The simple style enfolds you in the soul of this middle-aged Chinese woman as she constantly reflects, plans and changes her mind over how she is taken for granted by her mother, her husband and her daughter. The chance of a lover to cherish her is dazzling but illicit, so she can never admit it as a choice. There’s the irony of a two-class society under Communism, also the oppression of rural poverty which could be anywhere in the world.
These days, nobody called me by my own name. Perhaps people had forgotten it, or some people had never known it. I was that woman who cries at funerals. The husband and I hadn't called each other anything for years, and it didn't bother me. Names were only important when people were born, when they got married and when they died.
When I was crying at funerals, I had to call out the names of the deceased at the beginning and the end, and sometimes also read out the names of the mourning family if required. When the names of the deceased were heard in the hall or the courtyard, there was an atmosphere of awe. It was like the announcement of their leaving.
Dad and Mum never called my name gently. There was no need. Everyone talked loudly in the village. A lot of people gave their children random names. The most common pet names for a boy in the countryside were Dog Egg or Pig Baby, and Girl Egg or Little Flower for a girl. I would be embarrassed if Mum and Dad called me anything like that. It was worse than no name.
