Red Scarf Girl Quotes

Her actions remind me that, even under unbearable circumstances, one can still believe in justice. And above all, love.

I thought about my beautiful dreams and wondered if they would drift away just like those lovely soap bubbles.

I was willing to take on the struggle to establish myself in a new country because I knew that was the price I would have to pay for the freedom to think, speak, and write whatever I pleased.

Many friends have asked me why, after all I went through, I did not hate Chairman Mao and the Cultural Revolution in those years. The answer is simple: We were all brainwashed.

This is the most frightening lesson of the Cultural Revolution: Without a sound legal system, a small group or even a single person can take control of an entire country. This is as true now as it was then. Thirty

My family was too precious to forget, and too rare to replace.

The poor teachers! Trained in the traditional sciences, they were totally lost when trying to teach us about pigs or paddy fields.

What a terrible man, I thought, worse than a traitor. At least a traitor betrays people by telling the truth. Uncle Zhu tried to save himself by telling lies.

If I can help Americans to understand China, and the Chinese to learn about the United States, even a little, I will feel very rewarded. I

Dear girl with the red scarf, Love was never meant to be conquered. You have to surrender to it. Trust me, after all, I am Mr. Universe.  

Physics, Chemistry, and Biology had been replaced by Fundamentals of Industry and Agriculture, because of Chairman Mao’s instruction to “combine education with practical experience.

This is the most frightening lesson of the Cultural Revolution: Without a sound legal system, a small group or even a single person can take control of an entire country. This is as true now as it was then.

To us Chairman Mao was God. He controlled everything we read, everything we heard, and everything we learned in school. We believed everything he said. Naturally, we knew only good things about Chairman Mao and the Cultural Revolution. Anything bad had to be the fault of others. Mao was blameless.

The newspapers and radio were full of the campaign to “Destroy the Four Olds.” The campaign had been expanded to eliminate personal possessions. “If we do not completely eliminate the roots, the plant will grow back,” we heard. “We must eradicate these relics of the past.… We must not allow the reactionary forces to hoard their treasures.…” And every day we heard the drums and gongs that meant the Red Guards were ransacking the houses of class enemies to find and confiscate their hoarded possessions.

Chairman Mao taught us that “inner beauty is much more valuable than outward appearance.” How

Suicide was a crime. It was “alienating oneself from the people,” according to what Chairman Mao said. So

Leniency for confession, severity for resistance! Hand

No matter what I did and where I went, the Cultural Revolution followed me.

But we can’t allow personal matters to interfere with revolutionary duties. Especially for an important political assignment like the exhibition.

Anger rose in me. Didn’t they know how hard I’d been working to overcome my family background? Now all my efforts were wasted.

Life was very hard, so hard that I could hardly breathe sometimes.

Trixie is now fastening the scarf around my neck like a flaccid noose and I feel my chest getting red and patchy and hot underneath her hands.

I heard the distant whistle of a passing train, and I wished I could get on it and go far away, to a place without struggle meetings, without class status, without confessions.

Dear girl with the red scarf, People will come and go in our lives. Most of them we won’t give a second thought to as soon as the door closes behind them. But I had always imagined that you would leave the deepest, everlasting mark. -Mr. Universe.

I realized that although I have adopted a new country, I cannot forget China. I wonder about Chna's present, and I worry about her future. I have realized that despite all my suffereing, I cannot stop loving the country where I was born and raised.

teachers do not hold bombs or knives, they are still dangerous enemies. They fill us with insidious revisionist ideas. They teach us that scholars are superior to workers. They promote personal ambition by encouraging competition for the highest grades. All these things are intended to change good young socialists into corrupt revisionists. They are invisible knives that are even more dangerous than real knives or guns. For example, a student from Yu-cai High School killed himself because he failed the university entrance examination. Brainwashed by his teachers, he believed his sole aim in life was to enter a famous university and become a scientist—

I stared at the large sheet of paper spread out in front of me, wondering what to write. It was strange. When I had read the newspaper, I had been enraged by the revisionist educational system that had been poisoning our youth for so many years. But now that I actually had to criticize the teachers who taught us every day, I could not find anything really bad to say about any of them.

But I’ll never forget. On the day of the Festival of Pure Brightness, I take off all my bracelets. I remember the day when I finally knew a genuine thought and could follow where it went. That was the day I was a young girl with my face under a red marriage scarf. I promised not to forget myself. How nice it is to be that girl again, to take off my scarf, to see what is underneath and feel the lightness come back into my body!

