Please find below some writing that Junying has selected to share with you.

 

Twin Peaks, Fire Walk with Me - A David Lynch Film

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My overall feeling after viewing the film has been how odd/strange/weird, how ‘Lynch’ and how confusing the plot was. Unlike many fans who have watched the TV series in the early 1990s, which I understand caused a great deal of controversy and debate, my attempt to understand Lynch some 17 years after the film had been made has not been a very successful one. However, in order to keep the promise of writing a review about it, I endeavour to do my best, no matter how little I managed to grasp and how confounded I still felt.

 

Personally I believe that it is probably pointless to try to follow the plot and understand exactly what was going on in the film. Nobody with straight forward and logical thinking can do that. Sure, there is a plot somewhere and there is a story which the film maker is trying to tell. There may be even a morale tale somewhere in between shots and minimum scripts. After about two hours sitting patiently waiting for the story to unfold, I can actually summarise it in a few lines: A young girl was murdered in a small town and detectives were sent to find out what happened to her. She was shrouded in mystery and we, as audiences, followed her around piecing together the last days of her life, filled with drugs, sex and wild parties in the dead of the nights. Who killed her?

 

It wasn’t till the very end that some of us figured out how she was murdered. Before that realisation, we were led through a web of mysterious encounters and intrigue. Lynch used a great deal of colours, like green or red, as well as symbols and dream sequences. I must admit that many of such subtle references were lost on me for the first viewing, and it is certainly one of these films which needs to be watched again and again, and every time you get a little bit more to the jigsaw puzzle. The merit of David Lynch’s films, if nothing else, is certainly thought-provoking. When we watch it, it’s nothing like a conventional clear-cut story-teller, where there is a beginning, the climax and an ending. It was more like looking at the abstract painting, with a mixed use of colours, shapes and other unidentifiable forms, where the viewers can interpret it in their own ways, from their vastly different experiences and there different levels of understanding and appreciation. David Lynch, in my view, is a Picasso or the cinema.

 

To conclude what my reactions while and after viewing the film, I can safely say that it was not exactly what I had expected, and then what did I expect anyway? I am no expert in Lynch films and so far could only count two other films by him (Wild at Heart & Mulholland Drive) in my repertoire. Still, if you have never seen any of his films, I would recommend any of his films, either to get a taste of that genre, or simply for the experience of it. No matter how confused I had felt watching his films, I did enjoy them, as an art form, from a truly talented artist. At the end of the day, it is not the end that we want to reach, but the journey to the destination. David Lynch would take you to a journey, and it is that process which makes you experience a wide range of emotions, sometimes delightful, other times extremely confusing but utterly an enjoyable ride, in a world, far removed from our own reality, but rooted deeply in our imagination.

 

One final point, if you can arrange it, I’d recommend watching it on a DVD, sitting on a comfy couch with a glass of wine and tasty snacks, with a mate who is more a Lynch fan than youJ.

Review of 'The Reader'

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The opening scene is in an International court trying war criminals, and Ralph Fiennes plays the older version of the character, Michael Berg who is a defence lawyer. This is directed by Steven Daldry, starring well-known actors, including Kate Winslet, as a former SS guard Hanna Schmitz. The British actress’ fine performance has won rave reviews as well as the most recent Academy Award.

 

The story is narrated by the main character, Michael Berg. Back to 1958 in Heidelberg, Germany, after 15-year-old school boy Michael becomes ill on his way home, 36-year-old tram conductress Hanna Schmitz notices him, cleans him up, and gets him safely home.

Despite their differences she seduces him and they embark on a passionate affair. They develop a ritual of having a bath and having sex, before which Michael read aloud to her at her request. He reads her from Greek tragedy The Odyssey to Chekhov's "The Lady with the Dog".

A few months on, when Michael visits her again in her apartment, he finds Hanna gone without a trace. Still, the memory of Hanna casts a shadow over all his subsequent relationships with the opposite sex.

Some eight years later, while studying for his law degree, Michael is one of the students observing a trial of Nazi war criminals. To his surprise and horror, Hanna is among the defendants of a group of middle-aged women, once the SS guards at Auschwitz, now facing accusations of killing hundreds of prisoners of the notorious death camp. It was during the trial when Michael discovers that Hanna has a secret for which she feels too ashamed to admit, even though it could have made her charges less severe. She is sentenced for life.

Without spoiling the reader of this review the pleasure of watching the film or the read the book, I shall not go on revealing it all here. The same titles novel is written by a German author Bernhard Schlink, and translated into English, both versions won critical claim and sold millions of copies. I read the book in the late 1990s when it first was published, and I remember how much I liked it. The writing was beautifully crafted, and there were some very memorable lines, calling vivid images to mind for the readers.

 

I believe that historical subjects like Holocaust should be brought to print and to our screens, so the future generations can be reminded of what had happened and what lessons can be learnt from our past.

 

I have no hesitation in recommending this film and the book it based on. Films and books are two different art forms, and they probably arrive at the same destination, but via very different routes. For me, I always thought that it would be better to read the book first before watching the film, that way, you can use your imagination to visualise the story. I am glad that I did read the book, long before the film was made.

 

Please click below for the trailer.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tCqSm4Phug

 

 

Isabelle & Spot

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It is a beautiful day in June, and it is a special day for Isabelle. She turns six today.

 

"Happy birthday, sweetness," Daddy plants a kiss on her forehead, as she opens her eyes. The sun is shining through the curtains.

 

A little confused, but very happily, she lets her father choose a pink Barbie ball gown. Usually it is Mummy who wakes her up, after Daddy has gone to work.

 

"Now, be a good girl and put on this lovely dress. Then we'll go downstairs. Mummy and I have a surprise for you," Daddy is smiling.

 

"Am I going to get sweets, Daddy?" Isabelle asks, her pretty face lighting up, a few freckles hidden behind the blush. She is excited, looking at her father with wide-open eyes, the colour of ocean blue.

 

"You'll see. I'm not telling you, you cheeky monkey," Daddy helps her with her favourite gown, and Isabelle is jumping up and down on her bed.

 

"Now, carry me downstairs, Daddy," Isabelle issues an order, sounding like a general, looking like an angel, ready to fly.

 

"What do you say, Izzie?" Daddy does not move.

 

"Please," Isabelle said. Daddy is the one who always insists that children must have good manners.

 

Coming downstairs, Isabelle giggles happily over her father's shoulder.

