On the first day of the Lunar New Year, my younger siblings, my son, my nephew, and I went to Gele Mountain(歌乐山) to sweep my father’s grave. My elder brother and I had been working away from home for several years, and during Qingming Festival(清明节) each year, we were unable to visit our father. So this year, we moved the day of remembrance forward.
The grave was covered with withered grass, but the small tree planted in front had already begun to show faint green buds. My younger sister mentioned that in spring, this little tree would bloom with delicate white flowers, exuding a quiet elegance. The tomb faced distant emerald-green mountains, veiled in mist. My father had always loved beautiful scenery, and I imagine he must be content with this peaceful resting place.
I deeply loved my father. The older I grew, the more profoundly I understood his warmth, kindness, tenderness, and unyielding integrity. My veins flow with his blood, and I know very well that I am like him—I inherited his nature. My father influenced me so profoundly, though he never knew it. While he was alive, I never showed my emotions in front of him, just as I still do with my mother now. They could only describe me as "good-hearted but short-tempered." From childhood, I cultivated a defiant image in front of my parents to mask my inherently sensitive and tender heart. If I were to suddenly change, not only would they find it strange, but I myself would be so embarrassed I’d want to vanish into the ground.
I believe Freud’s theory of the Oedipus and Electra complexes holds some truth—at least, I’ve experienced it firsthand. When choosing a husband or feeling drawn to a man, I unconsciously measured them against my father. In his youth, my father was an exceptionally handsome man—striking yet never frivolous, dashing yet profoundly kind and honest.
Because my grandfather preferred leisure over hard work, our family grew increasingly poor. At sixteen, my father left home to become an apprentice at Zhengdayong Money Shop(正大永钱庄), founded by Tang Zijing (1860–1943, a modern Chinese financier, industrial magnate, and the wealthiest man in Southwest China at the time). My grandparents had seven children, and as the eldest, the burden of supporting the family fell on my father. Relatives often said it was his sincerity and integrity that won the money shop owner’s favor. My father was born in the Year of the Pig, and most Pig-sign individuals are known for their loyalty and kindness. But I believe his goodness was paired with an astute intelligence—otherwise, how could he rise from apprentice to assistant manager in just a few years? By twenty-two, my father had already achieved success. He bought a house with front and back gardens in Chongqing’s scenic Eling district, supported his parents, and provided for five of his six younger siblings (except for my second uncle). At twenty-three, he married my mother, a woman widely praised for her beauty. I can only imagine how proud and triumphant he must have felt then! At twenty-four, the "big pig" welcomed a "little pig"—me. Of his four children, I was the only one born under the same zodiac sign as him. Though my looks paled in comparison to my parents and three siblings, which once filled me with deep insecurity, I now feel grateful for my father’s legacy of plain features and the steadfast nature of my zodiac sign. These traits have brought me both hardships and unexpected blessings. After all, everything has two sides.
In the Liu Family Home at Eling, I spent the most prosperous years of my childhood. Our house was often filled with guests, as my father was a hospitable man his entire life. In addition to hosting banquets, he frequently entertained friends and relatives by playing records. He owned an expensive British walnut-wood upright phonograph—a luxury at the time—and had collected hundreds of records, including foreign classical music and performances by renowned Peking Opera artists like Mei Lanfang (梅兰芳)and Zhou Xinfang(周信芳). Growing up surrounded by such refined music left me with a lifelong fascination and yearning for it. As a child, I regarded musicians as saints. In my youth, my idols were violinist Sheng Zhongguo(盛中国), pianist Liu Shikun(刘诗昆), and conductor Li Delun(李德伦). Music played a significant role in my life, bringing endless joy and vibrant color. For this, I am endlessly grateful to my father for such a profound influence.
My father was frail, a trait I inherited. After we moved from the Eling residence to a small courtyard in the city center, one of my strongest memories is of him occasionally coughing up blood. My mother would often make placenta soup to nourish him. Though our family’s financial situation remained stable, his health gradually declined. Because of his own illnesses, he was especially concerned about his four children’s well-being. Every year, he insisted that my mother take us for medical check-ups, and even the slightest ailment would send him into a panic. One could say he was meticulous about our health—even an offhand cough would prompt a concerned interrogation. I still remember once, when my throat itched and I wanted to cough, I buried my head under a quilt, afraid he might hear. His role was almost the opposite of my mother’s: she was careless and carefree, while he was careful and attentive. His love for his children was expressed in countless small, tender gestures. Without exaggeration, I can say he was the most affectionate and devoted father in the world.