By December 1975, a year had passed since Mr. Harvey had packed his bags, but there was still no sign of him. For a while, until the tape dirtied or the paper tore, store owners kept a scratchy sketch of him taped to their windows. Lindsey and Samuel walked in the neighboorhood or hung out at Hal's bike shop. She wouldn't go to the diner where the other kids went. The owner of the diner was a law and order man. He had blown up the sketch of George Harvey to twice its size and taped it to the front door. He willingly gave the grisly details to any customer who asked- young girl, cornfield, found only an elbow. Finallly Lindsey asked Hal to give her a ride to the police station. She wanted to know what exactly they were doing. They bid farewell to Samuel at the bike shop and Hal gave Lindsey a ride through a wet December snow. From the start, Lindsey's youth and purpose had caught the police off guard. As more and more of them realized who she was, they gave her a wider and wider berth. Here was this girl, focused, mad, fifteen... When Lindsey and Hal waited outside the captain's office on a wooden bench, she thought she saw something across the room that she recognized. It was on Detective Fenerman's desk and it stood out in the room because of its color. What her mother had always distinguished as Chinese red, a harsher red than rose red, it was the red of classic red lipsticks, rarely found in nature. Our mother was proud of her ability fo wear Chinese red, noting each time she tied a particular scarf around her neck that it was a color even Grandma Lynn dared not wear. Hal,' she said, every muscle tense as she stared at the increasingly familiar object on Fenerman's desk. Yes.' Do you see that red cloth?' Yes.' Can you go and get it for me?' When Hal looked at her, she said: 'I think it's my mother's.' As Hal stood to retrieve it, Len entered the squad room from behind where Lindsey sat. He tapped her on the shoulder just as he realized what Hal was doing. Lindsey and Detective Ferman stared at each other. Why do you have my mother's scarf?' He stumbled. 'She might have left it in my car one day.' Lindsey stood and faced him. She was clear-eyed and driving fast towards the worst news yet. 'What was she doing in your car?' Hello, Hal,' Len said. Hal held the scarf in his head. Lindsey grabbed it away, her voice growing angry. 'Why do you have m mother's scarf?' And though Len was the detective, Hal saw it first- it arched over her like a rainbow- Prismacolor understanding. The way it happened in algebra class or English when my sister was the first person to figure out the sum of x or point out the double entendres to her peers. Hal put his hand on Lindsey's shoulder to guide her. 'We should go,' he said. And later she cried out her disbelief to Samuel in the backroom of the bike shop.

March 12 Dear Stargirl, Hey, you're a big girl now. Stop being such a baby. You think you're the only one who's ever lost a boyfriend? Boyfriends are a dime a dozen. You want to talk loss, look at all the loss around you. How about the man in the red and yellow plaid scarf? He lost Grace. BELOVED WIFE. I'll bet they were married over 50 years. You barely had 50 days with Leo. And you have the gall to be sad in the same world as that man. Betty Lou. She's lost the confidence to leave her house. Look at you. Have you ever stopped to appreciate the simple ability to open your front door and step outside? And Alvina the floor sweeper-she hates herself, and it seems she's got plenty of company. All she's losing is her childhood, her future, a worldful of people who will never be her friends. How would you like to trade places with her? Oh yes, lets not forget the footshuffling guy at the stone piles. Moss-green pom-pom. What did he say to you? "Are you looking for me?" It seems like he hasn't lost much, has he? Only...HIMSELF! Now look at you, sniveling like a baby over some immature kid in Arizona who didn't know what a prize he had, who tried to remake you into somebody else, who turned his back to you and left you to the wolves, who hijacked your heart and didn't even ask you to the Ocotillo Ball. What don't you understand about the message? Hel-loooo? Anybody home in there? You have your whole life ahead of you, and all your doing is looking back. Grow up, girl. There are some things they don't teach you in homeschool. Your Birth Certificate Self, Susan Caraway

She knew the effort it took to keep one’s exterior self together, upright, when everything inside was in pieces, broken beyond repair. One touch, one warm, compassionate hand, could shatter that hard-won perfect exterior. And then it would take years and years to restore it. This tiny, effeminate creature dressed in velvet suits, red socks, an absurdly long scarf usually wrapped around his throat, trailing after him like a coronation robe. He who pronounced, after dinner, “I’m going to go sit over here with the rest of the girls and gossip!” This pixie who might suddenly leap into the air, kicking one foot out behind him, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun, fun, fun it is to be me! I’m beside myself!” “Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. Hemingway - He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. How to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it! He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair. Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy. And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes. Is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald? The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself. The loss of her true heart. An amusing, brief little time. A time before it was fashionable to tell the truth, and the world grew sordid from too much honesty. In the end as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves. Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glance of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes. The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted. What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

