I am a speck of dust in the world: social pressure

Author: Xiang Qixin, Editor-in-Chief
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-12-01
Features: People are the creators of society. No one can survive without society. But do you understand society? Do you feel lost? To know, the world around us is colorful, and society is also diverse and complex—there is honesty and hypocrisy, justice and selfishness, kindness and evil. So how can you distinguish truth from falsehood? After reading this book, you will find the answer, and gain even more. Reading that delights the soul has become a new trend in the study lives of modern students. Amidst busy studies, reading heartfelt articles filled with goodness and beauty, like clear and sweet spring water, nourishes our souls and enriches our lives. Read with heart, savor with heart—some articles will inspire you with wisdom, some will make you tearful, some will leave you heartbroken, and some will bring you a knowing smile. Like a gentle spring breeze, they create a pleasant and sweet mood. Reading that comforts the soul will forever leave a fragrance in our memories. Reading this series of books will bring you unprecedented joy.
The Melody of My Son
Xu Ping
My son came home from work, and his father nervously counted his footsteps. Sure enough, his son knocked loudly. The father watched him silently. The son didn’t look at him, as if nodding, and walked toward his bedroom while taking off his coat. The record player turned on again.
Son!
The two sat facing each other to eat. The son was peeling lunch meat, and his father couldn’t see anything unusual on his face. The father said, word by word, “I was dismissed. It will be announced tomorrow.” The son’s face shot up in shock. But the father didn’t see anything else in that fleeting surprise—no pity, no comfort, no regret. The son kept peeling, “You need to rest too.” The father felt tightness in his chest. He stared at his son. The son’s hands were strong and well-shaped, veins pulsing with youth. The son remained silent. The father didn’t speak or keep staring. He noticed the son hastily setting down his chopsticks, looking for clothes, and stepping into the bathroom.
Soon, the sound of running water, “splish-splash,” rose with the son’s singing. His voice was warm and confident, the melody lively.
Son! Son! Son!
What are you thinking? You’re grown up and no longer admire your father. You’re becoming quieter and quieter. You no longer complain about your father’s rigidity or argue endlessly with him about political issues. You don’t say that your father is stubborn anymore. Son, you even look down on your father. But even so, you remain indifferent? Is this the indifference and rationality of this generation? You rushed to eat and take a bath because the typist was waiting for you to go to the opera? But son, I’ve never needed you more than now. My years in office are older than your age. The TV is playing crosstalk.
When the father looked around in confusion, he realized his son hadn’t left but was sitting behind him, reading. The father couldn’t help but wonder: the typist had booked the tickets two days ago and had excitedly asked if he’d go with them. The father had paced all night, and the son had tossed and turned too. The father had aged. Everything about him had aged. The background that once harmonized with his generation had now turned to twilight. This is a changeable era—not just one that requires fervent passion.
In the morning, the son woke up early. The father returned from his morning exercise, and the son had already prepared breakfast. The record player was still on, playing bright and cheerful melodies. The father and son remained silent as they washed and ate. Several times, the son seemed about to speak, but the father, with a trembling hope, remained still, and the son didn’t say anything. The father, hunched over, went to change into his clothes. The son, without knowing when, stood behind him holding a suit.
“Wear this. Look sharp.”—Is it for the announcement meeting?” The son took the tie and walked closer to his father. The father hesitated.
“I’ll tie it for you.” The son looked at his father. His gentle hands were like those of his late wife. The father’s heart tightened.
“Is it okay?” The father shifted aside. The father and son looked at themselves in the mirror in silence. The father stared into his son’s eyes, and the son into his.
“You’ve aged so much overnight,” the son said softly, gently. “But I’ve always been proud of you. Proud of your integrity and selflessness, of your loyalty to your beliefs. You’ve done your best.” The father’s heart surged. The son’s hand on his shoulder was strong. He felt his confidence return, as if air was filling a deflated balloon.
The car horn blew, signaling the end of the ride. The father walked to the door but turned back: “Why didn’t you go see her last night?” The son was silent for a moment. “We broke up.”
“Because I lost my job?” “Probably—not that it matters.”
Son! Son! Son! The father’s eyes filled with tears. The son placed his hands on his father’s shoulders and smiled. “Ending means a new beginning. I’m glad I’m no longer under your brilliant spotlight—I think?”
Son! Son! You can turn up the record player a bit more.