Hey there:
The Story Plan marked Mother’s Day by running this lovely piece on May 10. Author Li Xingrui profiles his mom, who is finally free to pursue her passions at middle age after juggling odd jobs and motherly duties most of her life.
Enjoy and take care!
—ML
My Mom, Renaissance Woman at 49
By Li Xingrui
Edited by Pu Moshi
A recent sketch by the author’s mother. Courtesy The Story Plan.
1.
My mom gave birth to me by C-section at a downtown hospital in Huanggang at noon on April 28, 1995.
My mom says my due date was my dad’s birthday, April 19, but my head took its time to engage—all of nine days. On the 28th, the doctor said if my mom didn’t give birth immediately I’d die in her womb.
Every time the topic comes up, my mom is bound to make fun of me. “When you were born, your face was filled with creases and your skin was purple red. You looked like an old man. You didn’t cry. All you did was furrow your brows, a picture of reluctance. The nurse said you had choked on amniotic fluid and performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to clear your throat. Only then did you start crying. Once you started crying, it hit me that I had become a mother.”
Before she became a mother, my mom was a factory worker.
My maternal grandfather was exiled to Hubei Province from Shanghai during a leftist political campaign and reassigned to a factory. There he met my grandmother and ended up staying in Huanggang for good. When my mother graduated from senior high school at age 17, she didn’t sign up for the university entrance exam, instead joining my grandfather’s factory on account of their relationship.
Rumors of the factory’s imminent closure were swirling the year she got married. Starting out with regular hours, she was shifted to part-time duty. After I was born, she was let go altogether on the pretext that she had a child to care for.
I turned 2 in 1997. My dad’s salary from the factory couldn’t begin to cover expenses for a family of three. Mom decided to look for work to earn extra income.
After consulting friends and family, she leased a counter at a local wet market and started selling children’s fashion.
Back then we lived in a first floor rental apartment not far from my grandparents’ place.
Twice a week she had to get up at 2 a.m., when I was sound asleep, and have Dad drive her Huangzhou Mall by motorbike to catch a bus to Wuhan, where she stocked up on inventory on Hanzheng Street.
The bus left at 3 a.m. After dropping Mom off, Dad would doze off for another few hours at home before heading to work.
The passengers on the 3 a.m. bus to Wuhan were mostly middle-aged men with dirty fingernails or chubby women with loud voices. Mom was 28, petite and had dyed her hair a fashionable chestnut. She kept being mistaken for someone’s kid.
The journey took nearly two hours. Most of the passengers were headed for Hanzheng Street, so Mom could nap the entire journey without worrying about missing her stop. The shuffling of her neighbor would wake her up, then she’d get off in a daze and down a bowl of dumplings doused with chili sauce from the dumplings stand by the public restroom at the bus station.
After picking up her stock, she’d catch the 8 a.m. bus back to Huangzhou and display her new inventory at her counter at the wet market.
Later, my mom told me that she kept thinking during that period that maybe the factory would get its act together or pay her a severance package.
She always considered the situation temporary, so she didn’t treat it as a major hardship.
There was, however, the one occasion when she bought my grandma and my dad each a pair of thick slippers on Hanzheng Street, thinking they’d come in handy with winter around the corner.
But on the journey back, she couldn’t for the life of her find those two pairs of flip-flops. They were probably lifted by a pickpocket. Mom racked her brain but couldn’t figure out where she might have lost them. The more she thought about it, the more she felt wronged and broke down in tears on the bus.
The other passengers cast her sideway glances and pointed in her direction, wondering if the young woman had been bullied.
A year and a half later, Mom’s children’s fashion business started to deteriorate. Margins had dropped to a minimal sum. One day, my dad said: “Why don’t you give up your shop and focus on raising our son at home. I have applied for a two-year transfer to company headquarters in Shanghai. The pay is higher.”
So Mom sold her business and became a full-time housewife.
2.
In 2001, I started first grade. My parents decided to invest in my future. They borrowed a bit of cash from my maternal grandparents and bought a flat on the banks of the Yangtze River.
They decided on the location because it was an affordable area and the complex was right across the street from the Huanggang public library. They wanted to create a setup conducive to academics.
Dad was constantly on the road. After dropping me off at school by bike in the morning, she went home to tidy house and prepare lunch. By the time she was done it’d be time to pick me up again.
After lunch she dropped me off at school again. Then came the long wait until school ended for the day.
She’d usually stop by the library to pick up a novel or two. After an hour or so of reading, she’d start knitting and watching TV. When it was finally time to pick me up, she’d ride her bike back to school.
