the man in the family association said? “I prefer to work.”
“To work, you need a danwei —a work unit,” he says. “To get a job, you need a hukou —a residency permit. To get a residency permit, you need to register with the local government. Why haven’t you registered?”
All this frightens me. It’s been only a week, and I’ve been caught and singled out. Now that the authorities know about me, it’s going to be much harder to get around. That is, if they don’t throw me in a cell right now.
“Can you help me with those things?” I ask, trying to mask my fear.
“You will be given a residency permit to stay in your old home, but I must stress this is not your home. It belongs to the people now. Understood?”
“I understand.”
“You’re also going to need coupons,” he continues. “The government has taken over the distribution of all essentials. The government buys directly from farmers and manufacturers, so that city dwellers across the nation must use coupons to buy basic necessities—oil, meat, matches, soap, needles, coal, and cloth—from government-run shops. Rice coupons are, not surprisingly, the most important. As soon as you get a job, come back here and I will help you get your coupons.”
“Thank you.”
He holds up a hand. “I’m not done. Rice coupons are local. If you travel, you’ll have to apply for special national coupons. If you don’t have these coupons, you’ll have to eat your meal without rice. As a returned Overseas Chinese you may travel but you may not leave the city without my permission. You have returned to China. You must do what we tell you to do. Understood?” he asks again.
“Yes, I understand.” I feel as though walls are being built up around me.
“You are fortunate,” the policeman goes on with false amiability. “Peasants are treated harshly upon their return to China. They’re sent back to their home villages in their native provinces, where they’re assigned to agricultural work in a collective, even if they brought enough money from America to retire comfortably. But it could be worse. Some unlucky returnees are sent to the far west to reclaim and cultivate wasteland.”
The room is hot and stuffy, but I’m cold with terror. I can’t be sent to a farm somewhere.
“I’m not a peasant,” I say. “I don’t know how to do that work.”
“The others don’t either, but they learn.” He looks at his checklist. “Are you ready to confess your links to the Nationalists on Taiwan?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Why were you so friendly with American imperialists?”
“My father sold me into an arranged marriage,” I say. It’s the truth, but it hardly conveys what really happened.
“Luckily, those feudal days are over. Still, you’ll have to go through many struggle sessions in an effort to cast off your bourgeois individualism. Now, let’s see.” He glances at his list again. “Are you a returning scientist?” He gives me the once-over and decides I’m not. “If you were, I’d have to make you sign a confession admitting that the Chinese moon is larger than the American moon.” He sets his clipboard on the table. “The fact is, you’re in a different category. You’re wealthy.”
He thinks I’m rich, and in the New China I suppose I am with my U.S. dollars.
“Upper-class Overseas Chinese are accorded every consideration,” he continues. “You are privileged to have the Three Guarantees. You may receive and keep remittances sent to you, as long as you have them processed through the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission. You may exchange your remittances for special certificates, which will allow you to pay for living expenses, travel, and funerals. You’ll also be allowed to buy goods at special shops, where you can use the certificates you get in exchange for your remittances.”
“What if I don’t want the certificates?” I want to keep control of my money, but I don’t say that.
“You won’t
“To work, you need a danwei —a work unit,” he says. “To get a job, you need a hukou —a residency permit. To get a residency permit, you need to register with the local government. Why haven’t you registered?”
All this frightens me. It’s been only a week, and I’ve been caught and singled out. Now that the authorities know about me, it’s going to be much harder to get around. That is, if they don’t throw me in a cell right now.
“Can you help me with those things?” I ask, trying to mask my fear.
“You will be given a residency permit to stay in your old home, but I must stress this is not your home. It belongs to the people now. Understood?”
“I understand.”
“You’re also going to need coupons,” he continues. “The government has taken over the distribution of all essentials. The government buys directly from farmers and manufacturers, so that city dwellers across the nation must use coupons to buy basic necessities—oil, meat, matches, soap, needles, coal, and cloth—from government-run shops. Rice coupons are, not surprisingly, the most important. As soon as you get a job, come back here and I will help you get your coupons.”
“Thank you.”
He holds up a hand. “I’m not done. Rice coupons are local. If you travel, you’ll have to apply for special national coupons. If you don’t have these coupons, you’ll have to eat your meal without rice. As a returned Overseas Chinese you may travel but you may not leave the city without my permission. You have returned to China. You must do what we tell you to do. Understood?” he asks again.
“Yes, I understand.” I feel as though walls are being built up around me.
“You are fortunate,” the policeman goes on with false amiability. “Peasants are treated harshly upon their return to China. They’re sent back to their home villages in their native provinces, where they’re assigned to agricultural work in a collective, even if they brought enough money from America to retire comfortably. But it could be worse. Some unlucky returnees are sent to the far west to reclaim and cultivate wasteland.”
The room is hot and stuffy, but I’m cold with terror. I can’t be sent to a farm somewhere.
“I’m not a peasant,” I say. “I don’t know how to do that work.”
“The others don’t either, but they learn.” He looks at his checklist. “Are you ready to confess your links to the Nationalists on Taiwan?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Why were you so friendly with American imperialists?”
“My father sold me into an arranged marriage,” I say. It’s the truth, but it hardly conveys what really happened.
“Luckily, those feudal days are over. Still, you’ll have to go through many struggle sessions in an effort to cast off your bourgeois individualism. Now, let’s see.” He glances at his list again. “Are you a returning scientist?” He gives me the once-over and decides I’m not. “If you were, I’d have to make you sign a confession admitting that the Chinese moon is larger than the American moon.” He sets his clipboard on the table. “The fact is, you’re in a different category. You’re wealthy.”
He thinks I’m rich, and in the New China I suppose I am with my U.S. dollars.
“Upper-class Overseas Chinese are accorded every consideration,” he continues. “You are privileged to have the Three Guarantees. You may receive and keep remittances sent to you, as long as you have them processed through the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission. You may exchange your remittances for special certificates, which will allow you to pay for living expenses, travel, and funerals. You’ll also be allowed to buy goods at special shops, where you can use the certificates you get in exchange for your remittances.”
“What if I don’t want the certificates?” I want to keep control of my money, but I don’t say that.
“You won’t
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