No More Learning

The more I thought about going, the more fear I felt. . . . Therewas the fear of leaving my parents, but I realized that it wasn't this alone that led to my decision. I also feared the political situation on Taiwan . . . that it might be dangerous for someone who had been so long on the mainland to go there. . . . And I feared that the Communists may
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stop the ship and kidnap passengers as they did once on a ferry between Hong Kong and Macao. I feared that the Communists may come and take the island. . . , I knew that my father's contacts could help if I were in trouble with the KMT--but with the Communists nothing could help. . . . If they should come I had the feeling that I would lose all of my freedom and safety and might never see my family again. . . . This fear of the Communists was by far the most important factor in my decision.
Once he and his family had decided he would not go, his sense of relief was immediate. He then weathered a certain amount of criticism from his father, who accused him of being "indecisive," continued with his life in Hong Kong, and renewed his efforts to arrange study in America. In discussing this incident with me, he emphasized that he had never experienced this kind of fear of the Communists during the years that he actually lived under them.
Toward the end of our meetings, George talked freely of the development of his personal philosophy and his quest for the mean- ing of life. He described his earliest convictions--derived from his own childhood experiences, and from reading the tragic love poetry from the T'ang and Sung dynasties--of the "futility of life"; its replacement by a religious belief that "the meaning of life could be the glorification of God"; and after having been disillusioned with this, finding very compelling the Communist claim that "the purpose of life is to serve the people. " After his break with Com- munism, he remained concerned with this problem, but came to look upon it in terms of man's relationship to his individual existence:
In all these previous concepts I thought that the purpose of life was something definite that you could grasp. Now I know that this is not so. I am inclined to believe that the purpose of life has to do with what degree you have carried out your aims and ideals . . . your responsibili- ties to your own thoughts and feelings.
He illustrated his personal change through his altered idea of the hero:
If I had daydreams now, they would still be different from that of my childhood. Then it was a person of great heroic grandeur; now I think of perfection of ability and of moral sentiments . . . unselfishness, dis- interestedness, honesty to others and to oneself.
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George retained his emphasis upon the inner man, contrasting this with the Communist ethos as he saw it:
In their opinion there is nothing beyond the material. They have no recognition of spirit. They think there is no need for artistic search and for beauty. I cannot agree with this. . . . I believe that human beings need all kinds of satisfaction, of material feelings and of spirit. When you eat something you are satisfied. But when it is over and you think of the act of eating, there is no more satisfaction. But if you have emo- tional satisfaction or emotional sympathy for something, then even on reflection you still feel that satisfaction or sympathy. All of the satis- faction that can be retained by reflection in retrospect belongs to your inner feelings, and these are most valuable.
George was critical of Communist attitudes toward family rela- tionships, especially that between mother and son:
They said that even the relationship of a mother and son is a relation- ship of economic interest . . . that when a mother was very fond of her son who was rich, after he was broke, she would treat him badly. . . . My own experience didn't lead me to think of such economic factors between mother and son. , . . I had doubts about their theory, but I could not then fully disagree with them. . . . Now I realize that they have a complete ignorance of the power of moral standards and of human emotion. . . . They have no recognition of personal feelings.
During the course of his stay in Hong Kong, George gradually reintegrated himself into the pattern of his family, somewhat in the fashion of a traditional Chinese son. He and his father became more moderate in their behavior toward each other, and George be- gan to feel "a little apologetic" over past disrespectful behavior. He adopted a policy of "outwardly agreeing with everything father says/' avoiding conflict wherever possible, and--despite his con- tinued reservations--making every effort to accept his father as the "moral authority" in the family. George extended his concern for personal morality to the behavior of others: he criticized a female cousin for what he considered to be indiscriminate behavior with men, and even called his older brother to task for spending a great deal of time with a girl friend at the expense of scholarly pursuits. He remained equally strict with himself in his disciplined life of writing and study, although he too began to demonstrate an in- creasing, if shy and hesitant, interest in girls.
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When I saw him during my follow-up visit three years later, he had become a confident youth in his mid-twenties, and had im- proved his English enough for us to dispense with an interpreter. He no longer wished to discuss in any detail his mainland ex- periences, and preferred to look ahead to his study in America, hav- ing almost completed visa and scholarship arrangements. His family had already moved to the United States. But once more there had been a change in his plans: no longer a student of science, he was perhaps following his more natural bent in pursuing a program in literature and dramatics.
