《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！

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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

《那場與570萬人的科場競逐，與我那顆尚未發芽的種子》

一、1977年秋：全國震動與工農兵大學生的歲月

1977年秋天，消息傳來——全國恢復高考！

多麼令人振奮的消息，這可是鯉魚跳龍門的天賜良機呀！怎能錯過？！

1966年文革開始時，取消了高考。1970年起，大學開始按推薦制招生，被錄取的學生叫「工農兵大學生」。我五哥就是在1973年9月被推薦上了上海交通大學的。那年月推薦名額極為有限，你即便十分優秀，也不一定會輪得到。

二、尚未發芽的種子，與趕科場的專用客車

光激動不行，還得趕緊行動。我馬上回上海，從家裡翻出中學的數理化課本，回到農場著急忙慌地複習起來。隊裡還有一位女生也在複習。

從10月21日正式宣布恢復高考，到12月中旬參加高考，只有兩個月的複習時間。這對我來說簡直就是「拔苗助長」——更確切地說，我這顆「種子「還沒發芽呢，哪兒來的苗？！

去考試的那天，眾多考生上了幾輛農場專備的公共汽車，滿滿當當開往設在縣城的考場。我忐忑不安地站在前車門第三級踏板上，拽著扶桿，看著躊躇滿志的應考生，感覺好像是去趕科場。

三、名落孫山，與那套可望不可即的十七冊叢書

結果名落孫山。憑我那薄弱的基礎，落榜也是預料之中的。我們隊裡的那位女生也沒考上，只能繼續努力，來年再考。1977年高考人數在570萬人次，錄取率僅為4.8%。

那位也落榜的女生跟我是同一個宿舍的，她睡在西南角的上鋪，我在東北角的下鋪。看到她手裡總拿著一本本厚厚的書在複習，問了才知道，市面上出了一套17冊的《數理化自學叢書》，而且很難買到。那是她在上海某區當法院院長的爸爸給弄到的，同時還給她準備了一套政治經濟問答題的標準答案。看她複習得井井有條，我心裡真的好羨慕。

四、關鍵時刻的故友，與華山路上的重逢

就在這焦慮、盲目、無助的節骨眼兒上，幾年不見的中學同學文豪傳話過來，說要去余老師家拜訪。

真不知是誰給安排的，文豪總是在關鍵時刻出現。當我需要文學滋養的時候，是他送來了幾十本當時還是禁書的世界名著；如今正為高考複習抓瞎的時候，他又找人帶話來，要我一起去拜訪余老師。

相約在華山路、余老師家附近的94路車站匯合。到那一看，發現來的還有三四個同班的男生。以前在學校里，男女生之間都不說話的，這次見到余老師，我竟然沒有了昔日的心慌與羞澀。那天，余老師給我們講了一下午怎樣複習迎考，師母也熱情地招待了我們。

五、鮮魚裡的無聲報答，與永不熄滅的知識接力棒

自此有一段時間，每次回上海帶的鮮魚，我都會給余老師家送幾條去。沒有送禮的意思，也沒再要余老師給我輔導功課，就是一心想著要給他們送去，也許這是一種本能的報答吧。

余老師曾告誡我要多讀書，要像海綿吸水一樣汲取知識，要打開眼界，豐富精神內涵。

畢業後文豪的出現，就像是從余老師那裡接過了接力棒，借給了我許多古書名著。我如飢似渴地讀啊讀，才真正體會到了，為什麼要像海綿吸水一樣讀書。

我大哥也幫我找了他的同事——一位文革前的大學生，給我輔導了一個下午，心裡總算有了點兒頭緒。

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

Competing with 5.7 Million Souls, and a Seed Yet to Sprout

Part I: The Thunderclap of 1977 and the Legend of the "Worker-Peasant-Soldier Students"

In the autumn of 1977, a thunderclap of news swept across the land: the National College Entrance Examination (Gaokao) was officially being resumed! What a thrilling, soul-stirring piece of news—this was a heaven-sent opportunity for a carp to leap through the mythical Dragon's Gate! How could anyone bear to let it slip away?!

