September 2020

Third place in the Fall 2019 Personal Narrative Contest with the Society of Young Inklings. A summer in rural China teaches the narrator not to take her life for granted This summer, I was in the Liangshan mountains in rural Sichuan, China, for camp. At first, it seemed like an ordinary place, but those ten days taught me what gratitude is. Liangshan is a historically poor county. Isolated by mountains, it was the last place in China to banish slavery. High illiteracy rates and AIDS have plagued it for years, keeping its inhabitants in a long cycle of poverty. Most of its population are of Yi descent, a minority ethnic group in China. They earn meager wages as farmers, maids, or janitors. My camp, BLOOM, consisted of more than 100 kids. It was founded by a charity organization in an effort to offer more educational opportunities to kids in the mountains. Half of the campers are from big cities like New York, Toronto, and Shanghai. The other half are from Liangshan. We were paired up, and the kids from cities tutor the local kids in English for two hours a day. As city kids, we learned about Yi culture, took guitar classes, arts and crafts, softball lessons, and more. Most of the money we paid for the camp went to nearby schools, and the teachers and counselors were all volunteers. When I first arrived at the high school where the camp was located, I was instantly aware of the cracked tile floors, the dirty windows, and the creaky, flimsy doors. My roommates quickly helped me with my heavy suitcase, set up my sleeping linens, and showed me how to use a mosquito net. The dorms were bright, but the floors were always muddy, no matter how many times we tried mopping them. We were to sleep on wooden planks and shower with ice-cold water in the public bathhouse. Each small room housed seven or eight people. It was uncomfortable, but I was resolved not to complain about any of it. If the Liangshan kids had to live like this all year, I had no excuse for whining. Over the next few days, my roommates and I quickly developed a collegial closeness that I’ve seldom experienced before. We shared inside jokes, told ghost stories, and talked late into the night every day. I felt like I belonged, even though they sometimes said things that I didn’t understand. Sometimes I couldn’t express myself in Chinese, and they’d all listen as I grasped for the right words, guessing at what I meant. They never seemed annoyed and explained everything with infinite patience. I was shocked to learn that none of my Liangshan friends had seen the ocean or been on a boat or plane. But we complained about homework and getting up early in the morning just like I did with my friends in New York. The kids there were just like me. It was so easy to connect with each other, despite our differences. On the second night, we had a discussion activity. A few campers, chosen at random, sat in the front of the lecture hall and answered a simple question: “What would you do with 100 yuan (about $15)?” Most kids wished for new clothes, books, or food. When it came to Gujin, a girl from Liangshan, she spoke with confidence and pride. “My father works as a janitor. It doesn’t pay very well. He comes home very late at night, always exhausted. I know that every cent is the result of his hard work, and I am lucky to have parents who care for me.” She paused. “If I had 100 yuan, I would give it to my dad to take some pressure off his shoulders and to help pay the bills. Thank you.” Applause erupted from the lecture hall. I knew plenty of people at home who took their parents for granted. To some extent, I realized that I, too, was not fully grateful for all that my parents had done for me. I had never once worried about how I would afford food or lost sleep over the bills. That was all taken care of for me. Many of the kids around me knew what it felt like to go hungry at night, but they didn’t pity themselves. Instead, they seemed even more steadfastly determined and thankful for everything they had. It was rare to find such personalities. A few days later, I asked my friend Anai about her family. She was a quiet girl who had a habit of speaking softly with a warm accent. “I have four siblings. My mom has to tend to the farm all day. If she has extra time, she finds work doing other people’s laundry,” she said. “What about your dad?” I asked. “He passed away two years ago,” she said, suddenly seeming distant. I felt immediate regret for the question, and I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. She just shrugged. “I never really had a connection with him. He didn’t talk to us. When my mom made a little money, she would have to hide it because otherwise my dad would just go out and buy liquor and drink until the money ran out again. I didn’t like him because he never cared about us. But he was still my father.” “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. She shrugged again, and we sat in silence. On the sixth day, all the big-city kids went on a trip to a Yi village in the heart of the mountains. It was home to a boy named Geizuo. He went to our camp and was a tall, calm volunteer from the high school we were living in. BLOOM had raised enough money to send Geizuo to a private school in Changshu, a city near Shanghai, and was trying to do the same for many other kids in Liangshan. We boarded the bus around noon, expecting a two-hour drive. Four