Free Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party by Ying Chang Compestine

treasures, Pink Cheeks slammed the door. A shred of Bao-bao’s dress hung on the door latch. My tears rolled out in despair.
    Father picked up the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. The heavy gold frame had protected it. He held it close to his heart and sat down in his torn-up chair. It was the first time I ever saw tears in his eyes.
    Tears trickled down Mother’s cheeks as she righted the remaining chairs. Two of them were now missing arms. My flower comforter lay across the floor, torn in half. Around us, scattered pearls mixed with mud, silk rags, broken glass, and torn pages.
    Was Comrade Li going to crush us like he did the banana peel? Did Chairman Mao order him to do
this? If so, why were we told Chairman Mao was our savior?
    I pulled the picture out from the elastic band of my pants. It was warm from being against my body. I handed it to Father. His eyes brightened.
    â€œRemember, my dear, in America people believe in justice.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “One day we will go there.”
    I had always believed Father could make good things happen, but how could that be possible? No one was allowed to even leave the city.

PART TWO
    BAMBOO IN THE WIND
    Spring 1974–Winter 1976

Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party
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    It took us over a week to clean up the mess left by the Red Guards’ raid. Mother and I gathered and folded the linen and clothes that weren’t torn. She put aside a small pile that needed mending and another larger pile for rags. Among the rags were her white silk dress and Father’s silk ties.
    Cleaning the kitchen took the longest. Black sesame seeds, red beans, and dry spices were scattered everywhere. Broken dishes filled the sink. Mother’s face was blank until she picked up a piece of her fine china. Then she burst into tears.
    I felt like crying again, too, but I didn’t want Mother to see. I joined Father and Niu in the living room. Father glued broken legs on chairs, and Niu wrapped them with bandages and tape. When they finished, all our chair legs wore casts.

    In the following days, Father and Niu spent hours repairing the radio. When they finally got it working, they left the back open, but it still looked broken.
    Mother hid the picture of the Golden Gate Bridge behind the large portrait of Chairman Mao above the fireplace. We pasted small Mao portraits in every room.
    â€œWhy are we putting up so many?” I brushed rice glue on the back of a small portrait.
    â€œIt’s like the incense we burn in the summer to keep the mosquitoes away.” Mother took the portrait from me and carried it into her bedroom.
    Father covered a piece of Chinese calligraphy with Chairman Mao’s teaching about the class struggle. In my reading class at school, we were required to study it until we could write the whole passage from memory.

    A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery; it cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained, and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.

    I didn’t understand what “class” and “revolution” had to do with a dinner party. How I wished Mrs. Wong and Dr. Wong would come back and we could have a big dinner party so Niu would smile again. I missed all the dishes Mother used to make, even her strange ones.
    The calligraphy Father was hiding was written on blue rice paper in small ink characters. It had been under the glass top of Father’s desk for as long as I could remember. He used to tell the young doctors who came to visit that it was the best guidance for anyone who wanted to be a doctor.
    During last summer vacation, I memorized every word, even though I didn’t really understand their meaning. Father was impressed when I recited it to him.

    Physician’s Creed
    Whenever a great physician treats diseases, he