Compared with Chao's and Hu's, George Chen's thought reform had initially been more successful; but his family identifications, more consistently binding than theirs, played a large part in un- doing these reform influences. Neither a perpetual rebel nor a frustrated careerist, George Chen was an impressionable youngster torn between youth group and family loyalties, the first of which offered a path to Chinese Communism, and the second the possi- bility of a liberal alternative.
In his sequence of identity patterns, George covered less emo- tional distance than either Chao or Hu. Coming from an urban, somewhat Westernized background, and having spent part of his childhood in the British colony of Hong Kong, he had experienced a good deal less of traditional Chinese life. Like the others he was brought up to be a filial son, obedient to his elders, loyal to his family. But as a member of a younger, more "modern" generation, he had fewer Confucian influences to contend with, and had from the beginning been exposed to a compromise Chinese-Western family atmosphere. This, along with his family's opportunity to keep together, gave him a greater sense of cultural continuity than either Chao or Hu: less "Chinese" to begin with, he had less need to break with his Chinese past. Offered love and support from his family, his filialism, compared to Hu's, was neither a pseudo iden- tity nor an archaic one.
Yet George too felt the chaos of his society and the effects of strained family relationships. As a weak, dislocated, and dependent child, he was aware early of his refugee status; he needed more nurturing than was available, and developed a psychological escape into illness. His infantile depression at the time of the departure
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of his first amah was the prototype of a later tendency toward de- pression and despair. 2 As a melancholy isolate, he developed an un- dercurrent of introspective brooding and a keen sense for the sad- ness of life. Far from incapacitating him, however, these qualities contributed to a rich inner life to which he later clung tenaciously. And they also became associated with a personal pattern of death and rebirth--a tendency to hit rock bottom in despairing inde- cision and doubt, and then to emerge strengthened by his own inwardness.
Like Hu, George longed for the return of an absent father; and he too built up personal myths in which he was hero and redeemer. But in contrast to Hu, these myths did not involve vengeance and retaliation toward hated family members; rather, they con- tained the filial wish to deliver both the family and himself from positions of shame and weakness. And he found his means of per- sonal deliverance, not through heroic action, but by continuing to turn inward, by developing---as a creative seeker--the artist's urge for self-expression as well as the scientist's urge to know. Such crea- tive urges, whatever their origins and whatever suffering may accom- pany them, contribute to a sense of identity which transcends one's immediate environment, even one's culture. Both the artist and the scientist in George were involved in his search for the meaning of life. However immature and unstable this quest may have been, it was at least his own, and it required him to weigh every experience against standards that were both personal and universal.
In his early teens, George became both a romantic and a moralist. These two sides of him were symbolized in his description of his two grandmothers--one a spontaneous and affectionate lover of nature, the other a stern (and personally wronged) representative of God's most severe judgments. We cannot, of course, claim that these ladies were entirely responsible for shaping the two identities. But grandparents have a strong influence within a Chinese family, even when they preach a Western Christian message; and there is no doubt that they played an important part in bringing out these two potential aspects of George's character. The romantic in him thrived upon sensation, craving an idealized world of beautiful words, sights and feelings. The moralist in him condemned these very yearnings, both in himself and in others; it was guilt-ridden, judging, ever on guard against temptation. For it was compounded
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of a sensitive child's susceptibilities to shame and guilt (including the probable childhood fantasy that he was in some way responsible for such catastrophes as his amah's departure and the family's dis- location); of Christian notions of sin and evil, and of Confucian- derived standards of personal propriety. The moralist in him con- demned his father, on the basis of both the latter's real short comings and George's intolerance for a rival for his cherished mother. And the moralist in him also kept a steady and critical eye on the activities of all other family members as well.
On the subjects of sex and religion, the romantic and the moralist joined forces. Feeling guilty and ashamed about his sensual urges, George found sanction (incomplete, but meaningful all the same) in D. H. Lawrence's hymn of praise to the sensual, in a novel which has been described as expressing "Lawrence's romantic religious, antinomian, ecstatic faith that sex is holy. " 3 George's early attrac- tion to Christianity reflects both the moralist's need for responsible doctrine and relief of guilt, and the romantic's quest for eternal beauty and eternal meaning.
