Anna Kushner reads from Becoming Madame Mao by Anchee Min at the 2009 Human Rights Book Fair.

Born in Shanghai, Min was raised in Mao’s China and was torn between the will of the Communist Party and her own integrity. She participated in the Chinese propaganda industry, even playing a lead role in a propaganda film; now, as a writer, her stories are informed by the terror of the Cultural Revolution. Becoming Madame Mao, a work of historical fiction, describes the life of Jiang Qing, the wife of Mao. Jiang was notorious as a “white-boned demon” and was instrumental in the policies of the Cultural Revolution. She was executed after the fall of Mao’s reign.

From Becoming Madame Mao

She learns pain early. When she is four, her mother comes to bind her feet. The mother tells the child that she cannot afford to wait any longer. She promises that afterwards, after the pain, the girl will be beautiful. She will get to marry into a rich family where she doesn’t have to walk but will be carried around in a sedan chair. The three-inch lotus feet are a symbol of prestige and class.

The girl is curious. She sits on a stool barefoot. She plays with the pile of cloth with her toes, picks up a strip, then drops it. Mother is stirring a jar of sticky rice porridge. The girls learns that the porridge will be used as glue. Good glue, strong, won’t tear, Mother says. It seals out the air. The ancient mummies were preserved in the same way. The mother is in her late twenties. She is a pretty woman, long slanting almond-shaped eyes, which the girl inherited. The mother hardly smiles. She describes herself as a radish pickled in the sauce of misery. The girl is used to her mother’s sadness, to her silence during family meals. And she is used to her own position – the last concubine’s daughter, the most distant relative the family considers. Her father was sixty years old when she was born. He has been a stranger to her.

The mother’s hair is lacquer black, wrapped in a bun and fixed with a bamboo pin. She asks the girl to sit still as she begins. She looks solemn as if she is in front of an altar. She doesn’t tell the girl that this is the last time she will see her feet as she knows them. The mother doesn’t tell her that be the time her feet are released they will look like triangle-shaped rice cakes with toenails curled under the sole. The mother tries to concentrate on the girl’s future. A future that will be better than her own.

The mother begins wrapping. The girl watches with interest. The mother applies the paste in between each later of cloth. It is a summer noon. Outside the window are coming little bell flowers, small and red like dropping blood. The girl sees herself, her feet being bound, in her mother’s dressing mirror. Also in the frame, a delicately carved ancient case on the table with a bunch of fresh jasmine in it. The scent is strong. The pendulum of an old clock on the wall swings with a rustic sound. The house is quiet. The other concubines are napping and the servants are sitting in the kitchen quietly peeling beans.

Sweat gathers on her mother’s forehead and begins to drip like broken beads down her cheeks. The girl asks if her mother should take a break. The woman shakes her head and says that she is finishing the task. The girl looks at her feet. They are as thick as elephant legs. The girl finds it amusing. She moves her toes inside the cocoon. Is that it? she asks. When her mother moves away the jar, the girl jumps on the floor and plays.

Stay in bed from now on, her mother says, the pain will take a while.

The girl has no trouble until the third week. She is already tired with her elephant legs and now comes the pain. Her toes scream for space. Her mother is near her. She is there to prevent the girl from tearing off the strips. She guards the elephant legs as if guarding the girl’s future. She keeps explaining to the crying girl why she has to endure the pain. Then it becomes too much. The girls’ feet are infected. The mother’s tears pour. No, no, no, don’t touch them. She insists, cries, curses. Herself. Men. She asks why she didn’t have a son. Again and again she tells the girl that females are like grass, born to be stepped on.

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