Only Childhood Memories Are Unforgettable

After this year's college entrance exam, I took my child to Mount Tai. On the mountain path he grew tired, so we found a place to sit and rest; he leaned on my shoulder and fell asleep. The other day I took my son out to meet friends; on the subway ride home he grew drowsy and again fell asleep leaning on my shoulder. Each time I look at my son asleep on my shoulder, I feel both warmth and amusement. An eighteen-year-old son, no matter how tall or broad-built, is still a child who relies on his parents.

In such moments I also recall my own youth. Some past events I still cannot easily forget. When I was in middle school, whenever I worked with my father, he always carried all the heavy loads himself. We were not well-off then; my father ran a small business, and I sometimes helped him. When he pulled a cartload of Songhua preserved eggs to deliver to a nearby town, I would push behind him. Except on very steep slopes, where he let me give a push, he would not let me help anywhere else. Sometimes he even made me sit on the cart while he pulled me, because he thought walking such a long way tired me out. I of course refused; a cartload of preserved eggs plus me must have been heavy to pull.

My father was a strict man, but in my memory there were still many times he doted on me. My mother even more so. Each summer vacation at home I always slept until I woke naturally; by then my mother had already returned from washing clothes in the river and was making breakfast. After washing up I would take a small hoe out to dig earthworms; once I had dug them and finished breakfast, I would take my fishing rod to the river. Sometimes even lunch had to be brought out to the river by my mother when she went out to work in the afternoon.

When I failed exams or matters of the heart, I would return home, glum or sobbing aloud; my mother always sat beside me shedding tears, gently stroking me, comforting me, encouraging me to look farther ahead and get back up wherever I had fallen. When I was ill and could not be relieved of pain, she would go everywhere praying to gods and Buddhas, devoutly begging the bodhisattva to protect me. I am an atheist and did not believe gods or Buddhas would protect me, but my mother's caring still made me feel much better. Pain the doctor could not ease, my mother eased in her own unique way.

I deeply miss my childhood throughout my life and wish, again and again, that time could reverse and take me back. I still keep my childhood habits today: I love cloth shoes—though they are no longer the ones my mother made by hand—and I love the vegetables common in a rural garden. Whenever I suffer a setback, I quickly recover from the sense of defeat, pull myself together, and move on.

My brother always says my parents spoiled me without principle. An elder brother is like a father; when I was in high school he dutifully supervised my studies. But I was simply too playful then and refused to listen to him; whenever he wasn't looking I would sneak out to fish or find someone to play chess. My brother broke my fishing rod and threw away my chess set; to make me settle down to drills, he tried every means. He even scolded my parents for not watching me while he napped or used the toilet. My mother always pleaded on my behalf: "It's a holiday; let your little brother play!" My brother would grow angry at that; he wanted to raise my grades.

My brother loves me too. When he was in college, the first money he earned from a work-study job he used to buy me a T-shirt. When we brothers were in school we dressed shabbily; my brother knew well the sting of being looked down on, so he did not want me to keep my head down at school either. I was thicker-skinned than he and less proud, not caring how others saw me, but I have always been grateful for his love.

These beautiful childhood memories are an important source of my spiritual strength. Being poor at home does not really matter; as long as the love from family is abundant, the children of poor families can still rise. I once broke down for a while during my freshman year when my mother had cancer, but after enduring those hard days I never broke down again. Even then, I never broke down to the point of wanting suicide; because when I felt I could not go on and wanted to give up, I thought that if I did that, my mother would be heartbroken, and I did not want her to be heartbroken, so I endured through.

I do not worry about my son's future, because during his upbringing we gave him this same love. I basically agree with my brother's view: I think my parents may indeed have spoiled me as a child, but I do not think spoiling is bad. When a child can feel he is loved (even spoiled), his inner sense of security and confidence runs strong.

I think the worst kind of parenting is when we give children everything but not enough love. We are always at their ears nagging, cataloguing their faults, pointing out their mistakes, or pumping them up and inculcating every variety of success ideology—parents who brainwash their own children with success-ism are, in my view, the most foolish parents on earth, because among the depressed patients I see now, over 80% were brainwashed as young people by their own parents with similar ideas.

Which matters more: becoming accomplished, or personal happiness? I believe the latter. Does personal happiness relate to material conditions? My experience tells me no. To the surprise of those eager for their children's success, those who grow naturally, receive more love, and are not indoctrinated with every rule of success are psychologically healthier and more likely to succeed in their careers. The reason is simple: all impatient, result-obsessed education must end in failure.

Life is long, and it is important not to be destroyed by either dejection or arrogance. A parent's great duty is, when the world breaks a child down, to rebuild his confidence and teach him to appreciate himself in hard times. When a child achieves small success after small success, teach him humility and restraint. All of this needs a strong bond working in the middle, and that bond is love from deep within.

Love is tolerance. Love is long-suffering. Love is not giving up. Love is acceptance from the heart.