The next day, the kindergarten had no classes but activities. The morning was a September 18th memorial service, and the afternoon was a visit to the Martyrs' Cemetery.
At 9:18 AM, the air raid siren sounded. The children stood on the playground, watching the bright red national flag slowly descend to the middle of the flagpole.
Today, before Simon left home, his younger brother thoughtfully informed him of the temperature: 17 degrees Celsius, cloudy. Wearing a dark red and white striped jacket, he still felt a bit cold. The humidity was ninety-eight percent, so it would likely rain.
The air raid siren startled the birds in the city's green belt. They glided on the cool autumn breeze beneath the dim, cloudy sky. The children stood in clusters, heads bowed, but some curious little ones would always turn to look up at the sky.
On the horizon, the city's tall buildings formed a wall with dramatic undulations, like clusters of moss-covered sprouts. The flying birds soared between heaven and earth, like duckweed drifting through the urban jungle. The high-pitched siren from the loudspeakers, a Shepard tone, truly resembled a crying bird, a soul-wrenching singer, constantly filling people with dread.
In the oppressive colors and shrill sounds, the world was like jelly melted by acid wash, like a painter's brush-washing basin. Amidst the turbid, bizarre, and colorful currents, the children stood on an island encircled by their ancestors' shoulders, feeling secure, able to look around, but there were always days when they had to bow their heads and look at the bones of their predecessors.
Zhang Yingxuan's face was taut, and tears streamed down incessantly.
Su Xiangli looked at him, bewildered and at a loss.
Qiu Qiongzh was secretly watching a black crow on a camphor tree in the corner of the playground.
Simon just stood there, without any extra movements, his mind empty, without any extra thoughts.
The teachers stood in front of the flag stand, also bowing their heads. The school leaders stood on the rostrum, also bowing their heads.
Whether sincerely or unintentionally, everyone bowed their heads, like statues.
…
On the way to the Martyrs' Cemetery, all eighty-plus children from the school took a large bus, Simon's favorite mode of transport. He used to enjoy leaning his head against the vibrating window, watching the scenery outside, but that was in the past. Now, cars are very stable, and urban scenery is monotonous and not very captivating.
Simon still remembered the scenery along the road between the city and the suburbs back then: large rice fields under a partly cloudy sky, power poles one by one along the road, six or seven power lines. The car drove along the roadside, the concrete road rapidly speeding backward, the anti-slip stripes blurring together, and the power lines moving up and down in his field of vision…
Simon was somewhat concerned about Teacher Wang Shuonian's romantic status. He wondered if the Mid-Autumn Festival greeting card left a good impression on the lady. He leaned forward to look at the front row; they were sitting quite far apart. Could it be that the letter was too subtle? Why am I even paying attention to an adult's love life?
How to put it, this is life.
Simon stared at the back of the seat in front of him. It was a bit dirty, stained with some suspicious smudges. Were they nasal secretions left by the previous passenger who sat in his seat, using a limb? Or perhaps just drink stains, food spills? The hygiene on buses is indeed worse than other modes of transportation. Who would ride such a bus? An elderly tour group?
Simon suddenly felt a huge sense of defeat and dejection. It was truly an unhappy day, better not to mention it.
However, classmate Zhang Yingxuan seemed even sadder. His father was a very patriotic person, and as the saying goes, it was a family tradition. To be able to empathize with historical suffering at such a young age was actually quite remarkable. According to Simon's observation, over ninety-eight percent of the carefree little rascals were oblivious, and most adults were numb.
Classmate Zhang Yingxuan tried to hold it in, but he couldn't, and he burst into tears.
When he cried, for some reason, a little girl from the Hummingbird class also started crying.
One led to two, and two led to three. Before long, the bus was filled with crying, turning into a funeral parlor.
The teachers were flustered, and the driver's face was ashen as he gripped the steering wheel.
Simon, however, suddenly chuckled.
Qiu Qiongzh was also secretly laughing.
Some children didn't even know why they were crying; they just joined in the wailing. Now, seeing someone laugh, they immediately cheered up.
In the ever-changing scene of crying and laughing, little Zhang Yingxuan was the most earnest, sweating profusely and tears streaming down. When everyone else was laughing, only he remained, sorrowful to the point of being heartbreaking.
…
Su Xiangli recorded Zhang Yingxuan's miserable face. As the four of them waited in line outside the Martyrs' Cemetery, they gathered to watch the video.
Simon laughed mercilessly, and Su Xiangli laughed so hard her hands shook, blurring the video. Qiu Qiongzh stared intently at Zhang Yingxuan with narrowed eyes. The little boy's face was flushed, and he looked a bit angry.
"Stop watching!"
"Alright, alright, just a little longer."
They huddled together, laughing and joking until the line started moving. How many schools could fit into a Martyrs' Cemetery? The answer was six.
Two kindergartens, one primary school, and three middle schools.
Although there are many schools now, leading to smaller student populations per school, six schools' worth of teachers and students was still a considerable number. It was a bustling, boisterous crowd, with red flags and colorful banners waving. Even the most solemn occasion became vulgar, noisy, and tiring.
Simon recalled that whenever there was a school-wide activity when he was a child, a reflective essay was always required afterward. Listening to the conversations of those primary and middle school students, it seemed that this fine tradition was indeed continuing.
In Simon's opinion, there was really nothing good to write about. Monotony aside, what kind of reflections could one have in such a crowded and joyful environment?
Write a narrative essay? On a certain day of a certain month, we came to a certain cemetery. An older brother from middle school and a younger brother from primary school got into a fight over a broom to sweep the martyrs' graves. Then they were both reprimanded by their teachers. From this story, we deeply realized the importance of maintaining order… What a load of nonsense! Simon, upon seeing this scene, only thought that these little brats were so stupid, eagerly fighting over dirty, tiring work.
But he couldn't really write that, could he? On a solemn day, in a solemn setting, one must behave solemnly, right? You can't discuss academics in a mahjong hall, nor can you tell jokes in a library.
What exactly is form, and what is propriety?
Simon hated that phrase from adults the most: "You need to know your limits."
Young people should be genuine, straightforward, and lawless. What limits…
Perhaps that's for later?
Just like years ago, Simon would also fight for a broom to sweep graves, simply because it wasn't a chore; it was an honorable, proactive act, a way of remembering ancestors.
Being moved by oneself is a very foolish thing, but a group's self-感動 is rather noble. This is not sarcasm, but a very strange fact.
Simon saw little Zhang Yingxuan gripping a broom, and another brat from an outside school was also gripping that broom. So, Simon, the righteous companion, charged forward with a yell, pressing his palm on the other kid's face, helping Zhang Yingxuan claim the broom for himself.
Today, this cemetery is reserved for our Chun Ya New Kindergarten!
…
Sun Hui put down her phone and looked coldly at her son.
"The teacher said you bullied other children. Is that true?"
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