Auntie Wang, Our Housekeeper

 Auntie Wang was the only housekeeper my family ever employed. We hired her after we moved from Anjiang (安江) to Zhijiang (芷江), Hunan in early of1962.

At that time, we lived in the middle two rooms of a long, single-story dormitory building at the Zhijiang Teachers' School. My maternal grandmother had come from our hometown in Changde (常德) several years earlier to help care for me. By then she was already in her seventies and in frail health. In October 1962, my mother gave birth to my younger brother. My grandmother could no longer manage the children by herself, so my parents hired Auntie Wang to help.

Auntie Wang was in her forties, small in stature, and lived in Xiacaiyuan, a farming area southwest of Zhijiang across the river, about three or four kilometers from town. She appeared to be of Miao ethnicity, either having come from neighboring Guizhou Province or from the Xiangxi Tujia and Miao Autonomous Prefecture in western Hunan. I never knew whether she had moved there with her parents as a child or had been born and raised in Zhijiang as a second-generation resident.

She looked gentle and rather delicate, but she possessed an exceptionally strong will. Beneath her quiet appearance was a stubborn determination that could surprise anyone.

One thing made Auntie Wang quite unusual—she refused to eat fish.

I never knew whether she had mentioned this when my parents hired her, or whether she had kept it to herself. If she did tell them, they certainly underestimated how serious the matter was.

Whenever our family wanted to eat fish, Auntie Wang would not cook it. That in itself was not a major problem, since my parents could prepare it themselves. The real difficulty came afterward. Before any fish could be cooked, she first had to finish preparing the dishes she herself would eat. Any pot that had cooked fish, or any bowl or plate that had held fish, had to be washed over and over again—sometimes more than a dozen times—before she would use it. Otherwise, she would absolutely refuse to eat any food prepared with those utensils.

As a result, serving fish became such a nuisance that, during the several years Auntie Wang worked for us, we simply stopped eating fish altogether. To this day, I have no idea why she disliked it so intensely. I have never met another person who was so completely averse to fish.

By then I was already five years old and needed very little care. My younger brother was mainly looked after by my grandmother, who also did much of the laundry. Strictly speaking, washing clothes was not her responsibility, but she simply could not bear to sit idle. Auntie Wang was therefore not especially busy. Fortunately, my family was easygoing and never quarreled over such matters, so we got along with her quite well.

In October 1965, my father's school, Zhijiang Teachers' School, exchanged campuses with Zhijiang No. 2 Middle School, and we moved to Muyoupo, near Qili Bridge. Auntie Wang moved with us. My mother worked for the county government in town and had to live in the government compound, making it difficult for her to come home regularly. Our youngest brother was only about six months old and had to be weaned earlier than planned.

The five members of our family, together with Auntie Wang, crowded into the two end rooms of a one-story dormitory that had originally housed members of the Flying Tigers during World War II. Behind the rooms, we added a pianshua—a local Zhijiang term for a lean-to built under the extended eaves of a house—which served as our kitchen.

By then, the Cultural Revolution had just begun, and the first big-character posters were appearing everywhere.

My grandmother had always been timid, and with her advanced age she became increasingly anxious. She kept insisting that she wanted to return to her hometown in Changde. As she often said, "These old bones of mine should be buried in the soil of my native place, not left in a foreign land."

My parents therefore asked one of our cousins from the countryside near Changde—nicknamed "Blind Cousin" (though he was not actually blind, and none of us knew how he had acquired the nickname)—to make a special trip to escort my grandmother home.

No sooner had she left than the Red Guards announced that employing housekeepers was an act of exploitation and was therefore forbidden. All domestic servants were ordered to be dismissed within a specified period.

Auntie Wang could no longer stay with us. But once she left, only my father would be left to care for my two younger brothers and me. My youngest brother was barely a year old, and it was obvious that my father could not possibly look after all three of us by himself. With no other choice, my parents urgently asked my paternal grandmother, who lived in the countryside of Taoyuan County, to come and take my two younger brothers.