In primary school, I would eagerly anticipate seeing my mom from the classroom window at the end of the day because in contrast to other parents, my mom dressed more fashionably. She looked younger and prettier.
Once I told her the girl whom I shared a desk with said she had an aura about her. Mom said: “Nonsense.” Then she proceeded to cover her smiling mouth.
From then on, she started dressing up for pickup time and changing her wardrobe more frequently.
On an early evening one summer, Mom picked up in a new black t-shirt. The back of the t-shirt was made with a sort of gauze. You could see her back vaguely. I felt extremely embarrassed to be with her. When we got home, I told her: “Mom, don’t pick me up in that t-shirt again. It doesn’t feel right.”
Mom froze before whispering, “OK.”
The next day Mom tore the t-shirt apart. It became a new wiping cloth.
From then on, she showed up at school dressed like the other parents. She didn’t stand out in a crowd again.
In fifth grade, my dad was let go too.
He brainstormed at home for several days and decided to take on a profession he had been reluctant to pursue just a few years ago—table tennis coach.
Perhaps she was worried about my dad’s income during the career transition, or maybe she was bored from being a housewife for several years. Mom landed a part-time gig from a friend who was a primary school teacher writing textbooks.
It was a Chinese textbook for first and second graders. She had to find a template and fill it up with text and drawings.
During that period, I’d be doing my homework at my desk at night while my mom pulled up a chair and sat behind me working on the text and art. A wooden plank placed on my bed served as her desk.
I asked her: “You know how to draw?” Mom said: “Of course. I was such a talented artist when I was a kid. You could never tell, right?” On deadline, she often worked through the night.
Back then our family’s lone desk was in my room. She didn’t want to interrupt my sleep, so she’d turn the light way down and ask my to cover my head. Then she would sit in front of the dimly lit desk all night.
Sometimes she’d fall asleep from a low blood sugar episode and collapse on the desk with a bang. I’d wake up and shake he awake. She would have a glass of water, wash her face and soldier on.
My mom ended up writing nearly 10 textbooks. The gig ended six months later when her friend told her that her bosses were clamping down on non-teachers writing textbooks.
Another six months later, she received samples of the textbooks and pay of about 10,000 yuan (US$1,400). That amounted to several months of my dad’s income.
She set the money aside and called me over. She pointed at her name on the cover of one of the textbooks and said: “Look, your mom is a published author too.”
I flipped through the book and said: “Not bad. I think you did a better job than your friend. Why don’t you become a teacher?” She sighed before responding: “I don’t have the necessary credentials. Forget about it.”
After that, it seemed like my mom couldn’t settle for being a full-time housewife anymore.
She used her payday to sign up for six months of beautician and hairstyling courses and started a small hair salon. It didn’t last long. She moved onto a DVD rental shop. She sold it in less than a year.
My dad would constantly say: “Don’t bother with all this fuss. What’s wrong with focusing on raising our son at home?”
She wouldn’t argue back or explain and kept on with her journey as an entrepreneur.
3.
In junior high, I became addicted to reading extra-curricular material. I devoured everything from the literary magazines ZUI and Mengya to the novels of Haruki Murakami and Wang Xiaobo. I couldn’t get my fix outside of class, so I started secretly reading during school as well.
My dad was utterly opposed. He said that kind of reading was useless and would only interfere with my studies. He wanted to toss all the books I had bought with money I had earned myself. My mom stopped him.
She displayed a resolve that neither my dad nor I had ever seen before.
My mom said: “Just let him be. What’s wrong with having a hobby? I defer to you on everything else. On this matter, let me decide.”
She turned to me and said: “As long as your academics aren’t affected, Mom will pay for your books from now on.”
I was a bit confused. My mom was always strict with me, butting in on every single aspect of my life. Yet here she was siding with me.
That night, after I had finished my homework, my mom came into my room and asked: “What kind of books do you enjoy reading?”
I named a few titles that immediately came to mind.
She said: “I hope you stick with it. Do you know why I’m OK with you reading extra-curricular material?”
“No,” I responded.
She got up, returned to her bedroom and rummaged through a drawer in her nightstand for a while. Eventually, she pulled out a notebook and handed it to me.
I flipped through the notebook. It contained mostly cartoon drawings of animals and portraits. “Did you draw these?” I asked.
My mom said: “That’s what I liked to do when I was kid. I was always doodling on the margins of my homework. Eventually your grandma found out and tore my notebooks to shreds. This is one I secretly saved. Your grandparents are conservative. They think that kids should ignore the outside world and focus on the classics. So they didn’t let me do stuff like this. The only extra-curricular reading they allowed were granddad’s copies of The Three Heroes and Five Gallants and General Yue Fei. How could a girl possible enjoy stuff like that?”
