The Strength of a Father

Pang Jingjun

My father， Pang Kun， was frail and small， straightforward and stubborn， rash in handling matters， and not particularly skilled. In my childhood heart， he never seemed to demonstrate any remarkable abilities that I could be proud of in any aspect. Compared to the diligent and capable villagers who were good at providing for their families， I even thought he didnt measure up to a competent farmer. However， there was one incident that made him a true symbol of strength in my eyes. Whenever I think of this incident， that strength surges from the past， over thirty years ago， and flows through my entire being.

It was the summer of my sixth year when the brigade bought a twelve-horsepower hand tractor， a rare and novel sight for that remote mountain village. Instantly， villagers， young and old， gathered around to watch and express their admiration with oohs and aahs. The children from the more reputable families in the village had already eagerly taken their seats on it， waiting for the driver to take them for a joyride. Judging from my familys status in the village， I realized I might not be entitled to this privilege， but a strong， childlike impulse drove me to want to climb on as well. My heart stirred， and it seemed like my body moved slightly toward the goal; perhaps this surge of thought revealed a bodily inclination that was immediately halted by a force that had been waiting by my side. I turned my head and looked up， only to find the militiamans commanders decisive and strong hand suppressing my longing and impulse. At that moment， as the tractor started moving， I stood by， humiliated， disappointed， yet reluctant to leave. Suddenly， a pair of not-very-strong but very determined hands lifted me， pushed through the crowd， and rushed towards the tractor. It was my father， my slender father， the father whom my family and I thought lacked a sense of responsibility， the father I never imagined would make such a move！ I hadnt even noticed my father was there， and I dared not hope for help from him or any other force because my experience had taught me that no one and nothing could help me realize a wish beyond my expectations. My family and I often tasted the “rewards” of living with my fathers stubbornness and confrontations， which filled my childhood with humiliation， tolerance， and inferiority. I dont know when my father arrived. I guess he might have been just another spectator， enjoying the spectacle with the crowd， right？ Maybe he noticed the militia squad leader bullying me， which enraged him and prompted him to rush over from afar. Or perhaps he was right by my side all along， but I overlooked his presence？

He rushed to the tractor， held me tightly， and tried to place me onto it. The vehicle was already packed with children， and no one made space for me. In the chaos， my father tried several times and pushed a few times but failed to get me onto the tractor. The tractor had already started moving with a “putt-putt” sound， gaining speed as it went. The onlooking crowd just stood there watching， even letting out bursts of low laughter; no one intervened， nor did anyone offer a helping hand. I thought that the powerful force that had not come forward to stop this wasnt out of kindness， helplessness， or slow reaction; most likely， they wanted to see how the drama unfolded to make this spectacle even more intriguing. In that closed-off era and remote little mountain village， people gave unusual interest and attention to anything new that came into their view. In their eyes， this was an unexpected drama， far more interesting to watch than just the tractor itself. They quietly watched as the drama continued， not wanting to disrupt the process and make it less entertaining or less spectacular. But my father didnt give up. He carried six-year-old me in his thin yet strong arms， running forward， desperately chasing the tractor， visibly straining but without any hesitation. I， in my fathers arms， also did my best to cooperate， focusing all my consciousness and strength on the tractor， stretching out my hands and my entire body as much as possible to shorten the distance between us and the tractor. The “putt-putt” of the tractor， the shouts of the men， the clamor of the women， and the laughter and swearing of the children filled my ears. All these sounds， mixed with the flying dust and the spattering spit—the byproducts or direct projections of the adults and childrens yelling—surrounded and engulfed me and my father. My father， the tractor， and I formed a line， connecting and disconnecting intermittently. Like this， the drama unfolded on the dusty rural road for a long time—at least in my memory， it felt like a very long time. With the small frame of my father running and pushing against the accelerating wheels， he finally saw an opportunity， pushed with all his might， and miraculously got me into the vehicle. The surrounding people never expected the drama to end this way， and both the adults and the children surprisingly accepted this unexpected outcome.

That was the first time in my life I had ridden in a motor vehicle， and it was also the first time my father imprinted himself in my heart as a reliable and admirable figure. Throughout the long years I spent in the mountain village， facing oppression from those in power， I dared to express my anger and resist， drawing much of my courage and strength from my fathers powerful push. In the life journey that followed， leaving the mountain village， whenever I faced insurmountable difficulties， I was tempted to retreat in the face of severe challenges， or felt fear under suppression， the scene of my father carrying me and chasing the tractor would immediately come to mind. The image was as clear as if it had just happened， as if it had been etched in with a knife， and then a deep and powerful force would suddenly surge up from the depths of my heart.

Over the years， whenever I talked about my father， I would always tell this story， and each time， I would be filled， inside and out， with incomparable and indescribable pride and admiration.

Postscript： My father was a man of few words and never mentioned this incident while he was alive. In January 2009， my father passed away. After a snowfall and when the moon came out， I climbed to the top of Xishan Mountain and burned this manuscript in front of his grave amidst the wild apricot trees. Seven years have flown by， and the past has turned into a dream， unreachable. As the Qingming Festival approaches， flipping through these old pages brings a flood of emotions. Living in the capital city， far away from my home in the mountains， I think of the apricot blossoms that will soon be in full bloom all over the mountains， and I cant help but feel deeply moved.

March 9， 2016

The Beauty of Night

Pang Jingjun

Petrel Publishing House

January 2022

38.00 （CNY）