When the Cultural Revolution commenced in 1966, the Gaokao had been completely abolished. Beginning in 1970, universities shifted to an admission system based strictly on institutional recommendations, and the chosen few were hailed as "Worker-Peasant-Soldier Students." My fifth older brother was precisely one of them, having been recommended to attend Shanghai Jiao Tong University in September of 1973. In those years, the quota for these recommendations was exceptionally scarce; even if you were thoroughly outstanding, it by no means guaranteed that the opportunity would ever fall to you.

Part II: A Seed Yet to Sprout and the Packing of the Imperial Exam Buses

But sheer excitement was not enough; swift action was vital. I rushed back to Shanghai at once, unearthing my old junior high and high school mathematics, physics, and chemistry textbooks from our family flat, and returned to the farm to cram and review in a state of sheer, panicked frenzy. There was another girl on our team who was also reviewing her materials.

From the official announcement of the Gaokao’s resumption on October 21 to the actual sitting of the exams in mid-December, we were allotted a mere two-month window for preparation. For me, this felt entirely like the old parable of "pulling up sprouts to help them grow"—or more accurately, the seed of my intellect hadn’t even sprouted yet, so where on earth were the sprouts supposed to come from?!

On the fateful day of the examination, a massive crowd of candidates boarded several public buses specially dispatched by the state farm, packing the vehicles shoulder-to-shoulder as we chartered our course toward the test centers located in the county seat. Clutching the handrail, my heart fluttering with nervous dread, I stood precariously upon the third step of the front bus door. Looking out at the fellow candidates who seemed so brimful of lofty ambitions and quiet confidence, I felt very much like an ancient scholar journeying to sit for the grueling imperial civil service examinations.

Part III: Falling Short and the Envy of the 17-Volume Collection

In the end, my name fell short on the honors list. Given my incredibly fragile foundation, failing that initial attempt was entirely to be expected. The other girl on our team didn't pass either; there was nothing to do but keep grinding and try again the following year. That winter, the total number of Gaokao candidates swelled to a staggering 5.7 million across the nation, yet the final admission rate stood at a mere 4.8%.

The girl who had also failed happened to share the exact same dormitory with me; she slept on the top bunk in the southwest corner, while I occupied the bottom bunk in the northeast corner. Seeing her constantly clutching thick, heavy volumes during her revision, I finally asked and learned that a legendary, 17-volume set titled The Mathematics, Physics, and Chemistry Self-Study Series had been released on the market, and it was virtually impossible to purchase. Her father, who served as the president of a certain district court in Shanghai, had managed to secure that rare collection for her, while simultaneously equipping her with a set of standardized answers for political economy essay questions. Watching her review her materials in such an immaculate, well-organized, and methodical fashion, my heart was truly brimful of intense envy.

Part IV: The Timely Return of an Old Classmate and the Reunion at Huashan Road

Right at this crucial juncture of intense anxiety, blindness, and utter helplessness, Wenhao—a high school classmate I hadn't laid eyes on in several years—passed along a message, proposing that we pay a visit to our former homeroom teacher, Mr. Yu.

I truly have no idea who orchestrated it, but Wenhao always seemed to materialize at the absolute turning points of my life. Back when my soul desperately craved literary nourishment, it was he who delivered dozens of world-renowned masterpieces that were still strictly banned at the time; now, just as I was frantically groping in the dark to review for the entrance exams, he sent word once again, inviting me to join him in visiting Mr. Yu.

We agreed to converge at the Route 94 bus stop on Huashan Road, located right near Mr. Yu’s residence. Upon arriving, I discovered that three or four male classmates from our old cohort had also shown up. Back in our school days, boys and girls strictly maintained a wall of silence and never conversed with one another. Yet, during this meeting with Mr. Yu, the fluttering panic and bashful shyness of my younger years completely vanished. That afternoon, Mr. Yu spent hours lecturing us on exactly how to structure our review to face the examinations, while his wife treated us with immense warmth and hospitality.

Part V: The Silent Gratitude of Fresh Fish and the Literary Relay Race

For a period after that, every single time I traveled back to Shanghai carrying fresh catch from the fishery, I would always deliver a few choice fish straight to Mr. Yu’s home. I had absolutely no intention of offering a formal bribe, nor did I ever ask Mr. Yu to give me extra private tutoring. My mind was simply, stubbornly fixed on providing for them; perhaps it was nothing more than an instinctual urge to repay a profound debt of gratitude.