 

"Come and see what we've got for you, Sweetie," Isabelle's mother raises her voice, when she hears Isabelle's high-pitched squeal.

 

There he was, a small, scrawny looking Jack Russell, nestling at Isabelle's mother's feet. He has white fur, with a big black spot on his haunch.

 

"Happy birthday, Darling," Isabelle's Mother reaches out and kisses her rosy cheeks.

 

The little girl can not contain her excitement when she sees the dog. Ever since her best friend Donna was given a dog last year, Isabelle has wanted one for herself. Her dream has come true.

 

"Is it for me, Mummy?" Isabelle can not believe her luck, looking back and forth from her Mummy to her Daddy. They both nod in agreement.

 

Carefully, she goes closer to her new pet, and put her hand on his back.

 

"Look," she exclaims at her discovery, "he has a spot here."

 

Slowly, she strokes him.

"Can I call him Spot?" she looked up at her parents.

 

"Of course, Darling. You can call him whatever you want. He's yours," her father replied.

 

From that day onwards, Isabelle plays with Spot every day. Every morning after she wakes up, she wants to see her Spot. As soon as she comes back from school, she called for her pet. They like to play in the garden.

 

One afternoon, Isabelle is chasing a stick after Spot. She slips and lets out a loud cry.  

 

Spot stops and drops the stick, and comes to Isabelle's side, nuzzling up to her face.

 

"Spot, look at what you have done to me," she whimpers. Then she looks up and stops the tears that are welling up in her eyes. She is too young to understand what Spot is thinking. But she can see the concern and loyalty in his eyes.

 

 

 NB: The story is for six year olds and plus

 

P.S: I wrote this back in 2003, based on my niece and her dog.

 

 

 

 

A Modern Cinderella

Rate: 13+

Cindy has always been a dreamer, and she had grand ambitions. Ever since she was a young girl, she dreamed of becoming a world-renowned singer and being swept off her feet by a Sean Connery look-alike, or George Clooney, at least someone equally handsome, rich and famous, who would love her endlessly, shower her with unlimited affection and gifts, and satisfy her every whim.

 

The reality has been very different then. She grew up in a council estate, and had siblings who were always getting into trouble with the law. Her parents were hard up and could never afford to give the children anything, even at Christmas or on their birthdays. Her father was an incurable alcoholic and her mother a long-suffering wife in his rough and cruel hands.

 

Cindy did well at school. Although she was not the most academic girl in her class, and really struggled in her maths, physics and chemistry, she loved her English and Drama class, and excelled in Music. She certainly made up for her lack of scientific brain with her determination and a fierce drive to succeed. 

 

When she was sixteen, without telling anyone in her family, she looked through the papers and magazines, and started auditioning for bands, model agencies and anything that caught her eye. All she thought of during her waking hours was to get noticed by talents scouts and to get away from the shithole she had been stuck in.

 

Miraculously, when she turned 17, she shoot up a few inches and almost without notice, she became one of the most striking-looking girls among her peers. The few spots on her face disappeared; her skin glowed with youth and beauty, her legs long and lean, her breasts fabulously swollen to attract attention overnight. Unlike Jordan, Cindy did not need any cosmetic help, nor could she afford any. She simply had the blessings of good genes and an innate instinct of how to flaunt her natural assets, with a little help from the tight low-cut top and mini skirt from the Top Shop.

 

And perfect timing! That was a time when manufactured boy and girl bands were all the rage, and during one of these nation-wide auditions, Cindy got her lucky break.

 

After a few months of training in hiding and much hush from the public eye, with an aggressive marketing frenzy to follow, the band she joined went on to top the pop charts and their singles selling millions of copies. Awards and other accolades were quickly to follow. 

 

What happened to Cindy’s love life was not short of a touch of magic either, rather a modern time fairytale that all young girls aspired to. No one was surprised when she went through one very public romantic courtship after another, her every step closely followed by the media and her adoring fans. Her suitor no George Clooney although she did meet him in person, and decided that he was too old for her. After a few highly scrutinised flings and liaisons with the super-rich and eligible men, including a European royal prince, and a billionaire Russian oligarch, she finally walked up the aisle with a footballer, tall, dark, and fantastic in bed, as far as his reputations went, who played for a top English premier team and his sponsorship fees alone added to millions of pounds. The wedding was set in a romantic setting of a medieval Castle, with Police helicopters and hundreds of security guards, attended by the Who & Who in the celeb world, featuring on the cover of OK, making her bank manager even happier.

 

All her dreams had come true, at the tender age of 22!  Fame, fortune, adoration of millions of her fans, and unlimited supply of funds to indulge in her love of fashion and style, fast cars and love of gorgeous men, the whole world conquered and on her feet. What more could a girl possibly want or desire? Surely our Cinderella would be happy ever after, she a Pop Princess and her other half one of the shiniest sports stars. Where would the story go from here?

 

If it was up to me, someone who believe in everlasting love and would like all the lovers in this world a happy ending to their romance, Cindy would forever live in this paradise, in love and be loved, without hurt, heartache or betrayal. As a writer or story-teller, I can easily make that happen, and nobody will blame me for making it up, or won’t they?

 

The other day, I read from one of the tabloids that Cindy’s newly-wed husband cheated on her with another woman, who in turn sold her story to the News of the World. Then we saw on the front page of Hello Cindy leaving her multi-million luxurious pad without her make-up, speculation that she and her heartbreaker were to split up, followed by more stories and rumours of forgiveness and tearful reunion in sunny Barbados. God knows what next, as the public’s interest and obsession in Cindy’s life seems insatiable.

 

The ending, in the end, is not up to me, or up to the media who encouraged the public’s constant fascination with the celebrities. How would our love affairs with lovely Cindy end? The ending is up to you, dear reader. You decide what will happen in Cindy’s love life.

 

 

Snow

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I remember the first time I ever saw snow, I mean, proper, pure white snow. The snow flakes which keep falling from the sky, and covers the roads and houses, the whole earth with a shiny whiteness, soft and tender, decorating our landscape with a deft hand of a free-spirited artist. The snow which we now see outside our windows, on the church spires and roof tops, carpeted the roads and streets and playgrounds. A true winter wonderland, stretching endlessly in front of my eyes.