She paused before continuing: “Your mom is quite a talented artist. When I was a kid, someone put together a stereo system for our family, the kind that can play records. Your granddad had someone buy a few plastic records for us, the kind that are semi-transparent. They’re cheaper. I listened to them at home all the time.”
“The pieces that left the deepest impression were Serenades and The Blue Danube. I’d move the stereo set to my room in the evenings and listen to them over and over again before returning the system to its original spot in the morning. Later, your granddad found out and hid the stereo. I never listened to it again.”
She sighed and added: “Enough from me. Enjoy your reading. Even if you don’t excel in your studies, at least you have a hobby, unlike your mom, who hasn’t accomplished anything and doesn’t even know what to do with her idle time at home.”
I said: “You can start drawing again now.”
Mom froze briefly before letting out an awkward laugh and waving her hand. “I’m going to stop talking. I’m going to cook. What do you feel like?”
“Green pepper and shredded pork.” I returned the notebook to her.
During the handover, I caught a glimpse of my mom’s hands. They were coarse and tinted yellow from all the cooking she did. Her knuckles were thick. They didn’t look like hands that could handle a sketch pencil.
When I started the first year of senior high, my mom gave up her business aspirations altogether and became a full-time housewife again to back me up. She used the money she earned in the previous years to buy a pink Suzuki Alto. She wanted to drive me to school every day instead of letting me become a boarder.
My dad also saved some money as his job fortunes improved. My parents sold our apartment and bought a new unit located closer to downtown.
Before we moved, my mom consulted a feng shui expert on the most auspicious time to move.
It turned out to be 3 a.m. one day. The three of us walked toward our new apartment in the chilly, empty streets of Huanggang clutching a ladder, a metal basin and a cloth bag—tools that were part of the ritual for blessing our new abode.
My dad complained in between shivers. “You never believe in this stuff. What’s different this time? I have to work in the morning.”
My mom didn’t talk back, just staring forward as she concentrated on her gait. In the dark cover of night, I caught a glimpse of her smiling stealthily. She whispered: “Because I think we’re about to start a new life.”
She turned toward me and said: “Son, I also asked the feng shui expert about you. He said you will definitely get into a top university and make a name for yourself. I’m not counting on you being accomplished or what not. Just don’t go about life like your parents.” I kept my head down and didn’t respond.
4.
Photo taken by the author’s mother. Courtesy The Story Plan.
Our new apartment was much bigger than the old one. We got a bit of financial help from my grandparents, so Mom and Dad didn’t want to rely on them for renovation costs. Hoping to make our new home presentable on a budget, my mom started shopping for furniture on Taobao.com and mixing and matching herself. Lo and behold, it was like she had discovered a new passion. From our tables to our chairs to the wallpaper and wall art—she spent days picking each item.
Sometimes I got fed up and asked: “Why the hassle? Why don’t you stick with some simple combinations? Otherwise it’s so much trouble.” She responded: “ You don’t understand. Rarely do I get to call the shots on something.”
When our new home was finally fully decorated, my dad and I were taken aback by how good it looked.
My dad said: “Who knew you had a bit of talent when it comes to things like this?”
My mom struggled to contain her delight.
But our new life wasn’t as perfect as we had imagined. In senior high, I became rebellious and sick of school. I had a foul temper, arguing with my mom nearly on a daily basis.
Sometimes when I lost it, I would yell: “You never should have had me in the first place!”
My mom shouted back in an even louder voice: “You think I wanted you? I’d love to stuff you back into my tummy.”
Then she would break down in tears on our balcony.
I always wondered why she got so upset.
It turns out the feng shui expert was wrong about my academic prospects too. After graduating senior high, I passed the university entrance exam for arts students, earning a spot at a second-tier university in my hometown.
Still, my mom breathed a sigh of relief. She said: “As long as you can keep studying, that’s great. Why don’t you move to campus? Don’t stay at home anymore.”
But once I moved out, my mom ran out of things to do. All she did was watch TV and wait for my dad to come home from work. After a while, she couldn’t take it anymore, but she didn’t know what to do.
Back then, I was always asking my parents for money. First, it was a new mountain bike, then a DSLR camera to try my hand at photography. But I got tired of both quickly.
One weekend, I had just finished a meal at home and was getting ready to watch a bit of TV. After my mom finished her dishes, she grabbed a bag of potato chips from her room and approached me, asking in a creepy tone: “How come you’re not using your DSLR camera anymore?”