Mr. Yu had once admonished me that I must read widely—that I must absorb knowledge the way a sponge absorbs water, broadening my horizons and enriching the inner landscape of my spirit. Wenhao’s sudden reemergence after graduation felt exactly as though he had taken the baton directly from Mr. Yu's hands, lending me countless classical texts and literary masterpieces. As I devoured those pages with a ravenous, unquenchable thirst, I finally, truly comprehended why one must read like a sponge absorbing water.

My eldest brother also went out of his way to enlist the help of a colleague—a university graduate from the era before the Cultural Revolution—who spent an entire afternoon tutoring me. At long last, a sense of clarity began to form within my mind.

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.

第三百五十二篇

《暗室裡的光影花樣，與那張嘸沒準備好的免費照片》

 一、「四眼兒」的時髦與暗室裡的照相黑科技

1974年上海那些趕時髦的年輕人，流行戴眼鏡兒。那時候戴眼鏡的人極少，被戲稱「四眼兒」。許多人根本不近視，也要弄一副平光鏡戴上，覺得斯文有學問。要知道不久前，知識分子還被稱為「臭老九」批判的。為了趕這個時髦，我也借了一副平光眼鏡，興沖沖地跑去照相館拍個照。

也是在1974年，照相館師傅在暗室裡捣鼓出了新花樣。一會兒是中間聚光的「白化照」，一會兒是用圓筒遮擋的「黑化照」。原本照片是正常的。「白化」「黑化」只是在印照片時做了手腳。這是大我兩歲的六哥，當年的「黑化」照。如今我們都成了老北京話裡說的「老皮咔哧眼兒」了，不過他年輕時還蠻帥的。

二、嘸沒準備好的驚鴻一瞥，與老攝影師的毒辣審美

到了1977年流行「大特寫」。8月20日那天我和幾個姑娘去拍。我拍了左右側面各一張，等著她們在鏡頭前這樣扭那樣擺，照相館的攝影師說話了：「像儂搿能介個（像你這樣的），勿用擺來擺去，照樣能拍出好照片來，」「來，我帮儂拍一張，不收儂鈔票」。我有些受寵若驚，坐下等他過來，幫我調整姿勢。他卻站在原地已經捏了橡皮球開關。「拍好了！」他說。我一下子懵了：「啊？我還嘸沒準備好唻！」

結果我得到了這樣，一張免費的普通照片。一直覺得這張照片土氣。可大半輩子過去，如今回過頭再看，才終於理解了攝影師當年的眼光和審美。這張照片兒裡沒有半點做作，全是那個年紀特有的質樸與天然。

三、1978年：雙影照的誘惑，與悄然登場的小劉海兒

到了1978年，照相館又推出了新花樣來「勾引」盲目愛美的小姑娘去花錢。把兩張不同姿態的照片，印在同一張畫面裡叫「雙影照」。將剪影投在牆上的叫「投影照」。

1978年街頭出現了燙了頭髮的時髦女郎。大波浪披肩，走路一顫一顫的令人羡慕。我不敢那麼招搖，却趕緊去燙了劉海兒，卷了辮梢。

四、火柴棒畫眉、閨蜜翻行頭，與那襲白紗裙的命運預言

那年夏天，我跟樓上發小毛頭一起去長風公園拍照。那時候女孩子哪懂化妝啊？聽人說火柴棍燒黑了能畫眉毛。這是我人生中的第一次化妝，而且只畫了眉毛。那年月經濟條件差，大家都沒有幾件像樣的衣服，與發小、閨蜜一起去拍照時，往往裙子、外套等會互相換著穿在身上拍照，這樣「行頭」就顯得多啦。年輕人喜歡「翻行頭」。

到了這年11月，聽說大自鳴鐘的天真照相館有借白紗裙拍照的。便與二樓倆發小興沖沖地趕去。2塊多錢借一套白紗裙，照片另外收費。當給我們戴上頭紗時，門口圍觀的一位老阿姨發話了：「喔喲，勿可以額！小姑娘嘸沒結婚勿可以戴頭紗額！現在戴了，下趟就嘸沒機會了！」當時根本不知道這是在拍婚紗照。倆發小聽了之後，乖乖地取下了頭紗。我卻沒在意。結果老阿姨的話一語成謔，後來我確實沒有拍過真正的婚紗照。那時花2塊多錢借衣服拍個照，聰明的多數人是捨不得的。當時大米才0.164元一斤。