Throughout his life, Father pushed his four children to strive for excellence—but in an unique way. He used provocative, sometimes even harsh words to ignite our fighting spirit. When the college entrance exams resumed in 1977 under Deng Xiaoping’s reforms, allowing the "Old Three Grades" (those who missed exams during the Cultural Revolution) to participate, my younger sister and her future husband were the first in our family to enter university. My elder brother and I, already married with a four-month-old child, couldn’t take the opportunity then. But from the expectant looks in my parents’ eyes—and sometimes my father’s teasing gaze—I knew I had to fight with my back against the wall, with no choice but to succeed. Overcoming immense difficulties, I eventually ranked first in the liberal arts division of Shangqing Temple District(上清寺地区) in the 1978 exams and entered a prestigious university. My elder brother also gained admission to another top-tier school with excellent scores. Only then did my father finally show a proud, heartfelt smile.
In 1982, after graduating, I faced job allocation. Despite my outstanding academic record and the fact that my husband had already been transferred to work at my university—which should have secured me a teaching position there—my blunt honesty and outspoken nature displeased the leadership, and I was denied the post. Disappointed, I tried applying to a nearby high school, only to be rejected again due to unfounded rumors about my "arrogance." Crushed by these setbacks, my father gave me unwavering support. He wrote to the Education Commission to protest the unfair treatment I received. In that letter—and only in that letter—did he lavish praise on his daughter. In daily life, he rarely complimented me...
A commoner’s plea carried little weight, and I was assigned to teach at a middle school far from home. When I received the notice, my father said something to me that I will never forget: "Xiaoju, you must make those who didn’t keep you regret it."Those words gave me immense encouragement at the time. I lived up to my father’s expectations—I worked hard at that school, achieved success, and in 1988, I became the first middle school teacher from Sichuan Province selected by the National Education Commission(国家教委) to study abroad in Canada. Sadly, by then, my father had already passed away. Otherwise, how proud and overjoyed he would have been for his daughter!
My father was a man of integrity, kindness, and deep compassion. When times were good, he helped many relatives and friends, and his generosity was widely praised. Even in difficult circumstances, he always thought of others. I remember during the three years of natural disasters, food was extremely scarce. The meager monthly ration tickets for meat and oil were already a luxury for our family, and with my father’s poor health, he needed nourishing food more than anyone. Yet he insisted on using those precious supplies to entertain guests—whether elderly visitors or friends of us children's. Everyone was warmly welcomed in our home. My mother once said, "Your father would tighten his own belt just to give others rice for their pot!" Her words were a resigned truth. My father had a special sympathy for kind but impoverished people. My wet nurse was a simple, honest country woman. She had been hired because my mother couldn’t breastfeed me, but the nurse herself had very little milk, leaving me perpetually hungry. Seeing her honesty and difficult circumstances, my father couldn’t bring himself to dismiss her—though it came at the cost of my health. Even when I was in my thirties, he still brought this up with regret, believing he had wronged me. But I never saw it that way. I loved my wet nurse dearly. It was the milk of the laboring class that nourished me, infusing my veins with their simplicity, kindness, and deep connection to the earth. In this matter, too, I remain grateful to my father.
One scene is forever etched in my memory. Not long before his death—before cancer was diagnosed—my father and I were walking down the street when we saw a young woman ahead of us carrying a one-year-old child on her back. The baby’s socks were slipping off. My father noticed, called the woman to stop, and carefully fixed the socks. Then, with tender affection, he playfully teased the child and gave him biscuits from his pocket. The depth of love my father felt for children in his later years is beyond words. Once, he told me he had visited my son (then less than a year old) at an old woman' house since I was studying in the University then. When the baby woke up and opened his eyes to look at him, my father said those eyes moved him to tears.
In his final years, my father’s heartfelt adoration for his grandson—and indeed, for every child—was a pure reflection of his sensitive, tender, kind, and gentle soul.To me, my father was first and foremost a profoundly humane being—and only then was he my father. Through his deep tenderness toward children in his twilight years, I saw the radiance of a beautiful soul, transformed into a glorious sunset glow. That brilliant afterglow will forever envelop me.
Written by Mingqiong in 1997
