Feather in the Storm: A Childhood Lost in Chaos by Emily Wu, Larry Engelmann

category—intellectuals. Intellectuals were referred to by Mao as the “stinking ninth.”
    I stared straight ahead and kept walking. My rigid indifference only emboldened my detractors. They walked closer, surrounding me, crowding me. Some spat on me.
    As the Cultural Revolution became more violent among the adults, so did the attacks by children on children. On the way home each afternoon, I watched Red Guards leading lines of men and women like cattle—Red Guards berated them, beat them, knocked them to their knees and commanded them to recite quotations from Chairman Mao or make self-condemnations. Crowds of adults and children watched this wretched carnival of misery with what seemed to be gleeful contempt and enraptured detachment.
    One afternoon I was followed by a group of students taunting me. A boy ran up to me and punched me hard in the back. It took my breath away.
    “Stinking rightist! Stinking rightist!” a girl shouted as she ran circles around me.
    A boy charged and struck me in the back of the head. “Stupid girl,” he yelled. “Stay away from our classroom.”
    My ears were ringing. The street seemed to undulate under my feet. I looked at the boy and saw the hate and rapture in his face.
    A girl grabbed my schoolbag and threw my notebook, books and papers onto the street. I picked up the bag and ran to gather the spilled contents. One paper floated out of my reach each time I stooped to pick it up.
    “Just look at that dancing idiot,” a boy screamed and the others doubled over in laughter. Another girl, her face flushed with hate, hurried over, stepped on the paper and grabbed a fistful of my hair. I fell to the cement. I got to my feet and stuffed the soiled papers into my bag.The girl and her friends gathered close around me, legs spread, hands on hips, jaws jutting out, defying me to break their circle. I stepped in one direction and a boy blocked my way. They began to chant, “Little black bitch, little black bitch, little black bitch.”
    Something snapped. I lashed out with my bag, catching a boy in the face. I leaped forward and grabbed a girl by the hair, jerked her head down and pulled it from side to side as she howled. In a flash the others were on my back, pummeling me, pulling my hair, punching my arms. I held on to the girl’s hair like someone possessed.
    I was unafraid. As the others beat and battered me, I swung my bag and punched wildly with my fist. I bared my teeth and snapped at them. Finally someone tripped me, and I stumbled and fell flat on my back. Stunned, I paused for my head to clear. They stood over me, uncertain what to do next. The girl screamed for them to kill me, but she had edged away several safe feet.
    The biggest boy, panting, fists clenched at his sides, looked down at me and spat, “Stupid little rightist bitch!” He turned and wrapped his arm around his weeping companion. The group moved on, singing songs of Chairman Mao’s quotations.
    My arms, legs and face were scraped and bruised. I was crying and trembling so I could hardly stand. I sat on the curb, gasping for air. I clasped my hands together tightly to steady them. What happened? I asked myself. Where had my strength, my courage, my incredible rage come from?
    At home I washed my soiled clothing and sewed up the tear in my shirt before Mama saw it. I examined my scalp in the mirror and found a bald spot where the hair had been pulled out. I gathered my hair around the spot and used a rubber band to make a ponytail. I told Xiaolan what had happened. She laughed about my fighting back but warned, “Maomao, now you’re really going to get it.”
    Together we conspired to postpone their retribution. We circled the campus searching for a way to get out without going through the main gate. We found a weak spot in the campus wall, concealed partiallyby shrubbery. The mortar had disintegrated and bricks had come loose. We pulled out several bricks near the base of the wall and made a hole large enough