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When the Huai Flowers Bloom: Stories of the Cultural Revolution
by Shu Jiang Lu
SUNY 2007
$25, ISBN 978-0791472316
By Elizabeth Hodges
By the time Shu Jiang Lu began to read, she was already familiar with the people and
tales of Asian, European and American literature, Dickens and Hardy, Chekhov, Tolstoy,
Melville and Twain, to name just a few. Her father, a well-known novelist, film scriptwriter,
and playwright, told their stories to his children nightly before bed. But by the time Shu
Jiang could read, those books had become a serious danger as Mao’s revolution sought
to destroy “the Four Olds – old ideology, old culture, old habits, old customs,” and
anything or anyone who fell into what seemed a liberal thinker, bourgeoisie. Lu offers
readers stories that do much to salvage what Mao sought to rid China of.
Nominated for the 2008 Kiriyama Prize and a finalist for Forward Magazine’s book of the
year, Lu’s memoir of her childhood in Mao’s China is a gorgeous book, its prose
beautifully crafted, and its people and stories fascinating. Lu’s voice is quiet, gentle,
questioning, yet wise, even when she is recounting very dire events. Her depiction of the
people she incorporates makes them quite real; her prose is lyrical, with syntactical
elements that while correct, use the English language in a way that evokes the music of
the Chinese language. The stories also teach readers. No matter how much we know
about China’s history during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, autobiographies of those who
survived it will always give us a far clearer sense of how lives proceeded.
The pleasures of Lu’ childhood and love of family are set against the intrusive and violent
backdrop of violated human rights, punishments of her father, disappearing people and
suicides, and poverty. Lu weaves in legend and Chinese stories. Each of the twelve
chapters is written from a different narrative perspective. She shows us where she found
magic in her world. She explores her past and the questions that had never been
answered, such as how her grandfather died. Perhaps most notable is the fact that the
stories she tells are not of the sort one might expect. There is suffering and sadness, yes,
but far more prominent is the survival of people, their spirit and hope. As a young girl, Lu
understood that the only way to survive was to speak the Party’s line and seem the same
as everyone else, but she also found havens that went undestroyed and saw the tensions
between old and new even in the most loyal Party members. One haven, Pear Flower
Alley, retained its name, while others streets – like Willow Road and Heaven’s Dragon
Road – became Anti-Revision Road and Anti-Imperialism Street. The reason the alley
went unchanged in name and nature was that it “was believed to be haunted by ghosts
who had been protecting its residents from any outside harm. Not fully comprehending the
meaning of those rumors about ghosts, we treasured this paradise where we too felt
secure.” The nut vendor, the makers of bamboo flutes and red paper lanterns, residents
of Pear Flower Alley who sold their good in the twenty or so stalls outside the homes’
doors, went on living their lives as they had before. “In the midst of a turbulent stormy
ocean, Pear Flower Alley became an island where we found our way back to a once lost
childhood and were given a chance to see the world through a kaleidoscope of colors
instead of just blue and black.” The sugar flour man who sent his regards to Lu’s father
never failed to send him words of hope. “Tell him, you must tell him, think far ahead. Just
remember, there is always a road that can take you out of a mountain. A cart can always
find its way to turn the corner. Heaven would never close all its doors. Do you understand
what I mean.” It is clear that Lu did and does.
Shu Jiang Lu is an Associate Professor at the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg.
by Shu Jiang Lu
SUNY 2007
$25, ISBN 978-0791472316
By Elizabeth Hodges
By the time Shu Jiang Lu began to read, she was already familiar with the people and
tales of Asian, European and American literature, Dickens and Hardy, Chekhov, Tolstoy,
Melville and Twain, to name just a few. Her father, a well-known novelist, film scriptwriter,
and playwright, told their stories to his children nightly before bed. But by the time Shu
Jiang could read, those books had become a serious danger as Mao’s revolution sought
to destroy “the Four Olds – old ideology, old culture, old habits, old customs,” and
anything or anyone who fell into what seemed a liberal thinker, bourgeoisie. Lu offers
readers stories that do much to salvage what Mao sought to rid China of.
Nominated for the 2008 Kiriyama Prize and a finalist for Forward Magazine’s book of the
year, Lu’s memoir of her childhood in Mao’s China is a gorgeous book, its prose
beautifully crafted, and its people and stories fascinating. Lu’s voice is quiet, gentle,
questioning, yet wise, even when she is recounting very dire events. Her depiction of the
people she incorporates makes them quite real; her prose is lyrical, with syntactical
elements that while correct, use the English language in a way that evokes the music of
the Chinese language. The stories also teach readers. No matter how much we know
about China’s history during Mao’s Cultural Revolution, autobiographies of those who
survived it will always give us a far clearer sense of how lives proceeded.
The pleasures of Lu’ childhood and love of family are set against the intrusive and violent
backdrop of violated human rights, punishments of her father, disappearing people and
suicides, and poverty. Lu weaves in legend and Chinese stories. Each of the twelve
chapters is written from a different narrative perspective. She shows us where she found
magic in her world. She explores her past and the questions that had never been
answered, such as how her grandfather died. Perhaps most notable is the fact that the
stories she tells are not of the sort one might expect. There is suffering and sadness, yes,
but far more prominent is the survival of people, their spirit and hope. As a young girl, Lu
understood that the only way to survive was to speak the Party’s line and seem the same
as everyone else, but she also found havens that went undestroyed and saw the tensions
between old and new even in the most loyal Party members. One haven, Pear Flower
Alley, retained its name, while others streets – like Willow Road and Heaven’s Dragon
Road – became Anti-Revision Road and Anti-Imperialism Street. The reason the alley
went unchanged in name and nature was that it “was believed to be haunted by ghosts
who had been protecting its residents from any outside harm. Not fully comprehending the
meaning of those rumors about ghosts, we treasured this paradise where we too felt
secure.” The nut vendor, the makers of bamboo flutes and red paper lanterns, residents
of Pear Flower Alley who sold their good in the twenty or so stalls outside the homes’
doors, went on living their lives as they had before. “In the midst of a turbulent stormy
ocean, Pear Flower Alley became an island where we found our way back to a once lost
childhood and were given a chance to see the world through a kaleidoscope of colors
instead of just blue and black.” The sugar flour man who sent his regards to Lu’s father
never failed to send him words of hope. “Tell him, you must tell him, think far ahead. Just
remember, there is always a road that can take you out of a mountain. A cart can always
find its way to turn the corner. Heaven would never close all its doors. Do you understand
what I mean.” It is clear that Lu did and does.
Shu Jiang Lu is an Associate Professor at the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg.
All files © Copyright 2008 The Sylvan Echo