Time is being lost constantly, the pa.s.sing of time leaving behind the traces of time on our faces. Although many years has pa.s.sed, what floats into my mind on the sleepless nights are the most pure of times – childhood.
Racing
Childhood, what a lovely period of time, it’s a pity that it remain as a frozen frame in my mind now. Reminiscing on the days when I was young, I was probably the happiest before I was 12.
When I was young, I was very interested in science and engineering. I really liked models. To prevent me from being distracted from my studies due to my playfulness, my mother gave me little pocket money. She controlled my weekly spending very strictly. The only thing I could do was to save up the money that was to be spent on breakfast. When I’ve saved up a certain amount, I used them to buy car models and then I’d switch up their engines and bearings myself into formula racing cars before entering compet.i.tions with them.
In the beginning, my mother was extremely against me playing with these, thinking that they will affect my studies, and so I can only continue this hobby in secret. I secretly fixed the racecars and entered compet.i.tions. I’d always chart in these compet.i.tions, and there will always be prizes. Hats, t-shirts, models etc. Seeing that this didn’t affect my studies and that I really enjoyed what I did, my mother stopped being against it. Back then I felt really happy and also felt a strong sense of achievement.
I thought my childhood would always be like this, paired with the racecars and models I like. I even thought of becoming a racecar driver or a model maker when I grew up.
First Time on Stage
One time, my teacher picked me to perform for our arts performance. It was my first time on stage and I was very nervous, seeing the dark crowd of people below the stage. I felt a sense of suffocation and wanted to escape this stage as soon as possible. However, I pushed that down and continued to finish my performance. After leaving the stage, I thought that my performance had been really bad and kept scolding myself for it, thinking that I must have been very embarra.s.sing just now.
What I didn’t expect was my teacher’s continuous praising and encouragement form my cla.s.smates. I thought they were only trying to comfort me and I felt even more shameful. It was when I stayed in the crowd feeling upset did a dance instructor from the school approach me.
He felt that my figure and form were really suited for dance, and so he said to me: “Come learn dance from me, I can teach you for free.”
I was only a child so I didn’t know how to respond to him, and so he kept telling me the benefits of learning how to dance, and even saying that it’d really be a pity if a person with such good conditions like me didn’t learn dancing……he said a lot and that tempted me slightly so I went home to discuss this with my parents. Back then many relatives didn’t support this, thinking that it was very feminine for a boy to learn how to dance, and so they were not in favour of this. Only my grandmother was supportive of this. Because she liked to dance since she was young, and I guess she was entrusting her ambitions on my. It was under the insistence of my grandmother that my parents were convinced and agreed to me learning dance.
From then on. I began life with dancing in my spare time. I took part in all types of art and cultural activities in school and I gradually became used to being on stage. I no longer felt nervous.
When I was in primary five, my teacher suggested that I take the test to enter a professional dance school in Beijing. At first, I was extremely excited, thinking that I’m already so old yet I haven’t left home yet, and it was Beijing we were talking about and so I was really keen on trying.
My father was considerably reasonable and expressed that he was willing to respect my thoughts, but my mother felt that I was too young and couldn’t bear to let me go.
My father chatted with me, seriously telling me that: “You must think everything through. You cannot regret the road you chose yourself. If you go to Beijing, no matter how tough and tiring, you must bear with it yourself.”
Although I was still young then, I could tell the seriousness of the situation form my father’s firm expression. I didn’t think much, only that I simply wanted to leave home and see what was outside, to live a life of my own.
And so, the year I was 12, I left home and came to Beijing.
Leaving Home when I was Young
Children’s thoughts are really simple, not caring about the advantages and disadvantages as long as I’m having fun. When I really began life alone in Beijing, I wasn’t used to it.
Only until I experienced it myself did I understand that living on my own wasn’t easy. I was only 12 then and I didn’t know a lot of things, let alone taking care of myself while living alone.
