.
Surviving the Cultural Revolution
Why should this tourist want to take my picture?
I’m just a woman who is very old—
He photographs me as I sweep the streets
And gather trash to justify my rice.
What could I tell this foolish, shallow man
Whose camera records but cannot see?
That both my legs are very weak and ache
From decades of hard work and revolutions.
That I am 85—born when Nanking
Was occupied and tortured by Japan.
I have no memory of World War II
Or how they snatched my father from our home.
But I remember China turning red
In 1948—the voice of Mao—
The speeches that I barely understood
Forever blared upon the radio.
I’d tell this tourist with the camera
My mother was a seamstress who could sew
Bright Peking Opera robes of silk and gold.
Then Mao arrived and everything turned gray.
His hate-filled communists rejected art.
My wish to be a dancer was soon crushed
So I could process coal for factories.
They made me old before I could grow up.
For twenty years we had no heat and starved.
I never married—Love could not survive
Such punishment. My mother was my heart.
She hid some costumes in the wall to trade.
In 1966 the Communists
Declared a war on history and culture.
They ruined everything my mother cherished.
A student mob destroyed her Opera silks.
My mother’s heart grew weak with too much grief.
And as she died the Party made me read
Aloud to her Mao’s Little Book of Lies.
My hatred grew as vast as the Great Wall.
And still the students rioted and burned
Destroying China’s treasures one by one:
Fine statues of The Buddha, of Guanyin,
Old scrolls, carved jade, plus treasures from the West.
I later found one scarf my mother hid.
I treasured it. It spoke of the old days.
The riots finally stopped. The decades passed.
McDonalds came with Nixon. And fast cars.
Then Disney came. Its gift of Mickey Mouse
Profaned remembrance of my mother’s silks.
Now tourists swarm. They hoard cheap souvenirs
And take my picture as I sweep the streets.
The Party makes me work despite my age.
I pick up the debris the tourists leave—
The Starbucks cups they toss about like rice.
But nothing that I do makes this land clean.
It’s not the man who took my picture’s fault,
But China will not ever be itself.
They’ve trapped the Yangtze River with a dam
And demon leaders rule us from Beijing.
As for the man who took my photograph
Here are the words I want to say to you:
The China that you seek you shall not see.
It’s soul was stolen by the C.C.P.
.
Poet’s Note: This poem is based on first-hand observations by the poet as a tourist in Beijing in 2001. He has given an identity and back-story to one of the ancient sweepers seen in these tourist centers. The Chinese Communist Party (CCP) has faced criticism for employing elderly individuals in low-paid street sweeping jobs. They are fired at will, lack legal protection and face severe social discrimination. Sweepers are at the bottom of society’s heap, with frequent reports of them being assaulted or even killed. Such workers are typically quite elderly, with low levels of education and badly paid. They are unable to stand up for their rights. Source: https://www.worldsweeper.com/Country/China/PoorTreatmentOfSweepers2015.html#:~:text=Ding%20came%20to%20Xi’an,basis%20and%20are%20easily%20dismissed.
.
.
Brian Yapko is a retired lawyer whose poetry has appeared in over fifty journals. He is the winner of the 2023 SCP International Poetry Competition. Brian is also the author of several short stories, the science fiction novel El Nuevo Mundo and the gothic archaeological novel Bleeding Stone. He lives in Wimauma, Florida.