A Beautiful Rooster
It happened many years ago.
China was in a collective society. In the countryside, farmers were organized as village units, under which were production groups. Farmers did not own land, even the land their houses were built on. The land belonged to the production group, so did almost everything else. Each and every day, farmers were assigned to work on various tasks by the group leader: Preparing the field, planting, weeding, fertilizing, harvesting, or tending to cows and horses… At the end of each year or after harvesting, each family was allotted certain amounts of produce, such as wheat grains, corns,, oil, vegetables, and other products, based on the size of the family and the number of hours each family worked for the production group.
Officially we were a family of five, my mother, elder sister, younger sister, younger brother, and I. My father worked for the county government in the county seat 30 miles away and earned about 30 Chinese Yuan a month. He was not counted as a member in our production group, and hence he did not have a claim to any agricultural product that belonged to the production group. My mother was the only one in our family to work and earn work credits. Those work credits were used by the production group to allocate products proportionally. It was impossible for my mother to earn enough work credits to get a sufficient amount of grains to feed five of us. My father, therefore, had to pay 100-200 Yuan each year to the production group in exchange of a portion of its produce to support our family.
Economically, my family were better off than most of the families in the village. We were never starved. As kids, our lives were fun and happy most of the times. The burden was all on my mother. With my father far away, devoting himself to the government’s work, my mother had to do everything ranging from running a household to working in the field for the production group. Some of those were purely a man’s job. They were heavy and scheduled in irregular hours, such as milling grains in the middle of the night when electricity power was supplied, or taking allocated corns from the field through the muddy country road... Yes, we kids helped as much as we could.
We were never starved, yet we were never well-fed. Meat was scarce. We only had the luxury of eating pork on occasions such as weddings or funerals as guests. At our own home, we normally only ate meat during the Chinese New Year. The scarcity made meat all the more delicious.
We did have our 'big days'-our birthdays. Initially, the birthday child alone was treated to a boiled egg on his/her birthday, while the rest of us had our regular meal and watched the long process of him/her carefully peeling off the egg shell and nibbling at the egg slowly. At certain point, my mother decided to boil an egg for each of us on the birthday of my younger sister and brother. Those two happened to be born on the same day, three years apart. From then on, our birthdays became ‘the Birthday’ for everyone. And of course, my elder sister and I would not be given any special treatment on our own birthdays.
When I was 10 years old, my mother got pregnant again. It was going to be the fifth child in our family. My mother wanted to have a boy badly. Having only one son did not work to her advantage. Farmers valued boys more than girls. For that very reason and other complications, my grandparents favored my aunt, who had given birth to two sons in a row. My aunt was very proud of herself. She never missed a chance to imply that she was more capable than my mother.
Another child would certainly add more burden on my mother since she was practically the only one who took care of our family and earned work credits. But my mother determined to carry the child to term in the hope it would be a boy.
My father was an enthusiastic party member. He believed in the principle of Communism and practiced what was preached. He worked hard and disciplined himself and our family from getting any benefit and advantage from his work responsibilities. We lived like any other farmers, except that my mother had to work much harder than a farmer’s wife.
Hard work and lack of nutrition took a toll on my mother. As time went by, she became so skinny that she started to worry about the health of the baby inside her.
Just like every other family, we raised a few hens inside our yard. Those feathered and noisy creatures were my mother’s treasure, simply because they laid eggs. My mother would not cook those eggs for us to eat except on ‘the Birthday’. She kept them. Once a while, she sold some to the co-op store and used the money to buy necessities. We also brought eggs to my grandparents and other elderly relatives as gifts when we visited them.
For reasons I did not know, our production group kept a rooster. He had a bright red comb and shining feathers in golden, red, and black. The rooster seemed well-fed. He was big, heavy, and aggressive, always wandering around, chasing hens, and making noises. Most villagers did not like him and would chase him away whenever he approached their yards.
For a while, the rooster came to rest with our hens at night on the chicken perch hanging against the outside wall in the back of our house. He did not really bother us. Most of the time during the day, the rooster ran around all over the village, searching for food or snatching food from other chickens. He joined our hens only after dark. My mother liked the rooster. She fed him when he was around.
There came a time when I saw my mother smiled at the rooster, as if she had found something special in him. I had been wondering what was in my mother’s mind and why she seemed happier during those days.
Then came a day in the early winter, my father was away at work. About 7:00 p.m., the sky was already dark. After finishing our supper, my elder sister and I sat on the Kang, a heatable brick bed, working on our homework under an oil lamp. My younger sister and brother were playing around. My mother was busy. With her heavy body, she started the fire in the kitchen, sharpened the kitchen knife… She was very quiet. Something seemed to be bothering yet exciting her.
After we completed our homework, my mother spoke. In her voice was a mixture of both happiness and sadness.
She said: “Kids, I am going to kill the rooster so that we all have some meat to eat.”
Really? We asked. Half excited and half afraid: “What if the villagers find out?”
“They will not.” mother assured us: “Unless you tell them.”
“Of course not.” We promised. We knew what the stake was.
"What about dad?" Elder sister asked.
"Do not tell him." Mother replied.
We promised not to mention a single word to Dad. As a passionate Communist party member, dad would rather die before we could kill and eat the rooster that belonged to the production group.