五、別扭的蘭花指，與高科技美顏時代下的歷史真面目

到了1979年，照相館又出了「古裝照」「洋裝照」。衣服、項鏈、耳環和草帽，全都是花錢跟照相館租的。那個男攝影師托起我的手，教我翹起蘭花指，做了這麼個別扭的姿勢。我還讓店家給手工著了色，這便是我最早的彩照。

我和三嫂也去拍了一張才子佳人照。我扮成那個站着的才子。歷史就是那麼善於開玩笑，不久前帝王將相，才子佳人還是被嚴厲批判的對象呢。

我當時的審美一定有問題，去長風公園拍照那天，恨不得把草帽、陽傘、手絹兒、折扇一股腦全招呼上。那時候我們還沒墨鏡兒，要是有的話估計也得架在鼻樑上。這張照片裡我那兩條折起來的長辮子，其實是住在二樓的發小M剛剪下來不久的，也成了道具。當時我的頭髮沒有那麼長。

那時候女孩子雖然審美滑稽，但那些素顏照倒顯得質樸而自然。似乎只有文革時期的老照片，才陰錯陽差地保留了人們的真面目。在那之前的照片裡，人們幾乎都是精心捯飭過的。如今的照片就更分不出真假了，高科技美顏，能改頭換面的化妝術，估計照片中的人，自己都認不出自己了。

六、那場遲到的春光，與徹底卸下假面具的靈魂自由

這種盲目的趕時髦，說明人對美的嚮往是生來就有的。哪怕經歷了十年的批判，壓制與洗滌也從未真正被抹去。只要土壤稍微有點兒滋潤，這些曾被痛批的「資產階級情調」就會倔強地萌發出來。一切又似乎回歸到了十年前的樣子。那十年的歲月，真的就白白瞎折騰掉了嗎？還是說，正因為有了那十年的壓抑與空白，這遲到的春光才顯得如此迫不及待，又如此令人唏噓？

我這輩子也就是年輕時畫過幾次妝。比如與小姐妹一起拍照時，只抹個口紅，而且抹得太紅。在日本兩次參加萬聖節舞會時，畫過眼影抹了口紅。有一次在日本的家裡沒事兒幹，畫個濃妝自拍。取到照片回家看，好可怕！好在，後來在美國打藍領工不需要化妝，再後來成了白領，公司裡也不見誰化妝，尤其是軟件工程師。

網上有一句話挺逗的，喜歡化妝的人，沒化出不了門兒，好像是沒帶臉。不習慣化妝的人，化了出門，感覺像戴了假面具。化妝後臉上皮膚的感覺就是透不過氣來，哪怕是用了高檔化妝品。不用戴假面具，真的太好了。

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

Darkroom Tricks, Trends, and a Free, Unprepared Photograph

Part I: The Trend of "Four-Eyes" and Darkroom Sorcery

In 1974, a curious trend swept through the stylish youth of Shanghai: wearing eyeglasses. In those years, people who actually wore glasses were exceedingly rare, often mockingly teased as "Four-Eyes" (四眼儿). Countless youths who possessed absolutely perfect vision would deliberately go out of their way to snag a pair of non-prescription, plain-glass spectacles just to look scholarly, cultured, and refined. It was quite ironic, considering that not long prior, intellectuals had been heavily criticized and branded with the derogatory title of the "Stinking Ninth" (臭老九). To catch this wave of fashion, I went along and borrowed a pair of plain-glass spectacles myself, rushing off excitedly to a photo studio to snap a portrait.

It was also in 1974 that the masters of the photography studios began concocting all sorts of new novelties inside their darkrooms. One moment it was the "vignette portrait" (白化照) where light was concentrated in the center, and the next it was the "shadow portrait" (黑化照) created by blocking the light with a cylinder. Originally, the negatives themselves were completely normal; the "vignette" and "shadow" effects were entirely the result of manual tricks performed during the print development process. This photograph here belongs to my sixth older brother, who is two years my senior—a classic example of the "shadow portrait" trend from those years. Today, both of us have transformed into what old Beijing slang calls Lao pi ka-chi yan-r—meaning we’ve grown old, with loose skin and blinking, weary eyes—but in his youth, he was actually quite a handsome fellow.

