Shanghai No. 17 Cotton Textile Factory, or Seventeen Cotton for short, has been part of our family history. Two factory locations, the South Mill and North Mill, were separated by Yangshupu Road, a busy thoroughfare running east to west in the city of Shanghai. Seventeen Cotton was a major employer for several generations in our family. My paternal and maternal grandfathers both worked and retired from the North Mill, while my parents, my little aunt's husband, and cousin worked, retired, or prompted from the South Mill. My father's elder brother who used to work in the North Mill too was transferred in the 1950s to Xian, as part of the governmental efforts to foster and strengthen heavy and light industries in less developed provinces and cities.
Our experience with Seventeen Cotton is at once bitter and sweet. On the one hand, it provided us with an ample and stable income, for my grandparents were strong with their technical skills, and my parents were known for their managerial capabilities. On the other hand, it doggedly followed national trends in various ideological and political movements, to persecute and purge its employees, especially those middle managers. In the early 1950s, my maternal grandfather was forced to confess imaginary crimes, forcing the whole family to pull together their money, and gold and silver to pay back the requisite phantom bribery. When he was eventually proven innocent, the currency was returned, but not the precious gold that flowed directly into the government vault. The unfortunate incident became a bone of contention among family members, totally ruining his amicable relationship with his stepson's family. The grandfather did not fare better either in the 1960's when the Cultural Revolution started. As a section manager with certain executive power, he automatically became an "enemy of people". Relieved of all administrative duties, my grandfather was on long-term sick leave with reduced pay for more than a decade, until he reached the age of 60 when he could retire. Two years later, he had been diagnosed with late stage brain cancer, and passed away within six months.
Compared with my maternal grandfather who had joined a couple of affiliations of the Kuomingtang, due to his position at the North Mill, my parents had a relatively easier time, with their newly-minted careers in the 1950s. Like many promising young people then, they were duly educated and promoted through the evening school run by Seventeen Cotton and outside professional programs. Like my grandfather, their careers reached a stalemate in the mid-1960s, especially after the breakout of Cultural Revolution. They were thrown into all kinds of political currents, and labelled with diverse anti-revolutionary tags. Being a pupil of the elementary school attached to Seventeen Cotton, I had the chance of visiting and work practice in the same factory regularly, as part of curriculum requirements. At the beginning, I really enjoyed those extra curriculum activities. I loved the food in the factory dining hall. Different from our usual family meals, the factory food had a great variety and selection to choose from. I liked my work in #4 Weaving Workshop, where we paired ourselves with different workers. My supervisor was impressed with my swiftness and accuracy in joining yarns. During the break time, I would sneak out to visit my parents and watch them in real action. Once I saw my father supplying workers with heavy bags of cotton. I was shocked to see him in work clothing outside his office. On another occasion, I went to the #2 Weaving Section. As soon as I entered the insulated door, I was greeted with a familiar voice. My mother was holding a meeting attended by at least a few hundred people. She was so calm and eloquent that I felt an immediate pang of guilt, as if I had intruded on her personal and professional space.
My idyllic time at Seventeen Cotton did not last very long. In our fifth grade, we went to the South Mill as usual. The moment we queued to enter the gate, I saw big letters splashing on the ground in front of the factory administrative building on the left side. There were big-character posters hanging on the walls too. They were all specifically pointing to my mother, accusing her of being a spy, and loyal lackey of the Kuomingtang. I was blindsided with this sudden change of political wind. Meanwhile, it dawned on me that my life would never be the same again. Before long, some unobtrusive classmates became aggressive and would mock me at my parents' expense. I found myself apprehensive of those regular factory visits, dreading that those big letters and posters would reappear.
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