But at home he was our humorous, kind, and wise Dad. He loved reading, and he loved including the whole family in his discoveries. He

We were proud of our precious red scarves, which, like the national flag, were dyed red with the blood of our revolutionary martyrs. We

Now our chance had come. Destroying the fourolds was a new battle, and an important one: It would keep China from losing her Communist ideals. Though we were not facing real guns or real tanks, this battle would be even harder, because our enemies, the rotten ideas and customs we were so used to, were inside ourselves.

Seventeen years after Liberation, the newspapers told us, our schools were not bringing us up to be good red socialists and communists, as we had thought, but revisionists. We

It was strange. When I had read the newspaper, I had been enraged by the revisionist educational system that had been poisoning our youth for so many years. But now that I actually had to criticize the teachers who taught us every day, I could not find anything really bad to say about any of them.

Another student said his teacher had deliberately ruined his students’ eyesight by making them read a lot, so they could not join the Liberation Army. Still

Still another accused Teacher Wang of attempting to corrupt a young revolutionary by buying her some bread when he learned that she had not eaten lunch.

Our great leader, Chairman Mao, has taught us, ‘Every reactionary is the same; if you do not hit him, he will not fall. This is also like sweeping the floor; as a rule, where the broom does not reach, the dust will not vanish by itself.’” Her

Chairman Mao said, ‘In a class society everyone is a member of a particular class, and every kind of thinking, without exception, is stamped with the brand of a particular class.’ There

When neighbors ran into each other, they did not stop to chat but just nodded and hurried on. Everyone felt vulnerable, and no one wanted to say anything that would cause trouble. We

What was she thinking before she jumped? She must have forgotten about her duties to her country, and her family too. Did she think about her granddaughter rushing back from Shandong for the funeral? Did she remember her blind sister? I

Home, I thought. Wasn’t a home a private place? A place where the family could feel secure? How could strangers come and search through our secrets? If

We had a bad class status. That was why An Yi was not allowed to wear mourning bands or even cry aloud for her grandmother. That was why my house was searched, and strangers could come in and do whatever they wanted. It was just a simple fact. Why should I ask why? There was absolutely nothing I could do to change it.

The Red Guards at her school held struggle meetings to criticize her almost every day. During those struggle meetings they beat her and whipped her with their belts.

Well, you know the old saying. ‘The wheel of fate makes a full turn every sixty years,’” An Yi said. “It’s their turn to suffer now.

When I looked around me, fate seemed to be the only explanation for what was happening.

I searched for something to say to comfort him, but he spoke first. “Well, I guess the old man came out to greet his public again.

Now let’s sincerely and wholeheartedly wish long life to our great leader, great teacher, great commander, and great helmsman, Chairman Mao.” Her

It felt almost like a dream from long ago. I remembered another Ji-li, one who was always praised by her teachers and respected by her classmates. A Ji-li who always pushed herself to do better, achieve more.

I gently moved her hand away. “This is an ink painting. It only uses black ink.

He pointed me to a chair. “Making a clean break with your black family, that’s good. We absolutely support you.

You can tell your parents you’ll follow Chairman Mao, not them. If they give you any trouble, just come here and tell us. We’ll go to their work units and hold struggle meetings against them… .

She was having an attack of Mèniére’s disease. She had had it for years, and an attack could come on at any time. The world would spin around her and she would feel weak and nauseous. Even opening her eyes would make her helplessly dizzy.

You are different from your parents. You were born and raised in New China. You are a child of Chairman Mao. You can choose your own destiny: You can make a clean break with your parents and follow Chairman Mao, and have a bright future; or you can follow your parents, and then… you will not come to a good end.” As

We cannot choose our families or our class sums. But we can choose our own futures.” He spoke very slowly and clearly. “No, you are not a leader, but you are still an ‘educable child.’ You can overcome your family background.” He

Now you can show your revolutionary determination.” He paused. “We want you to testify against your father at the struggle meeting.