I said: “I don’t feel like playing with it anymore. It’s not that interesting. If it gets on your nerves, just sell it. It’s basically brand new.”
My mom said: “What a waste. I wanted to ask you how it works. Last time when I went for a walk I spotted an elderly man from our residential complex running around shooting flowers with the same thing. It seems quite interesting. Why don’t you teach me?”
I said: “It’s very hard. You definitely don’t have the patience.”
She insisted. So I started with the basics—aperture settings, shutter speed and light sensitivity. After listening for some time, she still didn’t get it. I dug out an introductory text on photography and asked her to read it herself while I got on with my TV viewing.
Lo and behold, she stuck with it.
A few months later, she started sending me pictures she took all the time, asking: “How do you think your mom did?”
Initially, I would offer feedback—this shot was overexposed, the composition on that picture wasn’t great.
Eventually, I could no longer offer any constructive criticism. Even though I never told her, deep down I know she’s a better photographer than me now.
5.
The author’s study, now converted by his mom into her art studio. Courtesy The Story Plan.
One day, Mom called when I was gaming in my dorm room. We exchanged pleasantries.
Then I asked: “How are your photo shoots coming along?”
She said: “Photography is pretty fun, but it’s a shame that your mom hasn’t traveled much. The pictures by master photographers taken around the world featured in the photo editing software I use are so beautiful, but those locations are beyond my reach. I’ve shot everything there is to shoot in tiny Huanggang.”
She sighed before continuing: “I feel like rediscovered my passion as a kid. I’m not getting my fix from photography. I’ve decided to take drawing lessons again.”
My roommate started getting on my case to start a team for a game, so I blew my mom off. “That’s great. Focus on your drawing. I think you’ll be great. I’m a little busy now.” Then I hung up.
Three months later, I made a trip home. As soon as I set foot in our apartment I shouted: “Mom, what delicious dishes are awaiting me?”
No one responded. I took off my shoes and switched to slippers before heading to the kitchen. She wasn’t there. My dad was on the couch watching TV.
I asked: “Where’s my mom? How come she didn’t cook?”
He grunted. “She’s busy drawing. Where’s the time to cook?”
I headed to our bedrooms and noticed her seated and facing an easel in my study. A statue sat on a chair nearby.
Wearing reading classes and armed with a pencil, she squinted as she sketched on a piece of drawing paper.
I said: “So you’ve really started drawing again.”
She said: “Yeah. I just started my classes. How does this look?”
I said: “It looks decent. How come you didn’t cook today?”
“She said: “I’m busy. Why don’t you and your dad cook some noodles. Make a bowl for me while you’re at it.”
My dad was probably eavesdropping. He blurted suddenly: “Your mom has become a rebel. She doesn’t like to cook anymore, always immersed in her drawing. She’s actually paying for lessons on Sunday. What a waste of money.”
My mom pursed her lips and ignored him.
After graduating from college, after consulting my family, I decided to leave Huanggang and give Beijing a shot.
Mom said: “Go ahead. It’s a great idea. That will also free up your study for me.” She wanted to convert my study into her own studio.
Before I left, I had a long chat with her. It had been years since we had such a peaceful conversation in person. Suddenly a question dawned on me. “Are there drawing lessons for adults in Huanggang?”
She said: “I wish! I’m just taking classes at a cram center for students taking the university entrance exam in the arts. There aren’t any adults taking drawing lessons in a small place like Huanggang. My teacher is more than 10 years younger than I am.”
I stared at my mom and imagined her heading to the studio every Sunday morning, backpack in tow, sitting among a group of 15- or 16-year-old senior high students, wearing her reading glasses and paying close attention to the teacher.
That year she turned 48.
The other students must cast furtive glances at her. Her presence in that classroom intended for students sitting for the university entrance exam in the arts must stand out and feel special at the same time. It struck me then my mom had become a bit alien to me.
On my mom’s birthday in late 2019, I wished her happy birthday via video chat.
She thanked me, then sent me a few of her recent drawings and asked for my feedback.
She was already too advanced for me to evaluate but I still said: “They look decent.”
At that point, my dad approached to interject: “Your mom is possessed, drawing all day and night.”
My mom wrested back control of the conversation. “You’re an adult now and I’m old. Now that I don’t have to worry about you anymore, I’m going to be myself.”
After hanging up, I had an epiphany. I dug out a few of her photos and drawings and posted them on WeChat with the comment: “Mom’s latest work.”
The post was overwhelmed with praise. “This is your mom’s doing? Your mom is so talented!”
The final comment read: “Your mom is an artist who was held back by you.”
I responded: “Indeed.”