The Pride and Shame of My Father

Lin Jianfa　Ai Mingqiu

My father was among the first generation of construction workers in New China. Before I started elementary school， I saw him infrequently. Most days， he wasnt one of us at home but a worker on construction sites across the Three Northeastern Provinces. These provinces were the heavy industry bases of New China， and the construction workers were its “vanguard.”

As a child， I gradually became accustomed to a life where I had a father but rarely saw him. In my second year of elementary school， my fathers construction company went to support the “Third Front” construction project， and my father volunteered to go. The decision to go was voluntary， and he chose to go. Being a part of the first generation of construction workers in New China， he felt it was a great honor to actively respond when the nation called.

Before my father left for another province， he had several arguments with my mother over cement.

Back then， in Harbin， aside from the three central areas of Daoli， Daowai， and Nangang， most residential communities lacked distinct urban features. They mainly consisted of mud and straw houses， built with yellow mud bricks and topped with straw — a common type of dwelling found north of the Yangtze River. Those living in such houses in Harbin were typically farmers who had “ventured into the northeast” before 1949—like my father. Unable to afford brick houses in the city center and with the city unable to address their housing needs， they built these mud and straw homes on approved land， resulting in clusters of urban villages at the time.

Such houses needed a fresh coat of yellow mud every year. After a year of exposure to the elements， the initial layer of mud would peel off， revealing cracks in the walls. Without a new layer， the house would be cold in winter. As the saying goes， “A pin-sized gap lets in a bucket of wind.”

To prevent the mud from peeling off easily， people devised various techniques. A common method was to mix chopped straws， torn bags， and mats into the mud. However， upon becoming city dwellers， people would learn new techniques to make the dried mud walls sturdier， like mixing in ash from coal， a very urban solution. But even after burning coal all winter， there wouldnt be much ash， and it was cumbersome to sift and store. So， this method was often used only for plastering interior walls， bed-stove surfaces， windowsills， and stove countertops. Back then， finely sifted furnace ash was like cement to the common people.

I remember one year when an iron smelting factory relocated， drawing out old folks， women， and children from many households. They rushed over with broken pots， baskets， and pushing carts， all eager to get there first.

What for？

It turned out that a thick layer of rust was left behind at the factory. The clever ones realized that mixing this rust with mud would prevent the dried mud surface from cracking easily， and it would probably resist moisture better. Indeed， that was the case， and the mud surface even had a pleasant brownish tint.

The house we lived in was originally inhabited by Russian refugees decades ago. It was over thirty years old， with a sinking foundation and skewed doors and windows. It had lost its original appearance and looked much worse than the mud houses we lived in during the first few years. My father had started making repairs with yellow mud.

One year， as my father plastered the house with mud， my mother constantly nagged him： “Ive told you several times， why dont you bring back some cement from the construction site？ Is it that hard？”

My father would sternly reply， “How many times must I say it？ Bring some from the site？ That sounds nice， but isnt that stealing？ Cement is a precious resource in the construction industry. Who am I to take it？”

My mother would retort， “Who are you？ Arent you just Liang Bingkui， the son of a Shandong farmer who came to Manchuria at the age of seventeen？”

My father would respond， with a mix of annoyance and pride： “Yes， that was me back then. But now， I am one of Chinas first-generation construction workers， a member of Chinas leadership class！

“Just plastering the windowsills， stove countertops， and bed-stove edges， how much cement would that take？ Why does everything sound so twisted when it comes out of your mouth？” my mother would exclaim， frustrated.

“If I plaster our homes windowsills， stove countertops， and bed-stove edges with cement， wont everyone notice？ Do you think everyones a fool？ What if someone reports me to my workplace？ Do you think Id still keep my squad leader position？” my father would counter， equally upset.

“So， dont be a squad leader then！ Whats the big deal about that small position？”

My mother， in a huff， stabbed the trowel into the pile of mud and stopped helping him.

The question of whether to use a bit of cement for home repairs had caused more than one argument between my parents.

The summer of my first year in junior high， my father returned from Sichuan. It took him six days for the home visit， as direct tickets were hard to come by. He took multiple connecting rides heading north. Since he couldnt determine his exact arrival time in Harbin， he didnt send a telegram for us to pick him up.

He entered our home quite unexpectedly， right after dinner. At that time， a neighboring aunt was chatting with my mother. Not only was the aunt surprised， but even we， his children， and my mother were astonished. He brought back so many things. He had a thick bamboo tube slung over his shoulder， a travel bag in one hand， and a large woven bamboo basket on his back， which looked heavy. My brother and I helped him with the basket， noticing a white patch on the back of his blue work uniform -- it looked like flour.

As my mother brushed it off with a broom， the neighbor exclaimed in surprise， “Oh my！ Your husband really cares about home， bringing things all the way from Sichuan！ Isnt Sichuan known for rice and not wheat？”

My father just smiled without offering any explanation. Once the neighbor left， he revealed that the two cloth bags in the basket contained lime and cement， not flour.

My mother said with concern， “Have you lost your mind？ Are these essential items to bring home？”

My father replied， “Yes， I wanted to fulfill your wish to plaster our windowsills， stove countertops， and bed-stove edges smooth with cement， and to whitewash our house. I want you to see the standard of work from Chinas first-generation construction workers！”

My mother stared at him for a moment， then turned away， her hands covering her face as she cried silently.

Our home underwent a transformation after several days of my fathers hard work. Inside the bamboo tube were about ten commendation certificates， each as large as a broadsheet newspaper. My frugal father surprisingly splurged on about ten picture frames. Once the certificates were framed and hung in two rows at the entrance， it was an impressive sight that added luster to our home.

Officer Gong， a friend of the family， came to visit， but my father was away visiting colleagues. After scanning the rows of certificates， Officer Gong adjusted his hat and saluted solemnly， saying， “A salute to the construction workers who supported the major construction projects！”

After my mother shared Officer Gongs gesture with my father， he smiled with a beaming face， blushing with pride.

Under the Gentle Light， Family Comes Together

Chief Editor： Lin Jianfa， Ai Mingqiu

Liaoning Peoples Publishing House

January 2023

48.00 （CNY）

Lin Jianfa

Graduated from East China Normal University， Lin Jianfa is a member of China Writers Association， director of the Chinese Literary Theory Association， director of the Chinese Association of Contemporary Literature （CACL）， and former chief editor of Contemporary Writers Review. He was honored as “Top Ten Editors of Liaoning Province in 1995” and “Outstanding Social Sciences Editor of the Three Northeastern Provinces in 1996.”

Ai Mingqiu

Graduated from Jilin University， Ai Mingqiu is the deputy chief editor at Liaoning Peoples Publishing House and has overseen books that have won national awards. He is the author of Editing and Reading the Five Flavors.