It is as the romantic moralist, then, that George judged both the declining Nationalist regime and the oncoming Communists. He condemned the immorality of the former although retaining his family-based emotional loyalty for it. But very quickly after the onset of Communist thought reform, he experienced a romantic conversion against a dimly-lit background, with lonely and mystical overtones. Also involved was the romantic's need to submit to the natural elements, since George felt strongly Communism's claim to be the wave of the future.
In comparing George's approach to Communism with Hu's, George was more the visionary and less the political activist, more the inner man (or boy) and less the power seeker. But George shared with Hu the extremely important urge, so characteristic of youth everywhere during our era, to find group acceptance and an emotional home among his peers. Both used this acceptance to free themselves from family controls and enter into manhood. George too had his political mentor, the rational and giving instructor, who contrasted sharply with the irrational and self-centered (or absent) father of George's childhood. Like Hu (and like Dr. Vin- cent) George was an isolate who craved intimacy with other people; unlike either of them, he had known enough love in his life to have
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become quite capable of achieving this intimacy.
As the modern student, George felt a strong urge to remain in
step with his fellow students and his country. George did not, like Hu, seek in Communism an outlet for personal hostilities; he felt, in fact, the need to repress these hostilities, both toward his family and the Communists themselves. This nonhostile compliance may be regarded as an inability to tolerate conscious resentment, but it is also related to a pattern of receptivity frequently present in creative people: a tendency to open oneself completely to new influences as a way of knowing them. It is also the romantic's eternal quest for an atmosphere of love.
These tendencies are part of the reason George was such a peren- nial backslider, why he underwent so many conversions and counter- conversions. There were no less than six of these in relation to Com- munism, both for and against, and still another in his earlier re- sponse to Christianity. Any explanation must be, as usual, overdeter- mined, and must be based on both George's personal character and on the historical and cultural circumstances. The most obvious factor, but a very important one, was that his family had re-estab- lished itself in Hong Kong, the scene of so much of his childhood, and had once more assumed a collective refugee identity. These cir- cumstances not only created a reason for George to travel back and forth, but gave him an emotional sense of living in two separate homes, of having two distinct centers--or, to put it another way, of commuting between the two identities of the filial son and the modern student. Moreover, at the time of these journeys, George was an adolescent, going through the stage of life during which conversions are most natural, identity experiments most necessary, and Utopian visions most appealing. More than this, he was a Chinese adolescent, who although modern and Western in his direction, was still emotionally tied to traditional Chinese notions of propriety and harmony. Both in denouncing his parents to ful- fil] Communist requirements, and in giving up a career in Com- munist China in response to family loyalties, he felt he was doing the proper thing under the circumstances, adapting himself to the demands of a group which had just claims upon his allegiance.
Then, too, the nature of the Communist demands was such that they always carried with them the potential for rebound. Even among the most rebellious of Chinese youth, filial identifications
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were likely to reappear. One public denunciation cannot wipe out four thousand years of filial ethos. The potential for backsliding would always be there, especially if the environment supports it, and most especially in the company of parents.
In view of all this, one could hardly expect any Chinese youngster to steer a perfectly straight identity course. But two features of George's personal character--his unusually strong dependency needs and his pattern of ambivalence--made him especially susceptible to vacillation. His ties to his mother (she too was indecisive), and his guilt and shame-filled sentiments toward his father and brother (for unfilial acts or thoughts) made it impossible for him to cast off family attachments. Yet his equally compelling quest for group be- longing made it almost impossible for him to live up to them. Never having felt himself to be fully nurtured in an emotional sense (and perhaps constitutionallyin need of an unusual amount of nurturing, of a very special kind), George tended to hold on to those things which had nourished him, and to waver between choices when something had to be given up.
Here again is the death-and-rebirth pattern previously men- tioned. In each of George's conversions and counterconversions there was a somewhat depressive tendency: a pattern of mourn- ing, preoccupation with and guilt toward the lost object, and a need for a working through of these emotions before he could enjoy the fruits of the actual conversion. But perhaps of greater significance was George's capacity to enter into a variety of personal ideological experiences and still retain a strong core of self. Never prone to a totalism like Hu's, his stress upon his own inner life--his creative urge to experience and to know--buffered him against complete self-surrender, and helped to preserve his personal identity. George resembled Professor Castorp in his seemingly submissive tendency to give up so much of himself while really holding on to what was most vital. His unusually strong urge toward self-realization enabled him to use his conversions to enhance his own intellectual and emotional development.