Now, you have to choose between two roads.” Thin-Face looked straight into my eyes. “You can break with your family and follow Chairman Mao, or you can follow your father and become an enemy of the people.” His

Here is the opportunity for you to help Chairman Mao’s revolution. Who can win the most honor by telling us first?

We even know where it was hidden, but before I go get it, I’ll give you one last chance to prove your loyalty to Chairman Mao. And

There is no difficulty, no matter how serious, that cannot be overcome, but if you miss this chance, it might ruin your whole political life. Then it will be too late to repent.

The sun had risen as usual, but nothing else about the day was the same as the day before.

I no longer worried that she was a landlord’s wife. She was my grandmother.

Once my life had been defined by my goals: to be a da-dui-zhang, to participate in the exhibition, to be a Red Guard. They seemed unimportant to me now. Now my life was defined by my responsibilities. I had promised to take care of my family, and I would renew that promise every day. I

We finally learned that the whole Cultural Revolution had been part of a power struggle at the highest levels of the Party. Our leader had taken advantage of our trust and loyalty to manipulate the whole country. This

After thinking so much about that time, I wanted to do something for the little girl I had been, and for all the children who lost their childhoods as I did. This book is the result.

Except for a few who actually killed people, hardly any “revolutionaries” have been punished for what they did during the Cultural Revolution. Those

His voice was affectionate but also flustered, like that of a child who had no idea what to do.

Everything was dark. His tall figure dissolved into the night, but I could still feel his eyes on me, shining despite the darkness.

And then a frail little girl peered through the doorway. She was thin (I could tell that, even though she was dressed in an oversized top and oversized jeans), and a bright red scarf covered her head. Across the front of her T-shirt were the words: "BALD IS BEAUTIFUL." She had to be Danielle Roberts.

Teacher Wei’s situation was very bad. She was a junior high school math teacher, and before the Cultural Revolution she had been a Model Teacher. Her study wall was covered with certificates of merit. Now she was called a black model, and because her father was a capitalist and her mother had committed suicide, she was criticized all the more.

Teacher Wei’s situation was very bad. She was a junior high school math teacher, and before the Cultural Revolution she had been a Model Teacher. Her study wall was covered with certificates of merit. Now she was called a black model, and because her father was a capitalist and her mother had committed suicide, she was criticized all the more. The Red Guards at her school held struggle meetings to criticize her almost every day. During those struggle meetings they beat her and whipped her with their belts.

As soon as the painting was finished, two new rituals, Morning Repentance and Evening Report, began. Now every morning as I returned from the market in the cool morning air, I saw a group at the foot of the propaganda wall. Five or six people who had been landlords or counterrevolutionaries or rightists—people in the Five Black Categories—bowed in front of Chairman Mao. They waved their copies of the Selected Quotations from the Writings of Chairman Mao, the Precious Red Book, in the air and chanted, “Long life to Chairman Mao! Long life! Long life! Long life!” Then one by one they confessed their guilt. In the evening they had to do it again.

An Yi’s grandma lay on a cart, silent under the white sheet. Her face was covered. It had been smashed in her fall, and of course they would not make a wax replacement for a suicide. Suicide was a crime. It was “alienating oneself from the people,” according to what Chairman Mao said. So we were not in one of the private rooms. We wore no mourning bands. We could not play funeral music for Grandma.

I shut my eyes and pictured Grandma standing on the windowsill, looking down into the courtyard. What was she thinking before she jumped? She must have forgotten about her duties to her country, and her family too. Did she think about her granddaughter rushing back from Shandong for the funeral? Did she remember her blind sister? I wiped at my tears and took a deep breath.

We cannot choose our families or our class sums. But we can choose our own futures.

So the Cultural Revolution was born out of both Mao’s genuine frustration and his desire to regain the upper hand in a power struggle that threatened his position. His call for “perpetual revolution” mobilized young people into Red Guards who would wage class war against remnants of traditional society, both native and foreign.

My friends and I had grown up with the stories of the brave revolutionaries who had saved China. We were proud of our precious red scarves, which, like the national flag, were dyed red with the blood of our revolutionary martyrs. We had often been sorry that we were too young to have fought with Chairman Mao against the Japanese invaders, who tried to conquer China; against the dictator Chiang Kai-shek, who ruthlessly oppressed the Chinese people; and against the American aggressors in Korea. We had missed our chance to become national heroes by helping our motherland.

We knew they must be student inspectors. The newspapers had pointed out that the fourolds were also reflected in clothing, and now high school students had taken responsibility for eliminating such dress. For example, any pants with a leg narrower than eight inches for women or nine inches for men would be considered fourolds.