My mother opened the back door. A gust of chilly air blew in. Outside, it was quiet. I could hear the heavy breath of the pig in its pen. Up on the perch were the rooster and our hens soundly asleep. I was wondering what they were dreaming.
The chicken perch were about six feet high. My mother fetched a stool. She stood on it and looked at the rooster for a few long minutes. Suddenly her left hand reached out and caught the rooster by his throat.
The rooster struggled silently with his wings flapping up and down and legs kicking back and forth. My mother quickly took him inside the kitchen, grabbed the newly sharpened kitchen knife, and held the rooster over a wood basin sitting on the floor. With one quick strike, she slashed his neck.
Swiftly my mother grabbed the tail of the dead rooster, keeping its head down to allow its blood to drip into a bowl. After the last drop of blood drained, she placed the dead body in a wooden basin. On my mother’s instruction, my elder sister fetched a bucket of boiling water from the cooking pot and poured the water over the dead rooster’s body.
After about 15 minutes, the water in the basin cooled down. My mother called us to help. We sat around the basin and pulled feathers off the body of the rooster. We were excited. We had seen people killing chickens for many times, and occasionally my mother would kill a hen when she became too old to produce eggs. But this time was different. The rooster was not even ours. We had to handle him stealthily behind closed doors. The darkness, secrecy, stealth, and the sense of guilt, made the moment all the more exciting. We had to try very hard to keep our voices down.
In about 10 minutes, all feathers, which gave the rooster a handsome and splendid appearance, were gone. All left was a bare and nearly headless body with its white and yellowish skin.
We wasted no time. My mother carefully placed the clean bird's body in the cooking pot and in it she added salt, soy sauce, cinnamon bark, and a tiny amount of cooking wine. She re-started the fire and let the water simmer. At this time, we picked up those colorful feathers scattered on the floor, wrapped them with a piece of used newspaper, and placed the package in a drawer. Next, my elder sister collected the rest of feathers and other mess into a basket. Quietly she and I went out and dumped the waste on the edge of a wood nearby.
We went to bed. I fell into sleep immediately, knowing that we would have delicious meat for breakfast.
The next morning, we woke up in the smell of cooked chicken meat. My mother had prepared breakfast. The meat was so delicious that we forgot the manners. We did not eat. We devoured the meat like hungry wolves. My mother, smiling with happiness, kept reminding us not to eat too fast.
That was the best meal we’d ever have in our lives.
...
The door creaked ajar, just when we were about to finish eating. My father stepped in. He was doing inspection in a nearby village. He came home for breakfast instead of eating in the village. He was eager to see us.
We kids stood up, not knowing what to do and say.
Father sniffed. "Delicious." He turned to the dining table and saw bones and leftover meat in our plates and bowls.
“What are they?" He asked.
Mother answered: “Chicken’s meat”
“Did you kill one of our hens?” Father said disapprovingly “Hey, we rely on her to produce eggs”
“No really. It is the rooster." Mother answered gently.
“What rooster?” Dad asked. He was more confused. “We do not even have a rooster”
Mother said nothing.
Then dad realized something: “Did you kill the group’s rooster?” He asked.
Mother nodded yes.
Father’s face suddenly fell. The color in his face changed into red and then purplish red. He stared at mother then at us, seemingly lost for words.
He burst out:
“How dare you do such a thing? This is stealing! This is robbery! Have you no honor? Have you no shame? I am a party member and cadre. I preach people to sacrifice for our greater good. And you, my wife, killed the group’s rooster behind my back. Have you not consider...?”
“Enough!” mother spoke. Her voice was low but firm. That surprised all of us. It was the first time I ever heard my mother standing up to my father.
She turned, directly facing my father.
“You always talked about your honor. How much is your honor worth? What about our kids? What about me?”
“I have not eaten meat for half a year. Even you do not think about me, even I am not important to you. Don't you even care about your son inside me?”
“Look at other families. Their men are home, taking care of their wives and kids. Where were you when I carried a heavy bag of raw grain to the flour mill at midnight? Where were you when I fainted in the wheat field? Are your kids and I nothing to you? Yes, I brought shame on you, but what you’ve brought on me? ...
Mother choked and broke into tears.
Father had never seen mother venting like this. She had always been gentle, quietly enduring what life imposed on her. She’d tried her best to live up to expectations according to Chinese tradition in her many roles: As an obedient wife, a kind mother, a respectful daughter in-law to a step mother-in-law, a respected sister-in-law, a helpful neighbor, and a cooperative worker to the production group.
Father said nothing. His lips trembled. Finally, he sighed and went to the kitchen. He fetched a bowl of corn grit and a steamed cornmeal bun, sat down on a stool, and started eating his breakfast.
My elder sister and I eyed at each other. We cleaned the dining table, grabbed our schoolbags and left for school hurriedly.
When we came back at noon for lunch, my father had gone for work. Mother sat in front of the door, sewing some clothes for the baby. She looked her usual self, peaceful and cheerful.
We did not speak about the rooster ever since.
Later, we made a few "Janzi Zi"-Feathered Chinese Shuttlecocks with the bright-colored feathers from the rooster. Whenever we played Jian Zi, I thought of that beautiful rooster and...its meat. So delicious.
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