Part II: The Spontaneous Glimpse and the Studio Master’s Eye

By the time 1977 rolled around, the dominant trend shifted to the "extreme close-up" (大特写). On August 20 of that year, several girlfriends and I went to get our portraits taken. I had already snapped two side-profile shots—one from the left and one from the right—and was simply standing to the side, waiting for the other girls as they twisted this way and posed that way in front of the lens. Suddenly, the studio photographer spoke up: "Someone built like you doesn't need to twist and bend all over the place to get a good portrait. Come, let me take one for you, completely free of charge."

I felt a sudden wave of being deeply flattered. I sat down on the stool, waiting for him to step over and adjust my posture. Instead, he simply stood exactly where he was and squeezed the rubber shutter ball. "All done!" he announced. I was instantly thrown into a total daze: "What? But I wasn't even ready yet!"

As a direct result of that split-second squeeze, I ended up with this completely free, entirely ordinary photograph. For the better part of my life, I always looked at this portrait and thought it looked terribly rustic and unfashionable. Yet, now that more than half a lifetime has bled away, looking back at it today, I finally comprehend the photographer's vision and artistic aesthetic from all those decades ago. There isn't a single shred of affectation or forced posing in this image; it is entirely brimful of the raw, untouched simplicity and natural purity unique to that exact age.

Part III: 1978 — The Arrival of the Double Silhouette and Permed Bangs

By 1978, the photo studios rolled out yet another batch of new gimmicks to "entice" blindly beauty-loving young girls into spending their hard-earned money. Printing two entirely different poses together onto a single composition was dubbed the "double-image portrait" (双影照), while casting a crisp silhouette directly onto the wall behind the subject was called the "shadow-cast portrait" (投影照).

The year 1978 also marked the sudden appearance of ultra-fashionable young ladies with permed hair roaming the urban streets. Sporting shoulder-length, rolling waves that bounced with a beautiful, rhythmic tremor as they walked, they were the absolute envy of everyone who saw them. I didn't dare to be quite so flamboyantly conspicuous; instead, I hurriedly rushed out to get just my bangs permed into curls, while rolling the very tips of my twin braids into tight little waves.

Part IV: Burnt Matches, Swapped Skirts, and the Prophecy of the Bridal Veil

That summer, my childhood friend Maotou, who lived upstairs, and I went to Changfeng Park to take some photographs. In those days, how could young girls possibly comprehend the art of makeup? We simply followed what we had heard through the grapevine—that rubbing a burnt matchstick could color and draw eyebrows. That marked the absolute first time in my life I had ever worn makeup, and it consisted strictly of those drawn eyebrows. Because our economic conditions were so meager back then, nobody owned more than a handful of decent garments. Whenever we went out to snap photos with childhood friends or close girlfriends, we would constantly swap our skirts and coats with one another mid-shoot; that way, our collective "wardrobe" appeared infinitely more plentiful. Young people simply loved to "shuffle their wardrobe."

By November of that same year, word got around that the Tianzhen Photo Studio over by the Big Bell (Da Zi Ming Zhong) had white lace wedding gowns available for rent. Thrilled by the news, two girlfriends from the second floor and I rushed over eagerly. It cost a little over two yuan to rent a single white lace gown, with the photographs billed as an extra charge. The very instant the staff placed the bridal veil upon our heads, an old local lady who had gathered near the entrance to watch the commotion chimed in: "Oh, look at you, that's completely bad luck! A young girl who isn't married yet must never wear a bridal veil! If you wear it now, you’ll never get another chance in the future!" Back then, we were so utterly clueless that we didn't even comprehend that we were essentially posing for wedding portraits. Hearing her words, my two girlfriends timidly took their veils right off. I, however, didn't pay it a single shred of notice.

