Chapter Seventy: The Educated Youth and the Cricket Jar (Extra Chapter)

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Every year on June 1st is a grand festival for Hong Tao—it’s his birthday, and at the same time, it’s also Children’s Day, which makes for a double celebration. In this era, June 1st wasn’t a public holiday, but schools would organize activities. Still, for every elementary school student, this day was of great importance, because the annual Young Pioneers induction ceremony was held on this very day.

The Young Pioneers, known informally as the Red Young Soldiers, was a badge of honor every schoolchild longed for. In truth, none of them really understood what that triangular red cloth signified; although every Pioneer had to recite the origin and symbolism of the red scarf, it was rote memorization at best. Whether they understood or not, becoming a member of the Red Young Soldiers was every child’s dream. Even the so-called “bad kids,” when watching others being inducted, couldn’t help but feel envious.

Judging by Hong Tao’s performance that year, he had no hope of becoming a Red Young Soldier. His grades were impeccable, but his popularity was rock bottom—most teachers would have been happier to pin a black cloth on him. Jin Yue was among the first batch to be inducted; not only did she receive a red scarf, but she also got a square armband—white with a stripe of red across it. That was the mark of a Squad Leader. Two red stripes meant Company Leader, and the highest, three, signified Battalion Leader.

“You didn’t get a red scarf either?” Though they were no longer in the same class, Zhang Dajiang would still dash desperately to the ping-pong table at every break. After a year’s worth of exercise, his weight hadn’t increased much, but his running speed had improved dramatically. His family even bought him a new “big blade” paddle, and his skills at the game were growing by the day—he could now rally with Hong Tao. It seems the saying is true: when one door closes, another opens. Though Zhang Dajiang was a bit slow academically, he was gifted at ping-pong—at least Jin Yue couldn’t beat him.

“Do you think I look like someone who’d wear a red scarf? Do you envy those who do? Do you want one yourself?” Hong Tao tapped his own nose with his paddle.

“My grandpa says all the kids who wear the red scarf are good kids…” Whenever Zhang Dajiang confronted a question he couldn’t answer, he’d invoke his grandfather.

“Your grandpa left out half the sentence. Go home and ask him tonight—he’ll tell you the rest: not all kids without a red scarf are bad kids. Take you and me—are we bad kids?” Hong Tao knew Dajiang wanted a red scarf; there wasn’t a normal child who didn’t.

“No!” Zhang Dajiang answered decisively.

“Exactly. It’ll happen sooner or later. Let’s serve!” Hong Tao was adept at consoling Zhang Dajiang; reasoning with him was futile, as he never truly grasped it. The best way was to talk him in circles and then give a clear, reasonable explanation—he’d believe it. Of course, only someone he trusted could use this method; anyone else could talk themselves hoarse and he’d pay no mind.

In July, something of note happened in the alley where Hong Tao’s grandmother lived. One after another, many strangers returned—young people, all around twenty years old, nearly every courtyard had some. Two came to Hong Tao’s grandmother’s courtyard. He recognized them—one was the eldest son of the Tai family in the inner courtyard, the other the son of the Sun family who lived at the highest point of the yard. They were all “sent-down youths” who’d left years before for the countryside and were now finally home.

Their sons had returned for good; both family and neighbors rejoiced. That evening, Hong Tao’s grandmother cooked a pot of meat stew and took it to the two households as a gesture of goodwill. Yet by the next day, he overheard the old women chatting as they picked vegetables, gossiping about the young men’s employment prospects.

Neither of the two had finished high school before they left. Now, back in the city, they had only middle school diplomas, and they weren’t the only ones—every alley and courtyard had returnees, both men and women, most in similar situations. Jobs were scarce; all they could do was register their household accounts and wait for the local street office to figure something out.

Did the street office have solutions? Perhaps, but not enough. These returning youths could only be placed in sanitation, collective factories, or as temporary workers, but positions were limited and covered only a fraction of the need. Even if there had been enough jobs, most returnees wouldn’t have wanted them. After years of backbreaking labor in the fields, who’d want to sweep streets or do menial work?

If they refused, all that was left was idling at home. Most families weren’t well-off; there was often more than one child and little living space. Even if siblings and in-laws didn’t look at them askance, they themselves would feel uncomfortable. But what could they do? They lacked education, credentials, and capital—and even if they had the means, their minds, still stuck in the planned economy, weren’t suited for entrepreneurship.

Yet these people were no longer the naive youths they had been when they left. If, at first, they’d been hot-blooded wolf pups, now they were wolves who’d tasted blood. The hardships of the countryside had not only toughened their will but also taught them the instincts to survive in harsh environments—fighting and stealing became nothing remarkable.

A handful of clever ones picked up their textbooks, preparing to review and take the university entrance exams. But most either lacked the brains or the foresight. Once hope for a better life was lost, they gave in to despair and self-indulgence. Thus, the wave of returning educated youth brought with it a sharp rise in social instability and, ultimately, another massive movement.

Hong Tao understood these truths and could see how events would unfold, but he was just a child. Even if he were an adult, there’d be little he could do to change things. This wasn’t a problem for any single family; it was a societal crisis. If he truly had the power to change society, he’d have moved out of the alley and set up office south of Beihai long ago.

He couldn’t alter the course of history, but he could find ways to live more comfortably and happily. Since arriving in this era, he’d been searching for a pastime that would suit both a child’s role and his actual mental age, but nothing had worked—until he stumbled upon a solution by accident. One day, while wandering through the consignment shop in Dongsi, he discovered something intriguing—a set of cricket jars.

Cricket jars, as the name suggests, are vessels for keeping and fighting crickets. Crickets were a pastime for all ages. Hong Tao had played with them in his past life, but only superficially. Now, with nothing better to do, seeing this set of jars sparked a thought: why not delve deeper? He decided to buy them.

“Uncle, could you please show me these jars?” Hong Tao leaned over the glass counter, calling to the shop assistant inside. The state-run store’s service was notoriously poor—the clerks acted like lords, only showing enthusiasm when a leader showed up.

Clang… clang… clang… clang… clang! After five crisp bangs, three large and two small jars were tossed onto the counter by the clerk, who didn’t seem to care if the glass would break. Hong Tao was used to this attitude; there was nothing to be done. If you took such things seriously in those days, you might as well stop shopping altogether, or else be prepared to quarrel every time you bought something.

“Oh, young man, you can’t throw jars like that! What a waste of good things, all ruined!” Before Hong Tao could reach out, a cry rang out, and an old man darted over, feeling each jar in turn before shaking his head in dismay and releasing them.

“Grandpa, you know about cricket jars? Could you help me judge if these are worth buying?” Hong Tao looked the old man over—he wore black silk trousers with no waistband, held up by a cloth belt rather than leather; a brownish short robe made of sheer gauze; on his feet, open slippers with snow-white socks.

This outfit had a special meaning in Beijing, known as the “Lower Nine Professions,” referring to occupations such as clerks, yamen runners, scale adjusters, matchmakers, porters, fortune tellers, acrobats, jugglers, musicians, masseurs, peddlers, tailors, performers, drummers, exorcists, opera singers, candy sellers, and so on. It wasn’t strictly a derogatory term—just a way to distinguish social strata, much like the later “migrant worker.” Over time, the term took on a negative connotation.

But by the seventies and eighties, such attire was rare—mostly seen on elderly men not used to modern clothes, who still kept the style of the Republic era.

Trousers without a waistband were called “face sacks,” with wide legs and an even wider opening, lacking elastic. Wearing them was like slipping into a sack, fastened only by tying a cloth belt or a broad sash, since there were no loops for a leather belt.

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