 

That very first time when I truly experience snow was twenty-five years ago when I went to study in Nanjing, a city by the Yangzhi River, and about 1000 miles downstream from Chongqing, where I was born and grew up. Chongqing is one of the ‘fire furnaces’ in China when it would become extremely hot in the summer. In winter months it could get very cold but not quite chilly enough to see snow falling and roads frozen. In my mind’s eye, I did see snow sometimes, only from the books I read and in my limited imagination. In my young and naïve heart, like the sea, snow was something very beautiful, like a distant dream, far, far away from my insignificant life, with little relevance.

 

Quite unexpectedly and without much warning, my journey took me to Nanjing one summer. For the first time, I was able to leave my home province and ventured beyond. En route, I did a de tour and travelled to the coast of northern China and made a splash in the deep blue sea. It was an incredible moment that lingered in my memory long after the actual experience. Then it was winter time in Nanjing.

 

One morning, I looked out of my dorm window and was nearly blinded by the shining white outside. “Snow.!  Oh my God, It’s snowing,” I shouted, my voice an unnatural pitch. My excitement and exhilaration almost caused me to fall down from the top of my bunk bed, and it certainly woke up my roommates from their dreams, with the girl below me give a sudden jump, banging her head: “Ouch! Have you never seen snow before?” She grunted, and glared at me in utter disbelief, more than a hint of annoyance.

 

I got out of bed, faster than ever, and out into the cold and the soft pure white world. I touched its coolness and taste it, let it melt slowly in my mouth. It was such an unforgetable feeling, an unidentifiable yet definite happiness arising from the depth of my heart. Maybe it’s like someone who takes drugs for the first time? I am not sure, but it was one of the most delightful moments in my life till then.

 

We always remember the first time, don’t we? The first time we felt the crush, our first kiss, the first time we truly fell in love, and the sweet memory of all the significant moments in growing up. For me, the first glimpse and touch of snow was just magical.

 

The years pass by, and I have travelled the world and experienced many more new sights, sounds and touch. I’ve seen the snow and glacier on the Alps, on the Scottish Highlands, on the mountain tops in Cyprus and in Yosemite. I posed in front of the famed Gulfoss in Iceland, where the waterfalls frozen in shining ice and blinding snow.

 

Less than a week ago I had driven from the snowing Midlands to snowier Yorkshire. The radio announced that many schools were to be shut, and transport had been paralysed, and the UK financial loss adding to billions of pounds. What a paradox! While the children had fun building Snowman and threw snow balls at one another, businesses made losses, to already shrinking economy. Such nature beauty, yet at the same time a great deal of disruption, up and down the country.

 

I can not think of another nation quite like the United Kingdom. Sometime to me it is just as puzzling as snow, but utterly beautiful and inviting.

 

Reflections on Bendito Machine

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Once upon a time, human beings were created by God, or according to Darwin we evolved gradually from Apes to what we are now, depending on what we believe in. Whatever our origin, or wherever we came from, we worshipped the Mother Nature, or a Higher Being up in Heaven. We prayed regularly, for food, for rain, for children, for longer and better life, for sound health and abundance of good fortune. We became more and more smart, and we invented things, machines that would help better our lives and make us more efficient. From very basic tools to more advanced technology through the long passage of time.

 

Through our turbulent history, there were natural disasters and man-made sufferings, all essential ingredients to test our strength and survival abilities. Lives were destroyed, but never quite extinguished; as our hope to survive stronger than ever. Constant battles and wars did not bring the end of the world; instead men became more inventive and innovative. And the machines became more sophisticated in its design and use, more effective in killing species, especially in attacking our fellow human beings.

 

Men could fly, from one side of the world to the other. What a miracle that was! But what did we do with that amazing gift of invention? We used it for more destruction, more devastating and on a massive scale. Would it one day end the human civilisation as we know it? Would the day come when our planet is only filled with birds rather than human beings? Would that day ever come when our science and technology are so developed that one touch can wipe out all living species? Would it?

Can You Dig It?

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Jack has a secret which he’s taking to his grave.

 

He was a quiet child who grew up to be a quiet man. He never had much to say to anyone, and those who knew him grew used to his silent ways, and those who did not know him, the strangers who came across his path in pubs and other locations, did not bother him with conversations. In fact, some people quite liked to have someone next to them who just listened to their woes and grunts. For Jack, he kept his watchful eyes around him and his ears open. He filled his life with activities and he kept himself busy doing things he knew would bore others to death.

 

Jack was the last of seven children. When he was younger, his parents were too busy to pay much attention to him. His sisters were always too loud and demanding, while his brothers fought over food, toys and later over girls. From a young age, he seemed to be content with his own company, and eventually his family grew used to his presence without sometimes realizing that he was there.

 

At school, he was not a brilliant student, nor an incompetent one. He received average marks for most subjects and got by without causing too much concern from his teachers, or too much hassle from his fellow pupils.

 

He left school at 16 with a handful of GCSEs. He had no grand ambitions, and started working with one of his uncles who had been a gardener. No bullshit form-filling like applying for regular jobs. Jack the Gardener, he was happy with that. It did not need too many skills, and there was certainly no shortage of customers; there were always people who needed their grass mowed and their flowerbeds tended especially the old and the infirm. Jack had enough muscles to oblige and it paid his bills.

 

For Jack, there was an extra advantage. It allowed him to meet people but kept him on the edge of their lives. He liked being the outsider, the observer, to have a glimpse of the kind of lives other people live, yet not to be part of them. It suited his temperament.

 

To his customers, Jack was a nice lad, conscientious and kept himself to himself. He was never nosey, did what he was supposed to do and was gone quietly at the end of a job without stepping on anyone’s toes. His appearance was nothing remarkable but not offensive either. He was well built; face always clean shaven and his clothes decent, nothing too flash or chav-like. Certainly no Burberry cap as some of his peers would have worn. In a word, he was safe and unremarkable.

 

Yet, he has a dark secret which nobody knew about. He had a pet hate.

 

It was not known whether he had developed this hatred at some stage or he was born with it. He had no idea why he had this unquenchable desire to hurt them whenever he saw cats; black, white, domestic or wild, of any description. He could not understand why people keep them as pets and treated them like their children, perhaps better than their children. For those who had no children, they talked to them as if they were human beings. Had it been a dog, especially an English Bull Terrier, he might have understood, but cats? Where the fxxx were they for?

 

When he was 10, he had his first taste of pleasure in killing one. He did not set out to kill but it just happened.