My grandmother was more than ten years younger than my maternal grandmother and was about sixty years old at the time. She was still relatively young and in excellent health, which was exactly why my parents asked her to take care of my brothers.

When she arrived, she did not leave immediately. Instead, she stayed with us for a while. My parents wanted the two boys to spend some time with her and develop an emotional bond before she took them away. They were especially concerned about my youngest brother, who was only a little over a year old. If he was frightened of strangers or refused to go with her, taking him home would become very difficult.

For a short period, the two small rooms housed seven people: my parents, the three brothers, my grandmother, and Auntie Wang.

Photograph: Front row, from left: Ding Rui (our neighbor's son and the younger brother of Ding Yan), my youngest brother, and my younger brother. Middle row, from left: Auntie Wang, my grandmother, and me. Back row: my elder brother (my father was my stepfather, and my elder brother was his son from his first marriage).

My grandmother was fearless and never shrank from confrontation. If another child hit me, my maternal grandmother's first instinct had always been to pull me away or carry me off, keeping me out of trouble. My paternal grandmother was completely different. If someone hit me, she would say, "Lewei, hit him back!" I was the kind of child who never fought back, so when I refused, she would become impatient, grab my hand, and use it to strike the other child herself.

She was remarkably healthy and had an enormous appetite, eating more than anyone else in the family. At that time, I was responsible for buying our meals from the school cafeteria. When my grandmother arrived, I noticed that the amount of food we had to buy nearly doubled. Unable to hide my surprise, I blurted out, "Grandma, how can you eat so much?"

Many years later, my mother would still laugh whenever she recalled the incident, teasing me about how thoughtless and childish I had been.

My grandmother had been born a few years before the 1911 Revolution. When the revolution broke out, she had just reached the age when girls were expected to have their feet bound.

Although the new Republic abolished foot-binding after the fall of the Qing Dynasty, our ancestral village of Ligonggang in Taoyuan County lay deep in the mountains. Transportation was poor, communication was slow, and the villagers knew nothing about the revolution. They did not even realize that the emperor had been overthrown. Men continued to wear the traditional queues, and young girls still had their feet bound, just as before.

Only several years later did news gradually reach the village that people elsewhere had long since cut off their queues and abandoned the practice of foot-binding. By then, my grandmother had already endured several years of bound feet before the bindings were finally removed.

As a result, her feet were neither the tiny "golden lilies" of women whose feet had been fully bound, nor the natural feet of women who had never undergone the practice. They were an intermediate size—larger than fully bound feet but noticeably smaller than normal feet. There were not many women like her, but they all shared the same experience: they had begun foot-binding before the 1911 Revolution, only to have the practice abandoned a few years later. Consequently, it was always difficult for her to find shoes that fit properly.

Although my grandmother was elderly and had never received any formal education, she possessed an extraordinarily inquisitive mind. Whenever she saw me rolling an iron hoop with a hooked stick, she would ask, "Lewei, why doesn't that iron hoop fall over when it's rolling?"

I was only a second-grade boy. At school, our lessons consisted mainly of memorizing Chairman Mao's quotations. How could I possibly answer questions like my grandmother's—questions worthy of One Hundred Thousand Whys?

In front of our home were two basketball courts, where outdoor movies were often shown in the evenings. After watching one of those films, my grandmother asked me, "Lewei, how do the people in the movie move around on that screen?"

That question was even more difficult. Even today, it would require at least a high school student's knowledge to explain it properly. For a second-grader growing up during the Cultural Revolution, it was simply beyond me. Yet I have never forgotten those remarkably perceptive questions my grandmother asked. They revealed a mind that was endlessly curious about the world.

My grandmother was full of vitality. Although her feet had once been bound, she walked faster than many women with natural feet. She eventually lived to the age of ninety-nine. After staying with us for about two or three weeks, she and my younger brothers had become close enough that she was able to take them back with her to Taoyuan (桃源）.

Auntie Wang remained with us for only a few more days before leaving. During that time, I apparently did something that angered her, though I no longer remember what it was. She picked up a bamboo switch and came after me.