Although George's family ties were undoubtedly the crucial factor in his decision to remain in Hong Kong, he was able to take advantage of these to reawaken parts of himself (especially his urge to know) which had been temporarily stifled under Communism. Nonetheless his over-all responses make it clear that, had there been
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a bit more pressure from the other direction, he might well have made the opposite decision. Not only did he resent his parents for their part in separating him from the appealing group life within China, but he also partially condemned himself for succumbing to their influence and deserting the vast team effort in which he had been involved. The full effects of the hold which the Com- munists had upon him were apparent in his sudden decision to abandon plans to study in Taiwan: this hold was the combination of residual fear and guilt also observed in Hu and in most Western subjects as well (it must also be remembered that at the time the Communists were threatening to "liberate" Taiwan through mili- tary action). Even here, however, George's identity-preserving, creative urges probably had some importance, joining with his fear and guilt in steering him to better opportunities for his own self- expression.
It is interesting to note the interplay of identity and ideology which finally took shape within George. He called forth his most basic components, with the emphasis on compromise alignments. He partially returned to filial obligations (going as far as he felt capable in this direction) in adapting himself to his father's au- thority, even if with inner reservations. At the same time, he main- tained group ties and kept his identity of the modern student and patriot active: through further study in Hong Kong, through work with anti-Communist press organizations, and in his plans to study in America. Thus he maintained both traditional and modern Chinese influences in taking on the ideology of democratic liberal- ism. At different times, he continued to express attitudes of the moralist, the romantic, and the rational scientist. But the effective combination of this array of different identities marks the emergence of the creative artist in George. While this identity is far from the most "practical" for his American future, it seems to be the one most precious to him.
? CHAPTER 18 GRACE WU: MUSIC AND REFORM
What of the experiences of young Chinese women?
The last case I shall discuss is that of a female musi- cian whose thought reform took place during four years of attend- ance at two universities.
Grace Wu was one of the few Chinese subjects I was able to interview within a few weeks after arrival in Hong Kong. Although she had fled from her reform, and had lived quietly at home for more than a year before she left China, she had by no means re- covered from its emotional effects at the time that a mutual ac- quaintance made arrangements for our first interview. A tense and intelligent girl of twenty-four, with sharp features, wearing steel- rimmed glasses, she looked both determined and fragile. She dressed neatly, but not in a particularly feminine manner. With a more Westernized background than any of the Chinese subjects previously described, her English was fluent. The combination of her Westernized upbringing and her agitated emotional state swept away cultural barriers. She plunged into her story without hesita- tion because she had a great need to tell it, and to understand what had happened to her. The freshness of her material and her desire for therapy increased her resemblance to my Western subjects. We had thirteen sessions, totalling about twenty-eight hours, and the last part of our work together was more like psychotherapy than any- thing else.
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The daughter of a customs official (in a customs service separate from the Chinese government, for many years run by foreigners) Grace grew up in the cosmopolitan treaty port cities of Tientsin and Shanghai. Her father, whom she described as "not too strong/' had in later years entered private business without great success, and was frequently unemployed. She spoke of her mother as a more dominant influence and at the same time a more sympathetic person. Mrs. Wu's father had been a Protestant minister, and she was not only deeply concerned with imbuing in her daughter her own values, but also wished to develop in Grace a capacity beyond her own to realize these values--in religion, in education, and especially in music. When Grace began to show outstanding musi- cal talent, after beginning to study piano at the age of five, her mother did everything to encourage its development. Mrs. Wu was easily upset, however, and always nervous; and Grace as a child showed similar characteristics: "I was more quiet than other girls. I was more nervous, and scared easily. I was mentally not strong. "
During much of Grace's childhood, the family lived under the Japanese occupation, and these were hard times. Her father lost his job, and was even arrested and briefly detained by the Japanese. Mr.
Wu felt that because of the family's difficult straits Grace should give up her musical studies. She has always remained grate- ful to her mother for insisting that she be permitted to continue. Grace was absorbed in her music, playing, listening, and reading biographies of great musicians. She also did some painting, and when she began to attend missionary schools, she became interested in dramatics and in journalism. But she avoided social activities, and continued to spend a good deal of time alone.
