Phoenix Reading Plan
Classic literature, you can't just pass by
Han Shaogong is a famous writer and distinguished professor of Hunan University.
During the Cultural Revolution, all aspects of society were very chaotic, and the thoughts in people's hearts should be self-consistent in this era. Only when you have sorted yourself out can you dare to teach and educate yourself. And even if the teaching is ready for the lesson, the person being taught is not thinking about learning new ideas, and it is difficult to continue teaching.
The Cultural Revolution is generally considered to have ended in 1976. In fact, this staging is too general. For many students of the Cultural Revolution, the Cultural Revolution came to an abrupt end in 1968, marked by the full restoration of political control represented by the Revolutionary Committee and the re-abolition of the right of the people to rebel, including the exit of the Red Guards. Although the new regimes at all levels have a few mass representatives, they are generally just decorations.
Some students are no longer accustomed to official rule. Think of that year, the big series, visit the country, want to fight whoever you want, want to play what you want, Lao Tzu's team only opened, wearing armbands is the pride of the times, hanging on the box cannon is the social master, such a good day how to say that there is no more? How is life left with only the black sweat of the hoe? They are indignant, but there is still a little bit of leader worship, so instead of admitting that they are out, admitting that they are invalid and pitiful, it is better to imagine the outgoing as a step in a major strategy, as a detour and lurking before the greater march, and continue to give themselves a golden glow of meaning.
It was at this time that I got to know some young people from outside the school, one from Xiajing County, the other from Xiayuanjiang County, all of whom were fanciful fantasists, and the opening was the kind of indochina war and the French Red May, and the kind that worried about what China would do in thirty years. We got together when we returned to the city during the Spring Festival, one family after another, the more friends we stringed, the more ambitious we were, and we had to sing an "International Song" before we broke up. They were all older than me, had read more books, and won my trust and admiration, so when I heard that they had all run peasant night schools in the villages, I immediately returned to the tea house to set up one, determined to cooperate with the actions of friendly forces and transform the poor countryside with revolutionary ideas.
The textbooks, which can only be mimeographed at their own expense, were written by a few friends and me, and were generally based on literacy, strung together some small knowledge of geography, history, agriculture, and revolution. Oil poems such as "Hometown School Song" are interspersed in an effort to make the textbook more lively. As soon as such a night school was opened, the cadres thought that we were enthusiastic about literacy and fit their work tasks, and they were very happy to support it. The deputy secretary, who had never had a good face for me, even praised me twice.
Unexpectedly, things did not go well. Peasant trainees are still somewhat interested in literacy, and young peasants are also interested in anecdotes from the south of the world, but it takes too much effort to make them understand Lenin and mensheviks, to understand that the Paris Commune is different from our own patio commune.
"Paris Commune? In which county? Why haven't you heard of it? ”
"Don't the people of the Paris Commune plant fields?" Don't you beat grass? So they all eat rebates? ”
"I've only heard Secretary Dai say that I want to learn Dazhai, but I've never heard of learning Paris!"
It's really sweaty. Thinking that the Red Army established Soviets in the countryside and taught officers and men to learn to sing the "Marseillaise" of changing tunes, I don't know if I want to sweat more.
Nor do they believe in such nonsense as the glory of the proletariat. proletariat? Isn't it so poor that there is not a single egg? If the proletariat is glorious, then aren't all the wives glorious? They laugh vulgarly, and then scoff at the truth that the earth is round: How can it be round? Obviously it is flat! I walked to Xiangyin County White Horse Paste (a place that seemed to them to be very far away), why didn't I see it falling? Why didn't you see the Xiangyin people with their feet facing the sky? ...... In the end, they asked us why we didn't teach them to plan plates, not to teach them to make couplets and make sacrifices, even if it was to teach them to cure chicken plague.
In this way, I don't understand what they want to learn, and I don't want to learn what they want. Many years later, I saw some college student volunteers sent by non-governmental organizations to poor villages that still lacked food and clothing, distribute feminist or environmental protection materials, enthusiastically teach a few words of English, teach one or two English songs, and make the dolls confused and stare, and I felt that they also had my shadow. Generations of saviors of civilization do not seem to think much about such mundane things as chicken plague.
Night school died because of my recklessness. Here's the thing: In order to "study Paris," I gathered two young cadets, who were actually two with relatively dull brains, and jointly wrote a big-character newspaper, and Wang Mou, the commander of the militia battalion at the bombardment site, first photographed a small fly. The big character newspaper accused him of often avoiding labor and opening a small stove to secretly rub the oil of the collective, which was too bourgeois. What I didn't expect was that the deputy secretary seemed to be secretly happy with the big character newspaper, at least he didn't say anything to me, but he was very angry with the more generous secretary of the zhiqing -- it turned out that he was Wang's fellow villager, and he had recently become Wang's introducer to join the party. Furious, he tore up the big poster and stood on the floor scolding: "What kind of surprise attack?" Do you still co-opt the poor and lower-middle peasants to engage in factionalism? Tell you that maggots do not turn the mill, and the leadership of the Party is ironclad! ”
The two rows of dormitories around were silent, and no one dared to speak.
"What night school?" Ghost barking, right? ”
Locals also pronounce the school as "calling".
The next night, I came to the "night call" and found that my premonition was confirmed: not a single student had come, and the rows of stools were cold and clear. Even my two accomplices, when they came out of the secretary's room, panicked and never spoke to me again, let alone called me "teacher." The second textbook and the third textbook I had prepared could only become waste paper.
I found that I was indeed a maggot, a maggot who could not even turn over the leaves. But knowing this was very helpful for me to read some books later.
In the spring of 1972, I transferred from the tea farm to a certain brigade to settle down, and when I met a school teacher who was on maternity leave or something, I was also called to a temporary substitute class. At this time, I no longer have any enlightenment ambition, the revolutionary will has declined, and I am just fooling around with the dolls, which is a little easy work. Whoever is loyal, I draw flowers or red flags on the blackboard (for female dolls), tanks or airplanes (for male dolls), and write the corresponding symbolic recipients below. Whoever is naughty, I draw ugly monsters on the other side of the blackboard, mark his name below, and maybe even add a harsh sentence: click - draw a pistol to aim at it, or draw a dung scoop to approach it. This kind of court royal law with clear rewards and punishments made the people excited and inexplicable, and they still screamed around me after class. Where have I ever given them a serious lesson? Almost all the classes became doodles and nonsense. But then I once met the secretary of the tea house on the road, and I actually got his smile: "You are a smart person, and now you have finally taken the right path, and there are still many ghost ideas for the education revolution." ”
He said that one of the babies in my class was his nephew, and he liked the new teacher the most, and these days he ran to the school as soon as he put down his job.
Is it? I don't know if I should be happy.
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