 

It was a black cat which one of his sisters brought home and everyone else just surrounded it and cooed, as if it was a treasure, something bestowed on them from above. His sisters fought to keep it, despite their mother’s reluctance. She worried about the extra cost rather than having the creature around. They had no idea that their happiness was not to last. Suddenly, the cat seemed to have disappeared into thin air, and nobody knew what had happened. Except Jack.

 

The stupid cat had the nerve to piss on his beloved shoes, and all Jack wanted to do was to get rid of it, fast and without trace.

 

As soon as darkness fell, Jack lured the cat into the garden with some spare ribs from his dinner. As the cat greedily tore at the bones, totally unaware of the imminent danger, he smashed a rusty spade onto her head. Without even a whimper, the cat was gone. Then he quickly dug a hole at the far end of the garden, near some untended weeds and next to an apple tree, he buried it, using the same rusty tool.

 

It was a weekend, with his siblings all out and about, either chasing girls or getting drunk in discos. His mother had a job working in a pub. He was home alone and the cat had no in idea that her days were numbered.

 

Afterwards, he denied any knowledge of seeing the cat, and nobody in his family would have any inclination that he was a cat-killing psychopath, even at that age. Only he knew. He had experienced an unspecified ecstasy, a kind of high he had never known before. That spelled the start of a killing spree, which was to last for many years.

 

Gardener. It provided a perfect cover for his secret desires.

 

Over the years, he took every available opportunity and indulged in this blood-thirsty adventure. There were a few stray ones who had the misfortune of coming his way, mostly they were domestic pets belonging to unsuspecting old ladies. After all, they were his most loyal clients and he their loyal gardener.

 

His latest victim was called ‘Coco’ belonging to a widow Dorothy Jenkins, who kept half a dozen cats. Jack had worked for her for some years, and Coco wasn’t the first pet he had ‘got rid of’ for her. She had been suffering increasing dementia over the years but refused to go to a Home. Her daughter occasionally checked up on her, and so did a nurse from Mental Health. Jack came once every two weeks, attending to the huge garden at the back of her Victorian detached house. Before and after his mowing, trimming and occasionally a planting job, he would always have a small chat with the old lady; usually she did the talking and him listening. When he was gone, Dorothy would continue to talk to her self for sometime, as if he was still around. She liked the fact that he was a regular fixture in her lonely life.

 

One day in May, the day after her 75^th birthday, she called Jack to come into the house, especially. One of her better birthday gifts had been a pot of yellow roses, called ‘China Town’. From the instructions on the label, it was an outdoor plant, so she wanted Jack to plant it for her. “Somewhere not too far from the French window, so I can appreciate it from here;” She had instructed. With that, she went back to the living room to watch her daytime chat shows on TV, with her horde of cats.

 

As Jack busied himself with the digging by the fence, he spotted Coco further down in the garden behind an apple tree. Maybe she had found something, using her claws to unearth it with concentration, totally oblivious of the shadow behind. Without a sound, something fell on her body, heavy and brutal, and effective. Coco was smashed and her tiny body shrank and sank into the mud.

 

A hardly discernable smile spread across Jack’s face, and an overwhelming feeling of relief washed over him. He had been feeling even more frustrated lately, and this instant that frustration was gone, replaced by something very different. He had missed that feeling for quite sometime. Then he made his way back to his roses, uttering something to himself, like a whisper to an unknown listener:

 

‘There should be no need to dig there ever again.’

“You Changed My Life”

Rate: U

One

 

Dark clouds, spring showers, it was a rainy day in early May when I returned from school. As usual, I stayed in school as long as I could, not only because there was so much home work, but more because I preferred school. I don’t know how other girls perceive their home, but ‘home’ to me is hardly a sweet and warm place to be. I don’t remember it ever has been in my sixteen years. In my home there has been full of cursing and crying, shouting and smashing of little furniture there was, and violence. I had assumed that was the norm for everyone, until when I was older and a little wiser. Once I was invited to one of my classmates’ home in town. The feeling of envy overcame me, not just for their material abundance. Other people’s homes seemed to be filled with cheer and laughter, warmth and a genuine bond, in complete contrast to mine.

 

It gradually occurred to me that we were poverty-stricken underclass, in more ways than one. My father had been a poor peasant and he married another poor peasant who soon became my mother. My mother was very young when she gave birth to me, no more than 18. I had no idea why she married my father, who looked old and ugly, a vile temper and no education, while my mother, in her happier days, she looked quite pretty. I saw one of her old photos as a young girl. People had commented that I took after her, which was a compliment. At least she attended school briefly and able to read and write simple letters.

 

Our house had been built on a hill, in a small village, on the edge of Tongnan County. I don’t know who built it, and how long my family had lived there. Nobody told me. It looked ancient and shabby, very cold in winter and extremely hot in summer. It was also very cramped, with my grandparents sleeping in a small bed in one corner, and another bed built of mud on the other side, which used to be my parents’ bed before they went away, to work to maintain my family. Their bed had become my bed which I shared with my little brother until recently. Now I sleep on the floor, on a pile of dry hay. Not comfortable, but at least my own.

 

My little brother was not so little any more. He would be twelve in two months’ time, and almost as tall as me. When I tentatively complained about him kicking me at night and me falling on the floor, not for the first time, I got told off, initially by Grandma, then Grandpa. They said things I wish I didn’t have to hear. “Who do you think you are? A Princess? You want to have the bed all to yourself? You are just a stupid, stupid girl, a girl nobody wanted, not even your own parents. Now you want a bed for yourself? Do you live in fantasy land?”

 

Ever since I could remember, I had heard constant arguments in our house. It took little to start a fierce fight and lucky to end without resulting into physical assaults. Sometimes the fights were limited among the adults, often about money, and lack of it, usually started by either my father or mother, and quickly involving either or both of my grandparents. If by chance I was around, one of them would lash out at me, as if it was entirely my fault. For what? For their inability to make enough money to support the family? Or me for being born a girl? What did I do to incur their fury and to be slapped around? “If you were a born a boy, we would not have to pay the fucking huge fine incurred for the birth of your brother, would we?” Father had slapped me and spat on my face. So I was to blame for China’s ‘one child policy’ and for the consequent punishment they had to face for failing to follow the rules. In other words, I was a mistake; not due to my father’s sperm, but my very existence.

