In the 1960s, the conservative society of Taiwan no longer could refrain from the emerging energy for change. As college students, we aspired for new things, such as modern poetry, new literature and latest fashion. In short, we thought new and modern meant progress and advancement.

From time to time my classmate Pai Hsien-Yung and I submitted to the Literature Review, which was founded by our professor of foreign literature Hsia Tsi-An. Later he moved to the US for good, so Pai Hsien-Yung and I thought of founding a literature journal in case the Literature Review should stop issuing. I worried about money, but Pai said he could find the funding. We then involved our classmates Hung Chih-Jui, Wang Wen-Hsing, and Dai Cheng-Yi in organizing the new journal. But how to name the new journal?

I proposed, “Modern Literature!”

No one opposed, so it was decided. We distributed the tasks. Pai Hsien-Yung’s home was the base of the magazine, so submissions were mailed there. Wang Wen-Hsing and I made the primary review of the submissions, Ouyang Tzu (Hung Chih-Hui’s pen name) kept the accounts, and all of us took turns to write and proofread articles. Modern Literature was published bi-monthly. we contributed money when we were able to, and Pai Hsien-Yung made the ends meet with resources available to him. A subordinate officer of Pai’s father was the nominal director of the journal in order to avoid censorship.

I tutored three children at that time to support myself as well as the journal. In addition to the stress of funding, writing was also pressing me. I often had dizziness because of lack of sleep. Luckily Pai Hsien-Yung always found ways to finance the journal. Modern Literature enjoyed a good reputation and we were all honored.

We founded the journal in the third year in college, and were engaged in the publishing business to the end of our college life. I decided to study in the US and passed on the tasks to our junior students.

“Is it tough to run a journal?” one of them asked.

When I was in the Taipei First Girls High School, our uniform was a white blouse and black pleated skirt. In fact, at that time, this was the uniform for high school girls all over the city and the province. Our principal Chiang Hsueh-Ju wore a gray qipao all year. Girls mocked secretly that it was the outfit for a spinster.

One day, during the morning assembly, Principal Chiang announced, “Your uniform is to be changed to a green blouse and black skirt.”

What? There was a commotion among students.

“So the pilots of the enemy’s fighter planes will think the campus is a woodland and won’t drop bombs over us.”

We had doubts, but no one dared to question the decision. It was a time when students were not encouraged to voice their opinions. They were told to obey their teachers. We changed to green shirts, and as the only school with green uniforms, it became our mark. Gradually we felt proud of it as we grew past the embarrassment of being different.

It was a time when letters to schools for students should be examined. And to make money, I submitted my writing to journals a lot and made some pen pals who sent letters to me through my school. The Director of Discipline was obliged to open every letter to check before handing the letters to their recipients. I planned to stop using this means of communication and delayed my replies to my pen pals.

One day I was summoned by the Director of Discipline, who pointed at an opened letter to me that inquired, “Haven’t heard from the green shirt postman for a long time. How is she doing recently?”

“Who is the green shirt postman?”

“Perhaps it refers to me,” I answered feeling intimidated, “because our uniform is green.”

“Bullshit! Don’t reply! Stop contacting with this person!”

“Yes, Director.”

Little Jade was from a poor family. Her mom was unable to buy any new dresses for her, so she had to wear the same dress for years. The worn dress patched by fabrics of different colors was mocked by her pals.

“You are supposed to find patches of the same color!”
“Where can I find the same color patches?”
“You need to ask your mom.”

Little Jade asked her mother, and she sighed, “We are so poor that we can’t afford to buy new fabrics. The dress you are wearing was given by our neighbor who no longer needed it. You can take odd jobs and make some money to buy a new dress and save your face.”

Little Jade asked where she could find jobs, but her impatient mother told her to find them by herself. Little Jade had to brace herself and ask around. In the third place where she inquired, a woman suggested that Little Jade help her collect driftwood by the riverside. Little Jade went to the riverside in wind and rain and when she brought back the driftwood she found, she was paid a coin only. Little Jade went several times again and realized it didn’t work, so she went for other jobs. A woman just giving birth to a pair of twins told her, “I have to take care of the twin babies, and you can take care of their older brother and sister. You pick them up from their preschool and play with them. When you have time, help us make firewood for cooking.”

Little Jade agreed and started picking the boy and girl up from their preschool and accompanying them until dinner time. Her wage wasn’t much, but Little Jade went to a fashion shop after working for two months. New clothes were still too expensive, so she went to a second-hand store. Browsing around, Little Jade only felt interested in a qipao. She bought it but did not think the qipao suited her. Little Jade put it away.

Whenever topics of fashion were brought up, Little Jade would say, “I have a variety of outfits. I even have a qipao!”

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Collection of the National Center of Photography and Images

I was born in the rural area outside of Taipei during the Japanese colonial period. After the war, my family moved into the Taipei city. Later Mr. and Mrs. Wang, a couple from Mainland China, moved in next door. Mrs. Wang was a housewife, and she often wore qipao. Every special day or occasion, her brilliant outfits and accessories were eyed with envy by my mother.

I once overheard my mother talking to a neighbor, “Women in qipaos are so gorgeous!” I made up my mind that, when I have money, I must have a qipao tailored for my mother.

My father was a carpenter with irregular working hours. With five children to raise, our economy was tight. My mother washed clothes for other families, and after my older brother failed to enter high school, he began to take odd jobs to support our family. In the era that sons were favored by parents more than daughters, my parents unusually allowed me, their oldest daughter, to study in the top high school and college, and even graduate school in the US, with scholarships and part time working. I was very grateful, and our neighbors admired us.

“Your son takes odd jobs, and your daughter studies in college!”

I studied and married in the US, and started working after I completed my master degree. I wired money back home from time to time. After my husband completed his doctoral degree and we were ready to go home, he suddenly said, “China is practicing Marxism, let’s go there and join the construction of a socialist society.”

Therefore, we went to China. It was the autumn of 1966. We were caught by the Cultural Revolution launched by Mao Ze-Dong. Red Guards were everywhere, causing political chaos here and there for ten years. During the seven years in Beijing and Nanjing, I gave birth to two sons. When China finally permitted traveling overseas, we immediately applied for it and moved to Hong Kong. As soon as I was able to contact my family, I was told that my mother had passed away. I burst out crying.