Bryant Shelly - A life in words: my writing journey

These friends had only met me when I was already in my thirties. They did not know what a huge difference there was between my childhood self and the person I have become today.

During my childhood, I was an extremely lonely, solitary individual. At school, I never opened my mouth, never uttered a sound, silent as a fish swimming at the bottom of the deepest sea.

The written word was my whole world, my heaven and earth. I used words to build myself a tall, mighty fortress, and I would gladly hide away in that fortress all day, finding great pleasure there. While other children my age were playing outdoors, or when my classmates were chatting about meaningless stuff, I would hide behind a thick volume of renowned ancient literature, reading to my hearts content. My classmates, all thinking me quite an odd creature, kept their distance. I was not at all well-liked, but I never once took notice of that. I was quite content living in my own world.

I remember once my teacher wanted to do a group activity. There were thirty-one students in class, and the teacher told us to divide into six groups of five students. Everyone quickly searched out his or her own friends to form a group, then the six groups sat, chattering happily as they waited for the teachers instructions. There was only one person extra, with no place to go, and no classmates pulling her into their little circles. She stood there like a little stray puppy. That person was me. Under strict orders from the teacher, one group grudgingly pulled me into their midst. They all looked resentful, like someone who disliked oily food being forced to gobble down a piece of fatty pork. Seeing how utterly displeased they were, I wanted to tell the teacher, Lets not do this. Let me do the activity by myself! But the teachers expression was blank, like a building with no windows. Of course I did not dare complain. This was the first time in my life I felt how distasteful loneliness was.

In the classroom, I was not a very attentive student. Every day, in each class, I hid my own books inside the textbook, reading furtively. Because I was so quiet, the teachers were all misled. They mistook me for a well-behaved, hardworking student, and harboured no suspicions about my study ethic. I read a great number of the worlds literary classics during class, when I should have been listening to my lessons.

Though my schoolwork was always a mess, my quiet demeanour kept my teachers from trying to understand the problem, so they all assumed I was just naturally not very clever. When they looked at me, they could not hide the pity in their eyes. I could almost hear what they were thinking: Its a pity shes really not very smart. I continued along my own path, seeking my greatest joy in books that had nothing to do with my studies.

When I was in Primary 5, my homeroom teacher, Mr Xie Zhaoan, wrote this in my report card: Her results are not very good; she needs to work harder! She is a bit of a loner, not liking the company of others.

In my Primary 6 report card, my teacher, Mr Xu Tongxiong, wrote: She is quite reticent, and her results are not up to scratch. She needs to work harder.

Throughout my primary school career, every report card I took home was filled with a long flow of red ink. The only black figures were the marks beside Chinese and Literature, like birds flying over a sea of red. I did not have to do any preparation for these two classes. I breezed through every exam, usually getting the top score in the class.

When I took my red-faced report card home, the person who was most puzzled and heartbroken was, of course, my father. He placed great value on education. My sister and brother were both model students, and were constantly praised by everyone they met. My father could not understand how, in his stable of swift steeds, he ended up being stuck with one mule. Every day, didnt he see me sitting obediently at the table, head bent over my homework? Why were my results such a mess? (He had no clue about my extracurricular reading underneath my homework.) What puzzled him was that nothingnot gentle instruction, harsh admonition, affable cajoling, or ingenious bribeshad any results.

One day, when I brought back yet another report card covered in red, my father flipped through it, enraged but silent. He pulled his arm back and threw that report card right out the door, where it flew into the drain. Fortunately, it was a clear, dry day, and there was no water in the drain. I squatted on its edge and, reaching down with both hands, pulled my crumpled report book out.

My father shouted, Last term, didnt you promise me you would study harder? Why are your results still so bad? Tell me!

What could I possibly say? Surely I couldnt tell my father that I was only interested in books that had nothing to do with school. I couldnt tell him that, the whole time I was in class, I did not listen to anything that was said, and then when I came home, I only wanted to read my own books. Of course I couldnt say that! So I kept my mouth shut.

Seeing no response from me, my father grew even angrier. Though he seldom used harsh methods of punishment, he took out the cane and swung it through the air a few times, making it whir. He indicated my hands, and I held them up. He raised the cane and brought it down on both palms several times, raising branches of red welts on them. Pain shot from my palms up my arms and to my shoulders. I gritted my teeth, putting all my effort into keeping myself from crying. After I went into my room, I applied medicated oil slowly and gently to the swollen, blood-red welts. Even in this miserable state, I was thinking to myself,