Our beloved Chairman Mao had started the Cultural Revolution in May. Every day since then on the radio we heard about the need to end the evil and pernicious influences of the “Four Olds”: old ideas, old culture, old customs, and old habits. Chairman Mao told us we would never succeed at building a strong socialist country until we destroyed the “Four Olds” and established the “Four News.

Respect the teachers? That’s the nonsense of ‘teachers’ dignity.’ You two are typical ‘teachers’ obedient little lambs,’ do you know that?” Du Hai recited more phrases from the newspaper. The world had turned upside down. Now it was a crime for students to respect teachers. I couldn’t keep calm.

One Monday, all school classes were suspended indefinitely. All students were directed instead to participate in the movement by writing big posters, da-zi-bao, criticizing the educational system. Rolls of white paper, dozens of brushes, and many bottles of red and black ink were brought into the classrooms. The teachers were nowhere to be seen.

The three of us stopped before a da-zi-bao signed “An Antirevisionist.” An Yi read aloud, “‘Although teachers do not hold bombs or knives, they are still dangerous enemies. They fill us with insidious revisionist ideas. They teach us that scholars are superior to workers. They promote personal ambition by encouraging competition for the highest grades. All these things are intended to change good young socialists into corrupt revisionists. They are invisible knives that are even more dangerous than real knives or guns.

Yin Lan-lan had written, “As one of its victims, I denounce the revisionist educational system. Being from a working-class family, I have to do a lot more housework than students from rich families. So I have difficulty passing exams. I was forced to repeat grades three times. And I was not allowed to be a Young Pioneer or to participate in the school choir. The teachers think only of grades when evaluating a student. They forget that we, the working class, are the masters of our socialist country.

Ke Cheng-li doesn’t like working-class kids. He only likes rich kids. He made Jiang Ji-li the teacher’s assistant for math class and gave her higher grades, and he also let her win all the math contests and awarded her a lot of notebooks. We have to ask the question, What is the relationship between them after all?

I no longer worried that she was a landlord's wife. She was my grandmother

I realized that I hdd my promise to them - to everyone in my family - long ago. I had promised during the days that Grandma and I had hidden in the park; I had promised when I had not testified against Dad; I had promised when I had hidden the letter. I would never do anything to hurt my family and I would do everything I could to take care of them.

Life was very hard, so hard that I could hardly breathe sometimes

Eldon sat beside Tobias, eating his meal with quiet dignity – or as much as he could muster. Lydia’s younger sister Tess was sitting on a highchair across from him, holding her plate to her face and gobbling down her food as ravenously as a beast from a trough. She was wearing a lovely black dress and a matching scarf that were gathering several unfortunate stains. When she felt Eldon staring, the green girl slowly looked up and dragged her fat red tongue across her jagged yellow teeth, gravy and mashed potatoes dripping from her cheeks. “Ugh, Lydia,” complained Wynona and gestured her fingers in disdain. “Can’t you control that little gremlin?

My falafel was handed over by a girl in a purple head scarf who had black gemstones for eyes and a gaping red void for a nose. I looked closer and realized it was actually two red voids, one for each missing nostril. Burns covered much of her upper body. The skin on her arms was like paper, and when she cupped her hands to ask for a tip, I could see the bones in her fingers flexing. I pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and folded it into her tiny palms. Her smile burned through us all.

As soon as I said it, I realized that I had made my promise to them—to everyone in my family—long ago. I had promised during the days that Grandma and I had hidden in the park; I had promised when I had not testified against Dad; I had promised when I had hidden the letter. I would never do anything to hurt my family, and I would do everything I could to take care of them. My family was too precious to forget, and too rare to replace.

Many friends have asked me why, after all I went through, I did not hate Chairman Mao and the Cultural Revolution in those years. The answer is simple: We were all brainwashed. To us Chairman Mao was God. He controlled everything we read, everything we heard, and everything we learned in school. We believed everything he said. Naturally, we knew only good things about Chairman Mao and the Cultural Revolution. Anything bad had to be the fault of others. Mao was blameless.

That doesn’t mean that you should make up a story about something you never did!” Dad’s voice grew still louder. “So what if I never listened to foreign radio broadcasts? They’ll stop beating me if I confess to it, won’t they? ‘Leniency to those who confess, and severity to those who resist.’ Look at my face, Lao Jiang. I can’t stand it anymore… .