A Child’s Earliest Home Is the Pair of Shoes They’ll Run Far In

A child’s earliest home is the pair of shoes under his feet when he later runs far

I was reading Zhan Qingyun’s book. Halfway through, I went to the kitchen to pour water. The kettle spout dripped two drops onto the stove. I didn’t wipe them. I came back and kept reading.

In primary school, she played soccer. The ball flew into a dance hall. She went home and told her dad. Dad said, Let’s go. We’ll go get it back together. She followed behind him. Dad knocked. A man came out, very fierce. Dad spoke, his voice not loud. The ball was retrieved. There was mud on it. She held the ball. Dad patted her head. That night they ate tomato and egg noodles. Her bowl had one extra egg. Mom asked, Did you get the ball back? She said, Mm. Mom handed her the chopsticks.

Later, at flag-raising, the red flag got stuck. Dad borrowed a crane. The crane was yellow. The driver smoked. The red flag was taken down. There was dust on it. Dad brushed it off with his hand. She stood beside him, gripping the zipper of her school uniform. The zipper stuck. At night, Mom tried to fix it with pliers. She couldn’t. She said, Wear another one tomorrow. The next day she wore another uniform. The zipper was fine. At flag-raising, she didn’t use too much force again.

Her grades were bad. The math teacher called her a stupid pig in front of everyone. She went home and didn’t speak. Mom stuck a sheet of paper in the kitchen. She made tally marks on it. Every day she memorized two lines of classical poetry and drew one stroke. The paper later yellowed, its edges curling. By the end of ninth grade, the paper was covered in tally marks. She tore it down and tucked it into a book. Later, the book was lost. She remembered: Stars hang low over the vast plain; the moon surges with the great river. Late at night at Harvard, she recited those two lines. Her roommate asked, What are you saying? She said, Ancient poetry. The roommate said, Oh. She kept reciting.

She became obsessed with hitting a ping-pong ball against the wall. The wall had many ball marks. Mom put a glass of water on the windowsill. A glass with a crack. Every time she caught the ball, the water rippled. Later, she caught a thousand. The water hadn’t spilled. She stopped and found Mom watching from the doorway. Mom said, Aren’t your hands sore? She said, Sore. Mom said, Then eat. On the table was a plate of tomatoes and scrambled eggs. She ate two bowls of rice.

She had a dream of being a writer. Her submissions disappeared like stones into the sea. In her senior year of high school, she received an honorable mention. Dad hung the certificate up. Mom said, It’s crooked. Dad said, It’s not crooked. It was crooked. She stood below and looked at it. The words on the certificate seemed to move. That night the family ate dumplings. Dad ate an extra half bowl. Mom pushed the vinegar dish toward him.

Her dad was a college-educated factory cadre. Her mom was a high school teacher at the neighboring school. She was a famous failure case. The math teacher predicted she would graduate from middle school, go to a technical school, and become a female worker. Her mom always lied to her that her grades would get better. Her dad didn’t care about grades. Her mom suggested memorizing classical poetry. A family competition. She memorized two lines every day. She never missed a day. This made her proud, much prouder than her gaokao score and GRE score.

I closed the book and went to the balcony to collect the clothes. My daughter’s underwear fell on the floor. I picked it up and patted it. She came out of her room and said, Mom, tomorrow I want to bring that soccer ball to school. I said, Which soccer ball? She said, The one Dad got back from the dance hall. I said, That’s Zhan Qingyun’s ball. She said, Oh. Then she left. I folded the clothes. Outside the balcony, children were shouting. I heard them.

My daughter was in first grade when the class monitor twisted her ear. My pig teammate of a husband found out and stormed straight into the school. When he came back, he was carrying a bag of apples. I said, Why did you buy apples? He said, I saw them on the way, so I bought them. My daughter sat on the sofa, touching her ear. He walked over, put the apples beside her, and said, Dad will walk you tomorrow. My daughter said, No. He said, Then I’ll wait at the gate. My daughter didn’t speak. The next day he stood at the school gate. When my daughter entered, she looked back at him. He waved. She didn’t smile, but her steps slowed half a beat. That night, in her backpack was the apple sticker. She stuck it on the fridge. On the fridge was also a cat she had drawn.

In first and second grade, my daughter was bad at math. She couldn’t do the problems. He exploded: What kind of garbage textbook is this? Way too advanced! My little precious is so smart and can’t figure it out… My daughter was beside him, building with Legos. She looked up at him, then down. He folded the test paper and said, No more. Sleep. My daughter said, Teacher will check tomorrow. He said, I’ll write a note. He actually wrote a note and signed it. The next day, the teacher didn’t say anything. My daughter came back. In her backpack was the note, with a line added by the teacher: Parents, please cooperate. He stuck the note on the fridge. On the fridge was also the apple sticker.

For the past two years, I’ve been writing on Zhihu. To show my kids the power of persistence. They saw it. One day my son said, Mom, how many words have you written? I said, I don’t know. He said, I counted. You wrote three hundred posts. I said, Not three hundred. He said, Whatever. A lot. He ran off. I kept writing. There was a grain of rice on the keyboard cover. I picked it off and kept writing.

My daughter is slow. I urge her. The more I urge her, the slower she becomes. Once I tore up her drawing because she hadn’t done her homework. She cried. I didn’t apologize. Later, under her pillow, I found a piece of paper. On it she had drawn me, and beside me she had written: Mom angry. I put the paper back. The next day I bought her new brushes. She didn’t mention it. At night she drew, and I sat beside her. She drew a cat. Beside the cat was a door. The door was open. I asked, Why is the door open? She said, Because the cat wants to go out. I said, Oh. She handed me the brush and said, You draw. I drew a circle. She said, Not like it. I said, Forget it. She said, Draw again. I drew another one. She said, Like a rock. I said, It is a rock. She laughed.

Bedtime chat. My daughter said, Today someone threw up at school. I said, Oh. She said, In the hallway. I said, Did you go around? She said, I went around. Then she turned over and slept. I turned off the light. I left the door a crack. The hallway light was on. I heard her breathing slow.

Zhan Qingyun wrote that the love she got from her family was complete and unconditional. Her dad hung the honorable mention up high. Her mom accompanied her while she memorized classical poetry. Her mom watched her play ping-pong. Her dad borrowed a crane. Her dad got the ball back. Her dad said, Let’s go. We’ll go get it back together.

I closed the book and went to the kitchen to pour water. The kettle spout dripped two drops onto the stove again. I wiped them. My daughter shouted from her room, Mom, what’s for breakfast tomorrow? I said, Noodles. She said, Add an egg? I said, Add one. She said, Okay. I heard her turn over. I put the water glass on the table. The bottom of the glass left a ring of water. I wiped it with a rag. The rag was green. On the windowsill was a pothos. Its leaves were a little yellow. I watered it. Water leaked from the bottom of the pot and dripped onto the windowsill. I wiped it again with the rag. My daughter shouted again, Mom, leave the door a crack. I said, I left it. She said, Okay. I turned off the light. In the crack of the door was a strip of light.