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.
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百五十三篇
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