 

Life unfair? Soon and sure enough I resigned myself to accepting my fate. Nobody was going to hear my grievances. In comparison to what adults of this world had to face, mine was minimal and not worthy of mentioning. One day I would grow up, and I know damn sure that whatever life has in store for me, I shall get the hell out of here. I have no desire to live like my parents, their parents before them, and for God only knows how many generations. I want a different life.

 

Two

 

Dear Dr Zeng,

 

I am delighted to have the opportunity to write to you and I’m very grateful that you have decided to sponsor me. I fully appreciate that you are supporting me because you want to benefit our society and to make contributions to our country. You also hope that the person you sponsor will make contributions to the society and to our country in the future, and to be a useful person. I shall definitely not let you down. I shall study hard and achieve the best results to repay you, to repay our school and our country. I am forever indebted to you.

 

It made me grin to see the students today still use some of those fancy words we were once taught to use, the same old patriotic and Communist ideals. As I sat in my study and read the letter from Yanli Yang, the girl whose family was too deprived to support her through high school, I felt very sad and reflective. Through the media in ever increasing frequency, China’s picture has become more and more glamorous. If you go shopping in any high street retailers in the UK, you would invariably find the goods made in China, from cut-price clothing to toys and electronic goods. Only a couple of years ago, a little known Chinese truck-maker bought the prestigious British brand, the Rover. More recently, China, with the biggest foreign currency reserve in the world, was reported lending money to the USA so the Americans can continue to buy the Chinese products. With Olympic spectacular in the summer of 2008, the whole world looked up to Beijing and few failed to be impressed.

 

Once in a while there were reports about China’s human rights record, its treatment of political dissidents, and its notorious one-child policy. Most recently, Chinese iron-fist rule in Tibet and its persecution of protesters. When I went back to visit, I heard horrid stories of girls being abandoned, even killed by their parents, in order to have sons to carry on their family names. It was during one of my overseas conversations with my mother that I had an idea – I had to do something, to help someone helpless, to make life easier for someone in need, and maybe to make myself feel more useful as a human being. It did not take me long to formulate a plan and to put it into motion.

 

“I’d like you to contact the Headmaster in Tongnan Middle School for me.” It was a school where my mother had taught her whole working life, and acted as a deputy head during the last twenty years or so. It was also the school where I spent five formative years and took the university entrance exams.

 

“What do you want me to say to the current headmaster?” Mum asked, wondering.

 

“Tell him that I want the school to find a female student, preferably an orphan, someone who comes from a very poor family, motivated to study but can’t afford it. Tell him that I am going to pay for her education.”

 

“How are you going to do that?” My mother knew that once I had made my mind, there was no turning back.

 

“I am going to send money to you. I know you don’t live in Tongnan anymore. Maybe you can ask someone you trust at school to give a monthly allowance to this girl. There is no way I am going to hand money to the school, then nobody knows where it goes. I am not going to trust the officials. I want whatever financial support I provide to go to the student directly, without any interference from the bureaucratic authority.”

 

How often did I hear about the prevailing corruption among the different levels of Chinese officialdom? How often did I read about the disasters and heartaches caused by such shameful acts? In a country which saw phenomenal economic growth, corruption went hand in hand, like a Siamese twin. Not a day went by without revelations of people in power abuse their position. They took money and profits which did not belong to them. They gave contracts to their relatives and friends. Closer to home, my brother Jun had paid out all his savings, in an attempt to get his wife a job promised by the local authority.  The money was shared by a few top officials but the job never materialised.

 

Three

 

This morning after my Chinese lesson, I was called for a meeting with my tutor-in-charge, a friendly female Maths teacher who had been in charge of my class for a year. I knew what it was about, and wished that it was good news. It was two weeks since I submitted my ‘application’ to this Doctor Zeng who used to be a star student of my school, and who has now ‘made it’ in a far away country. She had offered to sponsor a student to complete her high school, then university, just as Ms Zeng did many years ago. She must be very rich, or very kind-hearted, or both, to do this.

 

Teacher Ma sat me down in the chair opposite to her desk, and offered me boiled water. I didn’t want any. I was too nervous and impatient to learn the outcome. I knew that the school had encouraged another girl in the same grade to write to Dr Zeng and her tutor-in-charge had written a very good reference for her. I have no idea what kind of sob story she had told this potential sponsor. As far as sad tales go, we all have something to cry about. Poverty is a disease; it affects millions of people in my country. I am certainly not alone in struggling in everyday life and face the grim prospect of not able to continue my studies. What am I going to do, if my father did persist in his view that there was absolutely no point in sending a girl like me to school? “What possible benefit could it be for her to continue? She’s only going to cost us more money, which we don’t have. Trust me, it’s far better if she starts to make a living and contributes to this family. Girls much younger than her are working for their keep, why can’t she? What’s so bad babysitting or cleaning hotels?” My father’s shouting rang in my ears constantly, and I had been unable to sleep properly for quite sometime.

 

“Yanli,” Teacher Ma said at last, breaking my train of thoughts. “I have had word from Dr Zeng’s mother, and she said that her daughter had picked you. It is great news, isn’t it?” She smiled, showing her imperfect teeth.

 

No kidding, it’s the best news ever in my life. I feel like getting up, jumping about and shouting aloud in happiness. But I didn’t. I am not the kind of person to betray how I feel easily. Sometimes I wish I could be more like girls who show their emotions readily. I just can’t. It was barely a month ago when I sat in the same chair and cried shameful tears in front of my teacher, not repeating the stupid things that my father had said, but pleading with her: “I’m so sorry that I have not been able to pay the school fee for this year. My parents are away and have not sent any money home for a long time. My grandpa has diabetes and my grandma suffers from high blood pressure and heart disease. They can’t even afford their medication. The crops in our small land are not ripe enough to sell. I don’t know what to do. I probably have to give up my studies and find work.”

 

I remember Teacher Ma handing me a handkerchief and saying she was sorry. Now by some twist of fate things have changed. I stood up, and bowed to Teacher Ma. All I managed to say was a feeble “Thank you, thank you so much”, although it was not exactly her that I should be bowing my head to. But right then, it was all I could do, to hide the rising tears in my eyes. How could Teacher Ma possibly know what this meant to me? How could anyone?

 

Whatever Teacher Ma followed up saying, they didn’t register. It was the usual cliché as to how much the school had their faith in me, and how much hard work I had to put into my studies, so I would not let the school and its authorities down, and so on and so forth. Fortunately no response was required and I did my best to nod enthusiastically. All I could think was the monthly stipends which I was going to receive, and how that would keep me going until I finish high school. With the generous support, I would be able to afford school books, stationary, food, maybe a mattress and some new clothes. I could even buy medicine for my grandparents. Most of all, my father’s could no longer force me in getting a job.

