Real Red Sorrow

Anyone who has:

1. gone through my previous posts
2. walked through the Boston Chinatown gates with me
3. been with me at the Bookstore ATM when I've picked up a copy of the Epoch Times
4. talked about human rights in China with me
5. debated the concept of freedom of religion with me
(and/or been through a long series of other related activities)

knows that I hold onto an intense dislike for pro-Falun Gong activism. I dislike the irrationality, the opportunism, and the serious disregard with the comfort levels of the general public.

Anyone who has really spoken to me frankly about how I  get through all the massive amounts of reading that I seem to get through for school also knows that my favourite technique in tackling a new and thick reading assignment is to read the first chapter, the last chapter, and then figure out whether or not I need to read the rest.

When I picked up Nanchu's Red Sorrow, my reaction to the last chapter consisted of a shake of the head in disbelief, a roll of the eyes, topped off with an exaggerated sigh. The epilogue describes the contemporary day protagonist, after emigrating to the United States for more than a decade, observing the tranquility and harmoniousness of the Falun Gong practitioners. Nanchu compares their desire to be included in a group and movement that searches for meaning with her own meaningful educational experiences after being a part of the "lost generation" of the Cultural Revolution.

Unfortunately for Nanchu's new friends, shortly after she returned to the United States after observing the benevolence of the Falun Gong movement the Chinese government banned the practice and proliferation of Falun Gong. Nanchu's book thus became a work of activism, advocating for the legality of Falun Gong.

Naturally, the significant political nature of Nanchu's memoir deeply annoyed me, but I had to wade my way through the narrative for the purposes of being a good student and coming up with something substantial to write for my last Chinese history research paper (ever?). I had planned to scoff a little at the probability of encountering 'broken' English, passages written awkwardly on purposes to showcase the writer's inherent inability to feel comfortable and fit in in liberal Western society (as a result of living through a decade of authoritarian turmoil, of course).

I did not start reading Red Sorrow with an open mind--how could I have, when it was likely to read like another Wild Swans, made worse by possible endorsement by Falun Gong?

However, while there is a lot (of bad things) to be said about faux-spiritual activism, Nanchu pens her memoir with unexpected dexterity and leaves out the unnecessary Amy Tan-esque allusions to Chinese mythology, ghosts and monsters. She doesn't recreate traumatic events through illogical foreshadowing, as if from a premature Western consciousness. Her recounting of being the reluctant hero of a house fire is much more sincere than Jung Chang's supposed emotional stability while her friends are all caught up in an ideological hype.

Before Nanchu published Red Sorrow in 2001, the pressure on and appeal for Westernised Chinese autobiographers to make their past (pre-freedom) experiences sound completely, irrevocably inhumane was present. Maybe Nanchu started to break out of this stereotype. If this is the direction that Cultural Revolution and Red China memoirs are headed, then I approve.