You Have Your Own Share
[Excerpted from the writer’s memoir-in-progress The Currents Knows the Way: A Journey of Healing and Becoming]
When Dad was in middle school, he contracted the Hepatitis B virus. During the Down to the Countryside Movement —a campaign in the 1960s and 70s that sent urban youth to rural areas for manual labor and ideological ‘re-education’— his health deteriorated further when he endured hunger, performed strenuous labor, and stayed up late reading and writing. Later, his imprisonment in a labor camp due to my aunt’s situation only worsened things. In 1989, cirrhosis of the liver led to ascites and an enlarged spleen, forcing doctors to remove his spleen. They gave their verdict: if he was lucky, he might live another ten years.
Illness and the shadow of death were Dad’s old companions, and he never shied away from mentioning them. Sometimes, while we listened to beautiful music, he would suddenly say, “When my time comes, I just want to go peacefully with soothing music like this, surrounded by my family.”
In spring, the peach and pear blossoms on Lion Mountain near our home bloomed one after another, erupting like fireworks. We would lie beneath the trees, eyes closed, surrounded by the hum of bees and the drowsy sweetness of the blossoms. Dad would sigh, both wistful and content, “It’s so beautiful. I wish I could go on spring outings with you every year.”
Our family was always financially strained, but Dad refused to wait for better circumstances to enjoy life. He always lived in the present and had a knack for making life feel full and vibrant, even on a tight budget.
When I was in high school and artistic portrait photography became popular, he tapped into his network to create a special opportunity for me. One of his former students worked as a photographer at a well-known studio, so Dad arranged for me to have a beautiful portrait session at a discounted price.
His deep ties to the literary and arts community opened many other doors. He often took me to cultural salons, poetry readings and gatherings, where I met writers and poets who left a lasting impression on me.
He also cared deeply about my appearance and confidence. Orthodontics in 1990s China was a luxury, but he was determined to get my teeth straightened. So, he took me to a municipal hospital’s dental clinic, knocked on the half-open door, introduced himself to the young female doctor, and, as he often did, turned a simple introduction into a friendship. In the end, for 500 yuan and some help editing the dentist’s academic papers, he secured a full orthodontic treatment for me.
“Americans care a lot about dental health and appearance,” he often said. He firmly believed that one day, I would follow in the footsteps of his siblings and study and live across the ocean in the United States.
Weekends were our most cherished time. We usually went downtown to watch a free movie. Since Dad often wrote movie reviews for the paper, film companies would give him free tickets to encourage him to cover their films. After the movie, we would go to a small eatery on Huaxin Street for dinner. One of our favorite “fly restaurants” — a local slang in Chengdu for humble, hole-in-the-wall eateries known for great food despite their shabby appearance — was always packed with longtime residents. The first floor was usually full, so we would climb the steep wooden stairs, gripping the handrail, and find a seat at a wooden table covered with an oily plastic tablecloth. Under the dim yellow light, we would order and wait, swallowing mouthfuls of anticipation as the loud-voiced owner brought out steaming plates. The dishes were simple home-style Sichuan meals: dry-fried green beans, braised pork ribs, potato stew with intestines, white radish soup with pork, and a side of red chili pickles with rice. Yet, this combination never grew old, and to this day, it remains the taste of home that I miss the most.
After dinner, we wandered through the Chunxi Road night market. The market was full of affordable and fashionable clothes, skirts, trinkets, and toys, offering endless delights for just a small amount of money.
One evening, after strolling through the night market, Dad suggested we take a walk along the bustling Shu Du Avenue. From afar, we saw the most prestigious international hotel in the city, its lights shining brightly. Dad said, “Let’s go inside and take a look.”
Mom hesitated. “We’re not staying there—will they even let us in?”
Dad was confident. “We’ll just visit the lobby. It’ll be fine.”
He calmly pushed open the hotel’s heavy glass doors. Mom and I followed behind. I tried to appear composed, hoping no one would notice us.
No one did.
We sank into the deep red leather sofas, instantly enveloped in their luxurious softness. The lobby was filled with soft piano music and a delicate foreign fragrance. Not far away, a well-dressed foreign couple spoke in hushed tones, in a language I didn’t understand. Above us, the golden dome was adorned with exquisite murals—ethereal young women in sheer gowns frolicking in a dreamy garden.
When we stepped back through the glass doors, the dreamlike world behind us vanished in an instant. Back in the noisy streets, I felt a moment of disorientation, then a wistful ache, as if I had glimpsed a world just beyond my reach. We walked in silence for a while. Then Dad said, “Shasha, remember this: You have your own share in this world.”
I didn’t fully understand what “my share in this world” meant back then, but from that moment on, I decided that if a door appears before me, I won’t shrink back in fear—I will push it open.
Sha Huang grew up in Chengdu, China, and moved to the U.S. in her thirties. She is a lifelong learner, artist, poet, cancer survivor, and a cross-disciplinary explorer of creativity and healing. Sha teaches Chinese and Asian cultures at Kennesaw State University and lives in Georgia with her husband and two cats.