New Haven

ON Oct. 1, 1959, I took part in a parade for the 10th anniversary of the Communist revolution that led to the founding of the People’s Republic of China. I was a middle-school student in the central city of Xian, and my classmates and I gathered at school before dawn. We marched into the city’s main square, where senior party leaders would review the parade.

As members of the Young Pioneers, a Communist youth organization, we were all in uniform  we boys in crisp white shirts tucked into navy slacks and the girls in white shirts and blue pleated skirts that swayed in the brisk morning breeze. Each of us had a red scarf neatly tied around the neck. We were like meticulously arranged flowers, waiting for inspection.

The senior party leaders showed up late, as usual. By the time they delivered their slogan-filled speeches and initiated the flag-raising ceremony, we had already been standing like statues for several hours, our feet planted to the ground. Nobody was allowed to make a noise or leave the group, even though I badly needed to answer the call of nature. Instead, I raised my arms repeatedly and joined the crowd in shouting: “Long live the Chinese Communist Party! Long live Chairman Mao!”

Standing next to me was a student who seemed to share my anxiety. She was pretty, with closely cropped hair. Her eyes darted around impatiently. We waved our arms, chanting slogans like everyone else.