Being Vulnerable
Revolutions are not about corrupt governments or wicked kings; revolutions are about ideas. In 1966, Mao Zedong launched the Cultural Revolution to ingrain Communist ideals in Chinese life and culture. Ji-Li Jiang, in Red Scarf Girl: A Memoir of the Cultural Revolution, recounts her experience of that social upheaval in order to bear witness to the suffering she endured under Mao’s regime. If Jiang had scrapped a memoir in favor of a persuasive essay, the book’s power would have been lost, and Jiang’s witness weakened as a result.
The power of Jiang’s book resides in its ability to draw out empathy in the reader. One day, Jiang sees that “[a]lone in the corner of the school yard [grows] a little wildflower” (Jiang 71). Jiang is the archetypal flower. First, even the most beautiful flowers grow for a time and then die, leaving nothing behind them. The author, with all her talent and beauty, must come to nothing because she was not born right. Second, flowers are at the mercy of those stronger than they. Ji-Li stands before the Red Guards, helpless. That tragic, beautiful weakness moves the reader’s heart to empathy.
But things darker than empathy move throughout Ji-Li’s memoir. After her father is imprisoned, Ji-Li stares blankly from her room, “writing ‘Happy Birthday’ on the frosted windows” (183). Her birthday comes and goes without anticipation, without celebration. The melted ice on the window might as well be her tears as they “slowly and crookedly” (183) fall down her face. Moreover, Ji-Li must see her “Grandma on her knees, mumbling quietly ‘May Allah protect my son,’” (183). Ji-Li desperately needs someone to take care of her, but here she realizes something very crucial: everyone around her needs someone, too. So, who is to watch over her? Who is to hold her? No one. The reader despairs.
In sum, Ji-Li Jiang’s personal narrative gives her witness the power of empathy and despair. When I began the book, I was off-put and even annoyed by the work’s simple register. But as I worked through each chapter, that simple tone combined with the devastating events afflicting Jiang haunted me long after I put the book down. The feelings of the author throughout the Cultural Revolution were, in a sense, too close for comfort. Some authors hide behind complexity; Jiang did not. In short, she made herself vulnerable, and it made me uncomfortable to see so deeply into another person.
The power of Jiang’s book resides in its ability to draw out empathy in the reader. One day, Jiang sees that “[a]lone in the corner of the school yard [grows] a little wildflower” (Jiang 71). Jiang is the archetypal flower. First, even the most beautiful flowers grow for a time and then die, leaving nothing behind them. The author, with all her talent and beauty, must come to nothing because she was not born right. Second, flowers are at the mercy of those stronger than they. Ji-Li stands before the Red Guards, helpless. That tragic, beautiful weakness moves the reader’s heart to empathy.
But things darker than empathy move throughout Ji-Li’s memoir. After her father is imprisoned, Ji-Li stares blankly from her room, “writing ‘Happy Birthday’ on the frosted windows” (183). Her birthday comes and goes without anticipation, without celebration. The melted ice on the window might as well be her tears as they “slowly and crookedly” (183) fall down her face. Moreover, Ji-Li must see her “Grandma on her knees, mumbling quietly ‘May Allah protect my son,’” (183). Ji-Li desperately needs someone to take care of her, but here she realizes something very crucial: everyone around her needs someone, too. So, who is to watch over her? Who is to hold her? No one. The reader despairs.
In sum, Ji-Li Jiang’s personal narrative gives her witness the power of empathy and despair. When I began the book, I was off-put and even annoyed by the work’s simple register. But as I worked through each chapter, that simple tone combined with the devastating events afflicting Jiang haunted me long after I put the book down. The feelings of the author throughout the Cultural Revolution were, in a sense, too close for comfort. Some authors hide behind complexity; Jiang did not. In short, she made herself vulnerable, and it made me uncomfortable to see so deeply into another person.
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