I didn’t know how to wash my clothes; needless to say I didn’t know how to fold them either. It was a good thing that the school had a washing machine where one wash was 2 dollars. I always shoved my clothes haphazardly into the washing machine, not knowing that I had to air dry my clothes after drying them. I always crammed into my cupboard so when I took them out to wear, they were always wrinkled. Many times when my mother came to visit me, she’d tell me that I resembled a guerilla fighter.
Later on, every time my mother came to see me at school, she’d wash my clothes and my bed sheets. Back then I thought of how much of a blessing it was to have my mother at my side. Every time she was about to leave, I’d be unwilling to let go of her hands. She’d then comfort me by saying that she’d be back to see me in a couple of days. I really believed her then, but even after a semester, she didn’t come back and I’d think of how cruel she was. Only when I grew up a bit more did I understand that my mother rarely came to see me because the return tickets were very expensive.
12 years old. There were probably many children who still lived happily with their parents, not worrying about anything, but those of us who left home early had to face the cruel reality of having to leave our parents. We had to learn how to take care of ourselves. When we become sick, we didn’t have the warm embrace of our mothers and so we had to push ourselves to the hospital forcefully. Standing up again ourselves when we fall, hiding below our blankets when we want to cry, although we became strong, our lives were still pretty disheveled.
There’s a student in our room that never washed his socks. Whenever you pull his thin mattress back, you’d see socks that have never been washed pressed under it. Later on his mother bought him an entire box of socks because she didn’t know what else to do. He wore them and threw them away. Only until he grew older and really had no more socks to wear did he start to learn how to wash them.
It was a public bathroom when I was studying, so it was very troublesome to shower. We could only shower once a week, but we had to practice and train daily, so our clothes were filled with spots drenched with sweat. We’d shove the clothes into our bag and go out to play with out cla.s.smates after training and then take them out the next day to put them on to train again. A strong stench always followed us around.
Since we practiced often, we were able to smell the stench clearly. Coupled with the fact that we sweat continuously and the clothes became sticky, the smell would then become overwhelming. Countless times I thought that, it’d be great if my mother were here. However, these are just extravagant hopes that you can only think about.
Days of Learning Dance
Dance took up the entirety of my youth. When other kids became rebellious, started playing games or getting into relationships, I only had dance in my life.
My cla.s.s had early practice so every morning at five I’d wake up and start jogging. I had to persist even in the coldest winter. At five in the morning in winters, the sky was still dark. Even after jogging, the sky remained dark and I’d get breakfast in the dark before beginning my busy and bounty cla.s.ses.
My most painful memory is when I was practicing leg stretching. When I first entered Minzu University of China, my bones were already quite hard. When practicing stretching, our teacher asked us to split as far as we go. If we can’t, the teacher would sit directly onto your legs, pull your leg to the side. The pain then couldn’t be described by words. Even in winter, our sweat would pour. I could hear many cla.s.smates crying in pain, but no matter how hard the cries were, our teacher never made our practice easier but instead became even stricter.
There was much other training where even if our moves were slightly off, our teacher would slap out hands; if we couldn’t master a certain move, our teacher would make us remain in that one position and not move, like a military drill…… although this way of practicing was very strict, it allowed us to master the standard movement quickly.
Every time the cla.s.ses ended, I’d return to the dorm to find bruises on my body. Everywhere hurt and sometimes I felt that my body was no longer my own, but I was embarra.s.sed to cry in front of others so I could only cry with my blanket drawn over my face; when I broke down, I really wanted to go home, but remembering the words my father told me, I could only hold it in.
My cla.s.s had 16 boys originally, but under the intense pressure, 4 left in the second year, leaving only 12 boys behind.
At that time, I swore to myself that if I ever have a child, I’d never let him learn dance, it was really too tough.
And perhaps, this is the price of growing up. You’d always have to give your all to fight for one thing in order to become better and better.
Thinking back to my childhood now, there are happy times and sorrowful times. However those times are long gone and since I can no longer go back, I can only seal them in my memory.