I and my Yan Suqing dad

Author: Brother Yu
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-05-01
Features: Once, I went to the courtyard to visit my parents and came out at the gate, where I bumped into a girl from a band. I knew she lived next door to my sister's apartment, so I called her in and gave her a ride. On the way, she asked me, "Why are you in the Air Force Political and Cultural Corps?" I said, "To watch people." She asked, "Who are you watching?" I said, "Yan Su." "Oh, Teacher Yan Su? What do you want with him?" I said, "He's my dad." She widened her eyes in surprise, "Wow? Teacher Yan Su has a son?" In the past two years, I often recalled my childhood and remembered my father, and that's why I wanted to record the lifelong father-son bond between us and Teacher Yan Su. Later, when I chatted with two sisters from the China Women's Press, they encouraged me to just write a book. I felt honored and thought, "How could I possibly write a book? There are so many books out there, and even professional writers are modest about their craft." But I took a bold chance and secretly started writing with my father's encouragement. Now, I just hope Dad won't be too stern after reading it.
My father was a very diligent person, always striving for the best in everything. After joining the Air Force Political and Cultural Corps, he gradually shifted toward literary creation. In my eyes, my father never really had weekends. Even if he had some free time on Saturdays, he'd return to work on Sundays, especially when he was younger. He dedicated almost all his spare time to reading plays, literature, and watching performances. He studied and explored various forms of theater and folk arts, from Sichuan Opera, Qingyin, Duan Shuanghuang, Sichuan Pingshu, Yue Opera, to Bangzi. He knew every specialty and of each genre. In the corps, he often taught young performers ancient poetry and classical Chinese, though sometimes he'd make up stories and joke around—because, after all, he wasn't a serious person by nature.
Speaking of my father's lack of seriousness, I should also mention why he changed his name. During his time in the Southwest Cultural Work Team, people often told him he wasn't serious enough because he loved to joke, tell stories, and cause trouble. After some thought, he said, "If you say I'm not serious, then I'll change my name from Yan Zhiyang to Yan Su. Can you still say I'm not serious?" And so, his name was changed to Yan Su. But even after the name change, my father remained just as unserious as ever.
During that period, on weekends, the corps sometimes sent bands, backup singers, and dancers to perform in Zhongnanhai and attend small joint celebrations with the leaders of the People's Republic. Back then, leaders often enjoyed mingling with the people. My father went a few times. He said the first time was to a small party at Chunouzhai in Zhongnanhai, where he saw several national leaders. He was very excited and, on his way out, secretly plucked a leaf from a cluster of evergreen plants near the gate as a souvenir. Later, when he went more often, he realized he couldn't keep doing that—otherwise, the evergreen would end up bald.
Before I was born, the most troublesome thing for my father was accompanying my mother shopping. Most young women love shopping, and the more attractive ones, the better. My mother was no exception.
Back then, my mother would often shop from the southern end of Wangfujing Street to the northern end, cross the road to the other side, and then shop her way back to the south. My father had no choice but to follow behind, and it drove him crazy! A man as time-conscious and diligent as my father couldn't understand what women wanted when they were on the street! But no matter how angry he got, he still had to follow. By the time they reached the end, my mother was still happily browsing in a shop, while my father stood on the other side of the road, glaring at her in frustration. This became their biggest conflict during that time.
A few days after I was born, my mother, having been out of town for a long time and recovered, wanted to go shopping again. Our home was in Dengshikou, right in the city center, so it was very convenient. As usual, my mother led the way while my father held me. They entered the department store together. My mother stopped in front of the clock counter, trying to pick out a watch, and my father waited behind with me. Perhaps because he waited too long, or maybe because holding me wasn't comfortable, or for some other reason—I don't know, but perhaps my father "dramatized" the whole thing later. In any case, the infant in my arms suddenly flew out of my father's hands, landing over a meter away with a loud crash!
"Aargh!" Everyone nearby jumped in shock. The glass counter cracked, and I started crying immediately. My mother rushed forward and held me, frantically checking for injuries. She looked left and right but found nothing wrong. My father quickly approached, and my mother glared fiercely at him. "I didn't touch anything! He flew out like a cannonball!" my father protested innocently.
"Are you kidding? Can he fly on his own?" my mother shot him a skeptical look.
"It's true! I would never throw my own son! It was all his fault—he just flew away!"
Everyone laughed.
But laughing aside, the broken counter had to be repaired, so my father paid for it. To this day, he still can't figure out how he could have held me so securely and yet I flew out like a cannonball, so far away. Neither can I, really.