During her teens, Grace faced a series of personal dilemmas relat- ing to family, friends, sex, religion, and music--and also to her strug- gles to make sense out of a distressing torrent of emotions. She re- garded her friends' interest in boys as frivolous, and felt "disgust" when she herself was approached by a boy. Rather than displaying conventional Chinese female shyness, she was frequently outspoken and aggressive, and this led to considerable friction with her female classmates. She wanted to transfer from her secondary school to a special music school, but this time even her mother opposed her, insisting that she acquire a strong general education. Her father was of little help and expressed only mild disapproval of both musi-
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cal training and of the missionary school (he was not a Christian) which she was already attending. Since "mother was strong-willed," it was mother's decision which prevailed*
Inwardly, she was torn between her quests for both musical pas- sion and religious calm, regarding the two emotions as incompatible:
I felt strongly for religion . . . but I felt it was in conflict with music. . . . You are born with emotions that should be changed by religion. But in music, people must use real emotions and express them. . . . A n artist must have strong feeling. . . . Music requires emotions which religion condemns--such as passion and hate. . . . In religion this would be sinful, you have to hold them back. . . . I talked to the minister about it and to others, but I got no good answer. . . . The minister and the musician said opposite things. , . . I had to postpone this problem.
Overwhelmed on all sides, Grace experienced at the age of eighteen what she described as a "breakdown/' with both physical and psychological symptoms:
My health failed. I collapsed. I was in bed for one year. . . . It was in my lung and I was told it would develop into TB if I wasn't careful. The symptoms were weakness and I tired easily. I stayed in bed for one year. I got up a little in the afternoons. I was weak and I had fever. I spent the time reading and listening to the radio.
She recognized that emotional elements were important in her illness, and she thought these were the product of her own evil:
The feeling I had then was that I was selfish. . . . I couldn't get what I wanted so I felt different from others, angry and frustrated. . . . Now I realize that I created these feelings . . . inside of myself.
But her illness was not without its rewards:
After one or two months I got used to it. Friends came to visit once in a while. People are nice to you when you are sick.
Returning to senior high school after a year of absence, Grace continued her journalistic interests and was caught up in postwar political currents. At first she had been excited by the restoration of Chinese sovereignty and the end of the Japanese occupation; but like most of her fellow students, she soon became disillusioned
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with the Nationalist regime, and condemned its use of personal privilege and "squeeze. " She contributed her share of critical state- ments about the government to the student newspaper, and in- fluenced by a few enthusiastic Communist students, she began, with many classmates, to take an interest in Russian writers and in other Communist programs. She was just finishing high school at the time of the Communist takeover. Although she had heard stories of Communist atrocities ("their killing church congregations, taking anything they wanted, acting like monsters"), she shared the general feeling of sympathy and expectation:
W e students had lost hope in the Nationalists. W e welcomed the Communists. , . . We waited to seeand felt that they might be better, I was of the young generation and looked forward to change and im- provement.
The Communists' exemplary behavior seemed at first to support these expectations. Grace and her friends were impressed by the discipline of their armies ("the Chinese saying, 'Good men do not become soldiers' did not seem to be true of these men"), and with the initial atmosphere of freedom.
A few months later, Grace entered a local missionary college as a journalism major, bowing to her parents7 insistence that she re- main at home (this time her father had his say) because of the uncertain political situation, rather than attend a university in Peking where a music course was available. Her journalistic work first brought her into contact with Communist pressures, and her earliest response was one of confusion:
We were told not to see things from the university's viewpoint, but from the people's viewpoint--to always think of the common people. . . . The Communists tried to organize everything, and since we never came across anything that we knew the answer to beforehand, we were quite confused. They failed a student whom they didn't want in power. . . , They were not satisfied with the facts, and would only want us to print certain items, telling us, 'T h e paper is to educate people . . . not sim- ply to bring news. " At first we spoke in a straightforward manner, but later we learned not to.
Soon intensive political studies were inaugurated, as well as the beginning of a program of student thought reform. Despite her dis-
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comfort, Grace began to come under Communist influence, an influence which, in retrospect, she considered pernicious:
They are careful at first to do things step by step, gradually . , . you don't feel guilty [about following the Communist line] because they explain it all to you. You feel you are doing a big thing. They make a standard for you to follow and you say that I am doing things right according to their standard . . . . If you once believe in them, it's natural to go on believing. . . . It's just like poisoning . . . it goes deeper and deeper.