 

Before I got up to leave, Teacher Ma handed me a big brown envelope. “Dr Zeng has written a kind letter to you, together with her address and how you can keep her informed of your progress. I hope you shall not disappoint her, and damage our reputation.”

 

Naturally, the school authorities have already opened the correspondence addressed to me and knew of its contents. I hurried out of Teacher Ma’s office and headed up to my favourite spot just outside the school compund, a hillside below an old banyan tree, where I did my revisions sometimes, especially in summer when it’s dry, sunny and shaded. Now I just wanted to be alone and savour the moment.

 

Four

 

On returning from a hard day’s work in court and on arriving at home, I went into my study. I don’t understand why some people have access to email then don’t use it on a regular basis. Surely it is not too much to expect a few minutes of their time once in a while, just to touch base with family and friends. Except when going on holiday, I always spent part of the day in front of my PC and signed in my hotmail at the first opportunity.

 

I clicked open my inbox, and several personal messages appeared, one from China, my Brother had sent it on behalf of my Mother.

 

Dear daughter,

 

We have received the £500 you sent to us and it’s been safely transferred into my bank account with China Construction Bank. Thank you. I have been in touch with Teacher Liu in Tongnan, and she has agreed to give Yanli 300 yuan every month from the pension she collects fro me every month. You are right, it is a bit of trouble to Teacher Liu this way, but she did not mind it at all. She said to me that if you were so kind as to spend your hard-earned cash on some poor student unknown to you, it was no trouble at all for her to do something to assist. It would be her pleasure. She also said that the school was extremely grateful to your generous and charitable act.

 

As your mother, and your family in China, we’re very proud of you, for your selfless support, and your loving gesture.

 

By the way, following your instruction, I have also asked Teacher Liu to give the other student, Miss Wang, a 500 yuan one-off payment, to thank her for writing to you, and to wish her good luck in her studies. 

 

Since then, I have regular updates from my mother and sometimes Yanli. She used her school computer and sent me occasional emails. Attached with one of her recent emails was a photo: she stood in front of the massive fields of rape, a bright yellow background; the sun reflecting happy smiles on her young face. I took out the small photo she posted to me two winters ago, she appears taller, her figure fuller and the sadness on her face gone. In her August 2008 message she wrote:

 

Dear Dr Zeng,

 

I have received my higher education entrance exam results and my total marks are 595, 50 marks higher than the acceptance rate for key universities. I have applied for a few medical schools and have been accepted by Chongqing Medical University. I’ll start the course in September.

 

Thank you again for your support in the last two years, with which I was able to concentrate on my studies and not to worry about anything else. Without your kind help, it would not be possible for me to go to university. This is a dream come true and it’s all because of you. You have changed my life and I am eternally grateful to you.

 

Her good news had made my day, a huge smile on my face and a cheer in my heart. I am delighted for her. She is on her way: studying medicine and becoming a doctor, saving lives and contributing to society.

 

What more could I have wished for? What better ways to spend one’s money?

Journey to Kirkland

Rate: U

Seattle, 2007

 

                     

 

“It’s so good to see you, Jeanie. It really is wonderful.” Mrs Redding smiled at me across the table, her American tone as endearing as I remembered and her hand reaching out to squeeze mine.

 

Four of us, our hosts Millie Redding and her daughter Mary Ellen opposite John and me, sat at the restaurant on the top floor of famous landmark Seattle Space Needle. I felt slightly dizzy, not so much through the slowly revolving movement under my feet, but more so by the feeling of incredulity at this reunion. Outside, the skyline of Seattle was lit by the bright sunlight against the blue cloudless sky. In the distance, one could see the Mount Rainier, its snowy top belying the volcano bubbling underneath. Inside me I could feel tears welling up, making the panoramic view of Seattle increasingly misty. I blinked hard, trying to control their free flow. It’s a happy occasion, Jeanie, stop being such a sentimental creature, I told myself.

 

“How long has it exactly been, since you last saw each other?” John put his free hand on my shoulder and patted me in an attempt to comfort, his other hand trying to steady his Canon Camcorder. His good instinct told him that it was a historical moment that was worth a scene on his video tape.

 

“Oh let me see,” Millie started counting. I was quicker in my reply: “I last saw Mrs Redding with Dr Redding in Shanghai in 1985.”

 

“Indeed, it was,” Millie agreed, “We were teaching in Japan, but Elcho missed China and his students so much that we took our annual holiday there. Elcho’s parents went with us too. It was good of you to come, Jeanie. I remember you were studying in Nanjing that year, weren’t you?”

 

Remarkable memory, in her eighties now, she had changed little. She still had a full head of white hair, her sparkly blue eyes reminding me the colour of the ocean, and her face a few more creases life had added over the intervene years. A warm feeling surrounded me and tears threatened to fall again. All of a sudden it was as if I had stepped onto the time machine flying backwards, towards a different time, a different continent and a different life.

 

California to Chongqing, 1980-81

 

After the death of Mao and downfall of the Gang of Four, with Deng Xiao Ping coming into power, China began its modernisation reforms and opened its door to the rest of the world. It was to change the lives of over one billion Chinese people, as well as those to whom the Middle Kingdom had become accessible again.

 

One day in March 1980, Millie was in her home in Orange, California, busy with her chores. The phone rang and it was her husband, Elcho, who was attending National Teachers of English as a Second Language Conference in San Francesco.

“There are officials from the People’s Republic of China here,” Elcho told his wife, “They are going to hire a dozen teachers to teach English in Chinese universities. Is it OK if I apply?” He sounded very keen and excited at this opportunity. There were about five thousand people at the conference, but Elcho saw it as a chance of a lifetime.

 

Millie didn’t object and thought to herself: There is no way that the Chinese government would pick a fifty-five year old man who has close associations with Tibetans and a personal friend of Dalai Lama. Then a letter from Chongqing University proved her wrong. Elcho got his long-held wish. They had wanted to go to China for as long as they could remember, but the Communist take-over in 1949 meant that they had to wait, until then.