Terrified, I ran into the inner room and bolted the door behind me.

The two rooms we occupied had originally been a single dormitory room for members of the Flying Tigers during World War II. It had later been divided into two smaller rooms by a wooden partition. The partition was only about two meters high, leaving a gap of roughly sixty centimeters below the ceiling.

To my astonishment, Auntie Wang dragged over a chair, climbed onto it, hoisted herself over the partition, dropped into my room, and gave me a sound beating.

She had disciplined me before, but I remember almost none of those occasions. This one, however, has remained vivid in my memory ever since. Even so, I never told my parents about it.

Auntie Wang worked for our family for about four years. After leaving us, she returned to her home in Xiacaiyuan. My father and I continued living at Muyoupo, while my mother remained at the county government offices in town.

Thus, our household consisted of just two males—a grown man and a young boy. We usually ate at the school cafeteria, but it was closed on Sundays, so we had to cook for ourselves once a week.

My father had been the only son in his family. My grandmother doted on him and had never expected him to do household chores. Moreover, he had left home at a young age to attend school, so he never learned how to cook.

His philosophy of cooking was wonderfully simple:

"As long as it's meat, it'll taste good no matter how you cook it."

In those days, meat was rationed. Each person was entitled to only one jin (about half a kilogram) per month, and sometimes the only meat available was salted pork.

My father really did cook according to his theory. He would buy the meat, cut it into several large chunks, drop them into a pot of water, boil them until they were done, sprinkle on a little salt, and serve them. Since meat was such a rare luxury, we thought it tasted delicious no matter how simply it was prepared.

Eventually, I began teaching myself to cook. My friendly rival was Ding Yan, the little girl next door who was one year younger than I was. We competed to see whose dishes tasted better.

At first, I was hopeless. On one occasion, while cutting vegetables, I sliced deeply into my finger, leaving a flap of flesh hanging open. The scar is still visible today.

Once I stir-fried eggplant and proudly invited Ding Yan to taste it.

"There's plenty of oil," I said with satisfaction.

She took one bite and replied matter-of-factly, "It tastes like raw cooking oil. You have to heat the oil until it begins to smoke before adding the vegetables. Otherwise, you'll always get that raw oil taste."

I felt rather embarrassed, but I learned an important lesson that day: properly heated oil makes all the difference.

Little by little, I became a self-taught cook and eventually assumed the role of the family's chief chef. My cooking was far from outstanding, but it was certainly better than my father's. Since he neither knew how to cook nor was picky about food, he happily ate whatever I prepared.

Three years later, my father was assigned to organize the newly established Zhijiang Middle School, and we moved back into town.

At first we had only a single room to live in. Both of my parents were sent to the countryside as members of a government work team, so I had to board with my teacher, Mr. Feng Wei.

The following year, my mother took me back to Taoyuan to bring my younger brother home to Zhijiang, while my youngest brother remained with my grandmother.

After we returned to town, Auntie Wang occasionally came to visit us. She always said that if we ever needed her again, she would gladly come back to work for our family. But by then we children were older, and our living quarters were far too cramped, so we never hired another housekeeper.

Whenever Auntie Wang visited, she brought vegetables from her own garden. We also visited her home in Xiacaiyuan twice. The walk took about forty-five minutes.

Xiacaiyuan lay beside the Wu River. The land along the river was broad and level, consisting mainly of vegetable gardens, with some farmland as well. Auntie Wang's home was an old wooden house, somewhat weathered with age, surrounded on all sides by fields and vegetable plots.

Her husband was surnamed Li, though she always called him "Old Li." He was considerably older than she was. In his youth, he had been forcibly conscripted into the Nationalist Army (Kuomintang). Later, he was captured by the People's Liberation Army, joined its ranks, and soon afterward was sent to Korea as a member of the Chinese People's Volunteers.

He was seriously wounded during the Korean War and underwent an above-the-knee amputation of his right leg. As a disabled war veteran, he received a government pension, and a plaque honoring his military service hung beside the front door of their home.