As the pressures mounted, Grace began to feel increasingly anxious. As an editor of the school paper, she attended a large number of meetings and was generally in the center of these new activities. She began to become painfully aware of restrictions upon personal freedom and of tightening controls--especially when a prominent newspaper had its publication suspended for three days for stating that North Korea had invaded South Korea. She became increasingly critical of the Communists: "I gradually began to feel that what they said was not what I thought. I was disappointed in the Communists and had a strong feeling of dissatisfaction. " She felt it necessary to extricate herself from a threatening situation, and to choose a field of study other than journalism.
She decided to take advantage of a promise made earlier to her by her parents, that, should she become dissatisfied with journalism, she would be permitted to return to her musical studies. During her sophomore year, she arranged to transfer to Yenching University in Peking, one of China's major institutions of higher learning, and one with long-established American missionary and educational associations. 1 There, in a class of twenty-five music majors, she studied in a department run by three professors, two American and one Chinese. She worked hard and made progress in her musical development. She was especially close to one of the American professors, Mr. Moore, and came to value both his musical guidance and his friendship. During her lessons with him, they discussed not only music, but also philosophy and to some extent the immediate problems of life in Communist China. She felt greatly inspired by him and developed for him "an affection . . . a kind of love/' As the atmosphere began to tighten, however, she noted that he and all of the other American professors were being repeatedly de- nounced at student meetings, and she advised him to leave the
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country for the sake of his personal safety.
During the winter of 1951-52, a little more than a year after her
transfer, Grace was suddenly put in a situation much more pain- ful than any she had yet experienced at either of the universities. Until this time, she had managed to avoid trouble by burying her- self in her work and doing nothing antagonistic to the Communist program; she was considered a promising musician, if politically "a bit lagging behind. " But now she was approached by a newly appointed and highly "progressive" Chinese music instructor who began to exert strong pressures on her, first to inform upon Mr. Moore, and later to denounce him publicly as a "reactionary. " She became embroiled in a series of demands and threats, which she somehow managed to resist:
He told me that this was to be a big movement, and that it was my chance to have a bright future. He said I should try to search out Mr. Moore's faults and then come back and tell him about them. He said that since I was friendly with Mr. Moore, I could give important infor- mation about him. . . . He said that this was a challenge, and if I accepted it I would be safe. . . . I told him I did not want to doany- thing which I didn't believe in, and that I didn't think that things should be done this way. I said that Mr. Moore was an American and was not "progressive," but there was nothing more I could tell him. He said, "You are not smart. You won't have a bright future in spite of being a good musician. . . . "
Weeks later, I heard that the police had taken Mr. Moore's cook into custody, and again the new teacher came to me. He said, "The cook has confessed, and now it is your turn. I give you three days. Otherwise you might go to prison or to labor reform. If you do confess, you will get a new life. " I was startled, I didn't know if the cook had confessed or what he confessed. Moore had told me I could say anything about him since he was safe as a foreigner, while I could get into trouble. I had no one to consult during this time. I knew that if I did say anything, I could start anew, but I knew it would be bad for Moore. I believed that what they said was not true, so I did not want to say anything. The students were against me, as they felt I knew something I wasn't telling. . . . For two nights, I could not sleep. I made the decision not to sayany- thing. At the end of two days, I went to them. I said I could not confess an untruth. . . . Finally they admitted that they had not gotten the cook and he had not confessed and I was allowed to leave.
This incident--which extended over several months--took its emo- tional toll.
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At this time my nerves were shot. I got neurotic diarrhea, I could never relax. It got worse. They were suspicious of me and the doctor said I was neurotic. They asked me why I was so nervous. I asked for sick leave at the hospital for one week and got it. The diarrhea stopped and I went back to school . . . but I knew I had won.
I realized that I must go. They hadn't got me this time, but the next time they would. I was also worried about Moore. I asked a boy student to take a walk on campus with me. If I went with a girl it would look more suspicious than being with a boy. We went past Moore's house> and I heard him playing so that I knew he was not in prison. I saw a policeman there who was watching his house. From the way he played a Chopin waltz I knew he was upset. He never played like that ordinarily.