaching building fell into a dead, heavy silence, and the atmosphere was thick with absolute tension. Principal Lin, accompanied by the dean of studies, the head of our academic grade unit, and a small entourage, was making a formal patrol sweep across the complex. Under normal routine, they would simply linger outside the doorways of the various classrooms for a brief moment before moving along. Yet, during this particular test, Principal Lin took a sudden step right across the threshold, walked straight into the examination room, and marched directly over to my desk to stand watch as I answered the paper. The rest of the teachers remained waiting outside the door.

I was instantly thrown into a state of sheer, blinding terror; my mind went completely blank, and my heart leaped violently clean into my throat. The thunderous, deafening rhythm of my own pulse—thump, thump, thump!—was roaring in my ears so loudly it felt suffocating. I sat there with my head pinned down, staring at the desk, completely unable to write a single stroke of ink beneath his gaze.

Part X: The Whispered Hint of the Foreign Language Academy and the Sheltered Fate

There was another time on campus when, right under the astonished and deeply envious gazes of my fellow classmates, Principal Lin walked straight over to me and expressed his gentle concern: "Fen, how are you holding up? Your face looks remarkably pale; you must take good care of yourself."

On a certain autumn day near our final semester, when the sunlight felt pale and bleak, a few girlfriends and I were playing a game in a quiet corner of the school grounds during recess. The rules were to toss a small beanbag as far as possible without letting it cross the boundaries. We would then judge the distance, call out an estimated number, and measure it out by placing our feet toe-to-heel, step by precise step. If the final step count matched our estimate, we stopped; if the gap between our final position and the beanbag was less than a single footprint, we won. Anything wider than a footprint, or overstepping by even half a pace, meant a total loss. Of course, if you miscalculated early on, there was always a chance to make adjustments—either by squeezing your strides a bit tighter or loosening them up, especially during those final few crucial steps. Though if you overdid it, it was considered cheating.

Right at that moment, Principal Lin happened to stroll past. Everyone called out in unison: "Good day, Principal Lin!" Yet, he marched directly over to me and said, "Fen, why on earth are you joining them in these silly games? Graduation is right around the corner; you should be seizing every moment. The school might have an upcoming opportunity to recommend elite students for advanced studies at the Shanghai International Studies University (SISU)."

Those few brief words instantly planted a hazy, quiet expectation in the deepest recesses of my heart. In reality, I never made a single shred of effort to follow up or ask Principal Lin about it. The system of recommending top-tier students for advanced diplomacy tracks had been completely frozen since the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, but Principal Lin was hinting at the distinct possibility of its imminent revival.

I vividly recalled how, prior to the Cultural Revolution, the Putuo District Central Primary School I attended held allocated quotas for recommending students to the affiliated primary school of the Shanghai International Studies University. My classmate Xiao Liu's older brother had been recommended precisely in the second grade. However, the exact moment the Cultural Revolution erupted, that entire recommendation apparatus ground to a sudden, violent halt. The young elementary students who had already been studying at that specialized boarding school were completely disbanded and sent straight back to their original neighborhood schools.

Upon his return, Xiao Liu’s brother was even made to deliver a public speech before the entire school assembly, openly criticizing the "bourgeois lifestyle" he had experienced while boarding at the foreign language school. Everything from drinking coffee and milk to eating bread—their food, clothing, housing, and transportation—had been thoroughly Westernized. And naturally so; after all, that elite unit had been famously dubbed by Premier Zhou Enlai as the "Militia in Civilian Attire"—a cradle specifically engineered at the time to cultivate top-tier foreign affairs and diplomatic talent.

I never laid eyes on Principal Lin again until graduation. In those years, receiving that kind of singular favor from the principal was considered a monumental glory. Perhaps he later discovered that because my mother had been branded a counter-revolutionary, I would never be able to pass the strict political screening. Looking back on it today, however, I am profoundly grateful I was never selected for that special cultivation; otherwise, I might very well have been groomed into a person burdened with a covert mission, leaving my destiny entirely in the hands of others. Through a bizarre twist of cosmic irony, my mother’s "counter-revolutionary" status had once again stepped in to shield her child from wandering down a treacherous path.

Part XI: The 120-Beat Graduation Panic and the Sweet Pathological Diagnosis

During my graduation medical examination, I came perilously close to missing out on my graduation certificate altogether due to "tachycardia"—an abnormally fast heartbeat. The exact moment the notice for a mandatory re-check landed on my desk, my heart spiraled into absolute panic. A youth in that era understood the stakes all too clearly: if I was disqualified due to a failed medical check and designated as someone requiring a "medical discharge," my private file would be dumped straight down to the neighborhood street committee. That meant I would completely lose all eligibility for state job allocation, transforming overnight into an idle "social youth" drifting aimlessly on the streets—instantly reduced to a useless "discarded soul," completely forgotten by the era.

Inside that dead-silent medical clinic room, listening to my pulse remaining stubbornly locked at a racing 120 beats per minute, the doctor’s brow knit into a tight, severe frown. He instructed me to sit to the side and rest. Yet, no matter how hard I tried to practice deep, conscious breathing, that heartbeat simply refused to slow down. How on earth could that doctor have known that this wasn't some sort of physiological or pathological tachycardia?

This was, plain and simple, a fierce resonance between a teenager's profound dread over her looming future and that unutterable, deeply buried "secret"—an uncontrollable palpitation of the soul. Was it the piercing "intense light" of Mr. Yu that illuminated my chaos, or was it the sudden, unexpected "favor" of Principal Lin that quickened the tempo of my heart? Haha, I suppose this remains the sweetest, yet most terrifying "pathological cause" of my entire youth.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第三百五十三篇