Uncle Li needed crutches to walk and could no longer work in the fields. Instead, he stayed at home weaving bamboo baskets and other bamboo utensils to sell.

He was a tall, well-built, and handsome man, with a gentle, scholarly manner. He spoke softly, never hurried, and rarely became upset—the complete opposite of Auntie Wang's quick temper. She often complained about him, yet Uncle Li would simply smile and never argue back. It was obvious that he always yielded to her, and despite their contrasting personalities, they shared a warm and affectionate marriage.

They had two children. I remember only their elder child, a daughter who was about two or three years older than I was. She attended Longping Middle School on the west side of the river, though, like students throughout China during the Cultural Revolution, much of what she studied consisted of Chairman Mao's quotations.

She had inherited her father's height and stood nearly half a head taller than her mother. She was also much prettier than Auntie Wang. Like her father, she had a calm and gentle disposition.

Growing up in the countryside, she had a disabled father, a mother who spent long periods working away from home as a housekeeper, and a younger sibling. With no one to depend on, she learned to be remarkably independent, responsible, and capable.

She was probably fourteen or fifteen years old then. Her sun-darkened complexion and sturdy build reflected a life of hard work. She took care of the family's vegetable garden herself—watering it, pulling weeds, and tending the crops. She was also an excellent cook and, whenever she had time, helped her father weave bamboo products.

It was clear that Auntie Wang's family lived under difficult circumstances. Her work as a housekeeper supplemented the family's income, but she seemed to work for one family only for a period before returning home, sometimes remaining there for quite a long time.

I never knew the exact reasons. One possibility was that although the Red Guards no longer openly denounced hiring housekeepers as "exploitation," far fewer families were willing to employ domestic help after the Cultural Revolution began. Another may have been Auntie Wang's personality. Her quick temper, combined with her uncompromising refusal to eat fish, probably made it difficult for her to remain with any one family for very long.

Even after leaving our household, Auntie Wang visited us once or twice every year. She always brought fresh vegetables from her own garden, stayed for a chat, complained a little about Uncle Li, and updated my parents on how her children were doing.

As the Chinese saying goes, "One does not visit a temple without a reason." Auntie Wang usually came because she needed my parents' help. Her family was poor, and from time to time they faced financial hardships.

My parents often assisted relatives and friends who were in need, although they never spoke about it to me. Occasionally, I overheard them discussing such matters in private. Years later, some of those relatives told me how my parents' generosity had helped them through difficult times.

Auntie Wang herself never mentioned receiving assistance from my parents. Instead, she would simply say how well they had treated her and how much they cared about her.

When Auntie Wang was not feeling well to visit us, she would ask her daughter to deliver vegetables to our home instead.

By then I had long since become the family's chief cook, and from the age of thirteen one of my daily chores was buying vegetables in the market. On several occasions, I met Auntie Wang's eldest daughter selling vegetables at the entrance to the West Street Farmer’s Market. Every time, she insisted on giving me some of her vegetables free of charge.

After the restoration of China's national college entrance examination in 1977, Auntie Wang's daughter came to see me and asked if I would tutor her in preparation for the exam. I made a special trip to her home and tutored her couple times.

Unfortunately, her educational foundation was simply too weak. A few tutoring sessions could not possibly make a significant difference. She was also older than most candidates. After carefully weighing her prospects, she decided to give up the idea of taking the college entrance examination. Not long afterward, she married.

After I entered Peking University, I returned home only infrequently. I never saw Auntie Wang or her daughter again. I knew, however, that she continued to visit my parents. They later told me that when Uncle Li passed away, Auntie Wang was heartbroken. They comforted her during that difficult time and may even have attended Uncle Li's funeral.

Auntie Wang herself passed away some years later, although I do not know exactly when.

She was the only housekeeper our family ever employed. The fact that she married Uncle Li speaks to her compassion and kindness. At the same time, marrying him also proved to be a blessing in her own life. She was quick-tempered, to be sure, but she was fundamentally a good woman. Although she had beaten me more than once as a child, I never held it against her.

Written on October 29, 2021.