 

After tearful goodbyes to their three grown-up children and a growing number of grand children, Elcho made his way to the mountain city of Chongqing. In his first letter to his wife, he described what he saw en route and on arrival at his destination, and his enthusiasm was evident in every line:

 

“You’ll love China, Millie. The country coming up is gorgeous. Everything is so green. Fields are neat as a pin. The whole country is like one big park. Lots of rivers and irrigated fields. Mountains and terraced paddies.

 

“It’s hard to describe Chongqing, strange but I have seen few bicycles. I think it’s too hilly. I rode around the city quite a bit. People travel mostly by large buses. Very few cars and they honk when they start up, around every corner and when they stop. Progress very evident. Lots of buildings going on. I have a chauffer, a good driver. He works for the University and drives me around in one of University’s six cars. I have an interpreter and he is with me whenever I need him.”

 

In another letter home, he gave a vivid description of his welcome dinner hosted by the top officials at the university and listed all the usual dishes he had been treated:

 

“In the dinning room, the table was beautifully set with seven different kinds of appetizers. Then the dinner: 1) roasted fish, yummy; 2) sliced beef; 3) peanuts with eggs; 4) cucumber with bean oil; 5) gizzard in salted water; 6) rabbit; 7) Sichuan style sausage; 8) flavoured duck; 9) Peacock in its pride (This is a master piece – only someone who knows Chinese dishes could possibly explain it, but it’s very beautiful and tasty; 10) Sea cucumber ….

 

He went on to list all the 25 main courses on the dinner table that evening. How was that as a welcome feast? He signed off with that rhetorical question. Millie could just about imagine him patting his belly with a contented smile.

 

Millie followed her husband six weeks later, after seeing their fourth granddaughter’s arrival and the selling of their lovely home of the past twelve years. Her journey took her several days, with transfers via Hong Kong and Shanghai.

 

Elcho taught English methodology and linguistics, while Millie offered her services too, mostly helping students with limited listening and speaking skills. They were among the first foreigners to arrive in the city.

 

A younger version of me, being at an impressionable age of 19 and the rest of the class not much older group, we were very curious about them, rare chance of observing the Imperialist Americans at close range. After class, typical of their American friendliness and hospitality, they opened their door to us. In their second floor apartment, assigned by the University, Elcho and Millie welcomed a stream of students who visited their library, played games and puzzles. Most of the time, their temporary home was filled with music and laughter. While Elcho played his beloved accordion, some of us sang along. Still under the shadow of the Cultural Revolution and long-standing distrust of foreigners, those visits were under surveillance and closely monitored by the authorities, with only certain times allowed and every single visit signed and recorded.

 

Yet, our spirits were high, ever so keen to learn and eager to discover the outside world. The Reddings were like a window, from which I had glimpse of life beyond the stony walls of Chongqing University; over the mountain ranges of Sichuan Province, where I had never set foot; beyond the seas and the oceans. Oh the sea, I had never seen, only imagined its colour and its taste in my day-dreaming.

 

As the cold December crept on us, we drove away winter blues by singing Christmas carols. ‘Silent night, Holy night’, ‘Jingle Bells’ brought cheers to our very first Christmas. Millie made a special trip to Hong Kong to buy their supply of hymn books and we happily helped to decorate their tree.

 

When the spring came, Elcho and Millie hired the university trucks and we travelled to various tourist spots around Chongqing. We had picnics on Gelou Mountain; rowed on the lakes, and swam in the fabulous North and South Springs. Many happy snapshots and everlasting memories were made.

 

I had absolutely no idea, that one day that I would be able to leave the then backward inner city on the upper stream of the Yangze River and became adopted by one of the most hated imperialist countries. But it was then a seed was sown in my heart and mind: there is an unknown world out there, waiting.

 

Out of the blue, Elcho and Millie were informed that their contract would not longer be renewed. The reason? The question was asked then, and many times over the years since, but they never found out exactly why. Rumours and speculations were rife, after they were gone. “They visited churches in Chongqing, and had been to some Christians’ homes;” “They bought bibles from Hong Kong, and it is not allowed in China.” “There were too many activities going on in their apartments, and their students were allowed to visit them whenever they wish, and they preached to them, brainwashing them;” “Elcho Redding was a high-profile preacher in the USA, and he was sent by the US government as a spy, to corrupt the innocence of their students, and to make them westernised:” Perhaps their friendship with the Dalai Lama was discovered. Nobody knew, and various stories were whispered and went on for quite sometime.

 

Naturally, nobody cared to explain to their students why their beloved teachers had to leave. Other foreign tutors would take their place and they did when the new term began. However, none of them quite managed to replace the Reddings in our young and impressionable hearts.

 

Elcho did not give up easily and sought other posts in this vast country. After all, there were over 1000 universities in China and one of them would offer him a job. China needed English teachers.

 

It was not meant to be. After ‘expelled’ from Chongqing University, no other institution would dare to make him an offer. Although China was a big country, it had a highly centralised control system. For any Chinese citizen, there was a file which would follow you wherever you went, for life. How easy would it be to create a secret file for any unsuspecting foreigner and follow him around? Piece of cake.

 

Nanjing to Shanghai, 1985

 

In the summer of 1982, I graduated and was assigned a job at the same university, despite my efforts to go somewhere else. Accept the Party’s order, or to have no job at all, the latter hardly a choice anyone was allowed to make.  At least I was fortunate enough to stay in a big city like Chongqing and did what I was trained to do: teaching English as a foreign language, just as Elcho and Millie.

 

Others were not so lucky, especially the ones who were closest to the Reddings and had accompanied them to those underground churches and invited the ‘foreign devils’ to their homes. Their destination after graduation? Some village schools in remote areas where English was not even a subject, or some state-run factory to work as an assistant administrator. Four years of formal training went to waste.

 

Elcho and Millie returned to the States briefly, reunited with their two daughters and son. Having no home of their own, they spent a few months in different locations until Elcho was offered a teaching job in Japan, where they spent the next 11 years. In this much smaller, yet more developed island in the Pacific, the Reddings were free to worship and enjoyed a much better quality of life. Yet, it was China and their former students in Chongqing, who remained fondest in their hearts.

 

Since their ‘forced’ departure from China, Elcho and Millie continued to visit China and their former students, who had by now scattered in the different parts of the country, more grown up and working. Many got married and started family. A number of us went to see them in 1983 when they stayed in the People’s Hotel in the centre of Chongqing, but it was my 1985 reunion with them in Shanghai which imbedded in my memory.