Yet, as fate would have it, the old lady’s words turned into a cruel prophecy—in the decades that followed, I truly never ended up wearing a real wedding gown or taking proper wedding portraits. Back then, spending over two yuan just to rent garments for a snapshot was a luxury that most smart, practical people simply couldn't justify. To put things into perspective, a single jin of rice cost a mere 0.164 yuan at the time.

Part V: Orchid Fingers and the True Face of an Era

By the time 1979 arrived, the photo studios rolled out yet another batch of options: "ancient costume portraits" and "Western-style dress portraits." The garments, necklaces, earrings, and straw hats were all available for hire from the studio for an extra fee. The male photographer gently tilted my hand upward, instructing me to curl my fingers into an "orchid gesture"—a posture that felt incredibly awkward and unnatural to me. I even paid the shop extra to have the final print hand-colored by their artisans; thus, it became the very earliest color photograph of my life.

My third sister-in-law and I also went to snap one of those classic "scholars and beauties" portraits together. I cross-dressed, playing the part of the refined male scholar standing to the side. History is truly magnificent at playing practical jokes: just a brief slice of time prior, depictions of emperors, generals, scholars, and beauties were still being ruthlessly criticized as counter-revolutionary targets.

My personal aesthetic taste back then must have had some serious flaws. On the day we went to Changfeng Park for that photoshoot, I couldn't resist piling on every single accessory I could lay my hands on—a straw hat, a parasol, a handkerchief, and a folding fan were all crammed into the frame simultaneously. We didn't have sunglasses back then; if we had, I suspect I would have hoisted those right onto the bridge of my nose too. Those two long, folded braids draping down my shoulders in that photograph actually belonged to M, my friend from the second floor. She had sheared them off shortly before, and they became a makeshift prop for our shoot; my own hair was nowhere near that long at the time.

Yet, even though the young girls of that era possessed a rather comical and ridiculous aesthetic, those makeup-free, bare-faced portraits still managed to radiate an undeniable sense of raw simplicity and natural purity. It seems that, through a bizarre twist of cosmic irony, only the old photographs captured during the Cultural Revolution era managed to flawlessly preserve the true, untouched faces of mankind. In the photographs taken before that era, people were almost always meticulously and artificially made up.

Nowadays, photographs blur the lines between reality and illusion even further. Between high-tech beauty filters and makeup techniques capable of completely altering one’s features, I suspect the people in these pictures can barely recognize themselves anymore.

Part VI: The Late Spring and the Freedom of a Bare Face

This blind pursuit of fashion serves as absolute proof that mankind’s yearning for beauty is entirely innate. Even after enduring a decade of intense criticism, suppression, and ideological washing, it was never truly erased. The very instant the social soil received even a tiny droplet of nourishment, these once-ruthlessly condemned "bourgeois sensibilities" stubbornly sprouted back to life. Everything seemed to seamlessly return to the way it had been a decade prior. Were those ten long years of life truly wasted on nothing but blind, empty turmoil? Or was it precisely because of that decade of suffocating suppression and total blankness that this long-overdue spring arrived with such desperate, breathless urgency, leaving behind such a bittersweet lament?

Over the course of my entire life, I have only ever worn makeup a handful of times during my youth. For instance, when taking photos with my girlfriends, I would apply nothing but a swipe of lipstick—and even then, I managed to paint it far too bright red. On two separate occasions while living in Japan, I wore eyeshadow and lipstick to participate in Halloween parties. There was another time when I had absolutely nothing to do at home in Japan, so I applied a thick, heavy layer of full makeup and took a self-portrait. When I picked up the developed prints and looked at them back at home, it looked absolutely terrifying! Fortunately, later on, my blue-collar labor jobs in the United States required absolutely no makeup at all. Even later, when I transitioned into a white-collar career, nobody in the company ever seemed to wear makeup either—especially among us software engineers.

There is a terribly witty saying trending on the internet: people who are accustomed to wearing makeup feel as though they cannot step out their front door without it, almost as if they forgot to bring their own face along; conversely, those who aren't used to makeup feel very much like they are wearing a stiff, artificial mask the moment they put it on to go outside. For me, the physical sensation of makeup on my facial skin is simply one of suffocation—unable to catch a breath, even when utilizing the most high-end, luxury cosmetics. To be completely free from ever having to wear a fake mask—it is truly, magnificently wonderful.

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.

第三百五十一篇