 

In the summer of 1984, I enrolled in the prominent Nanjing University. The British Council ran a postgraduate teachers’ training course there and I was fortunate enough to pass their exams and accepted onto the course. Prior to my trip, I gave in to the ever-increasing pressure to marry my boyfriend at the time. Parents from both sides thought it was time, and perhaps somewhere in the back of our minds, that if we didn’t get married, things would change. We got permission from the authorities and signed our life away at a register office. No ceremony nor reception, just the two of us going into a dusty office and received a piece of stamped paper, without even taking an oath to love honour and obey.

 

Settling happily in the student accommodation in Nanjing University, sharing with three other girls in the same dorm room, I embarked on a journey of maturing and seeing a much bigger picture for the first time. In the Spring of 1985, I received a letter from my friend Craig that the Reddings were visiting Shanghai.

 

After talking excitedly with my flatmates, one of who happened to come from Shanghai, I was able to get the detailed instructions how to find their address in Shanghai. I immediately booked my train ticket and headed further east to the port of Shanghai.

 

On arrival, the Reddings were already there, together with Elcho’s elderly parents. They were both in their mid-eighties, sprightly and enthusiastic about what they had seen during their travels in China. We were treated a sumptuous meal at their host’s home, an underground Christian and a friend of the Reddings. I still remember bits and pieces of my conversation with Millie.

 

“Oh, Jeanie, how lovely for you to come and see us,” She hugged me and kissed my both cheeks, something my mother never did. My face was blushing so much that even her lipstick was paled into shade.

 

 

I told her that I got married a few months ago: “Everybody seemed to be getting married, and so did I.” I sighed, probably looking pensive.

 

“Are you happy?” She smiled at me, looking concerned at my lack of conviction to my marriage. I was taken aback by her question and didn’t know how to respond. It was something neither my family nor friends had ever asked me. What had happiness to do with marriage?

 

But I was so happy to see her and Elcho that no problem of any sort could dampen my spirits. Pictures were taken to mark the occasion, which I was to receive copies later. Before I bid my farewells to them the following day, Millie handed me her own make-up bag, a brown leather bag with a lipstick, brush and a power: “I didn’t know that you wore make-up. If I did, I could have bought you something new. Now please accept this as a gift.”

 

That was true. When we were students, none of us wore any make-up. A few girls wore some flowery cheap perfume, and it was considered too ‘petty bourgeoisie’ and been frowned upon, if not openly criticised. I had no extra money for such luxury, coupled with the lack of supply of such ‘corruptive’ consumer goods. In a way of self-consolation, it was probably much better having a young, fresh-faced natural beauty.

 

Birmingham to Kirkland, 2007

 

On the 28^th August 1988, a day I shall never forget as long as I live, I left China to study in the UK. Some of my classmates made their way to the North America and some to Down Under. About a dozen or so remained in China, some teaching, while others went into businesses, as less control over one’s job location and more freedom to travel and making a living. China was to experience a huge transformation, especially in economic terms.

 

As an overseas student, I was able to benefit from the advanced British higher education. For someone born thirsty for learning, I was in an academic paradise. Outside the fulfilling campus life, I went through the curve of culture shock, adaptations and integration. There were trials and tribulations along the way, but positive experience far outweighed the negativity in life. In the various locations I have stayed and enjoyed, Warwick, Glasgow, Leeds, Sheffield and Manchester, I found many friends and eventually true love.

 

In July 2000, I married my second husband, John Kirk, a ‘foreign devil’, in many Chinese people’s vocabulary. Once upon a time, this would have been a crime against my Motherland, which could have caused my life and danger to my family. Time has indeed changed, so has the century.

 

One day in September 2006, an email from Craig, an old mate of Chongqing and now a resident in Australia, brought me the sad news of Dr Redding’s passing. He died of Parkinson disease and of a broken heart. He never quite got over the extreme disappointment of having to leave China.

 

I immediately got in touch with Millie. Shortly after, I called Trailfinders and made bookings to the West coast of America. In March 2007, 22 years and nearly a lifetime later, I sent Millie an email before our ten-hour long haul flight: The Kirks are coming to see you in Kirkland!

 

After Japan, the Reddings retired and returned to the States. They settled in Bellevue initially, but when Dr Redding’s health deteriorated, they had to sell their home to pay the sky-high health bills. Eventually they found another house in Kirkland, just outside of Seattle, on the shores of Lake Washington. “We fell in love with the big garden, where Elcho would spend many happy hours during the last few years of his life.” Millie gave us a guided tour of the garden, naming all the plants and flowers which they had grown. The sun shone through the cherry tree and magnolia flowers. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Elcho being wheeled through the narrow cobbled lane, his heart full of love and reminisce of his days in Chongqing.

 

Later, en route to Seattle, we stopped at a cemetery at my request. As we stood in front of my dear teacher’s grave, in a beautiful spot in Bellevue, Millie told John: “He was happiest, that year when we were in China. Jeanie and our students there were very special to him.” I have always known.

 

                                 

 

“I am going to China in May,” Millie turned to me. “Your classmate Ben is graduating from the Bible Institute in Singapore and we’re going to the ceremony.” As it turned out, Ben and another former classmate who now has set up a private pro-Christian university in China are jointed ‘sponsoring’ Millie and a member of her family to accompany her for a nostalgic trip to China and then Tibet. “I am going to see some of your remaining classmates there, and I am delighted that I shall be able to see Lhasa, to see where Dalai Lama lived, a dream for Elcho but never been realised, till now. I am going there for him.”

 

We all looked up to the sky, which was so blue and without a single cloud, and smiled. Elcho is up there somewhere. He would have been so happy to know that whatever seeds he had sown, they have grown and bloomed, a greatest achievement any teacher could have hoped for.

 

It had been quite a journey for me, taking me all the way from China to the UK and then to America. During its span of nearly three decades, there were tears and laughter, marking the sadness of painful goodbyes and happiness of joyful reunion. I had thought that I would never see them again, due to forced separation and subsequent physical distance, yet neither time nor oceans could severe that connection we had shared. In my heart, they were never gone and their footprints remained firmly in the depth of many they have come to touch in this world, and in the next, no doubt.

 

 

I dedicate this story to my beloved teachers Elcho and Millie Redding. I am extremely grateful to Millie’s kind permission for me to quote from her own China memoir. No words are sufficient enough to describe how I feel, and here is my feeble attempt.