Birth of Our Eldest Daughter

Not long after we returned from Lukang to Penghu I found I was pregnant again and was quietly glad. Our son was already over three; I had long wanted a daughter.

Through the pregnancy I still took in dressmaking and sometimes took my son to Magong for films. I remember one called The Legend of Mazu, with a six-year-old Chang Ai-ling as young Mazu and many veteran stars such as Li Li-hua. I had been a film fan since childhood, so however busy I was, when a new picture arrived I found a way to see it. Servicemen and dependants could buy half-price tickets, so films did not cost much.

After I became pregnant we moved house for the third time in Penghu.

Mrs Tong from our Tainan dependants’ village had lost her eldest daughter to acute otitis media after a week of high fever. She had just given birth to her second child and was in confinement. The eldest was only three. After such a blow, more than two years later Mrs Tong’s mind was still clouded, near collapse. Mr Tong was desperate and arranged a transfer to Penghu to leave that painful place in Tainan.

When Mr Tong was looking for a house in Dongwei, Penghu, he discussed with us renting a larger place together—two families under one roof—to keep his wife company and help her recover her former healthy, cheerful self. We agreed to help, and moved again.

The new landlord Mr Zhuang and his wife were very kind. They had six children. To make ends meet they rented both main bedrooms to us; their family of eight squeezed into the side wings. The two families had no kitchen and had to put a stove on each side of the sitting room.

So in one large sitting room, with the Zhuang ancestors’ tablet in the centre, my sewing machine for dressmaking on one side and a stove at each bedroom doorway serving as a tiny kitchen, our two families, the landlord’s family, and his brother’s family—nearly twenty people—lived together in lively bustle. We shared one water jar; whoever noticed it running low hurried to fetch more, and the next person who saw would compete to carry water too.

Four households in a small three-wing courtyard got on harmoniously, laughing and joking. Mrs Tong’s spirits slowly improved and we could see her smile again.

Days passed amid the cinema, the sewing machine, and everyone’s laughter.

When I had our first child I had no experience. Now, expecting our second, I prepared everything early and waited calmly for the birth.

On 14 February 1956 (the second day of the lunar new year), pains began in the afternoon. I felt the baby was coming. My husband and his colleagues were playing mahjong in the sitting room. I went over and whispered that I might be in labour and asked him to fetch the midwife.

With the first birth behind me I was no longer afraid. Encouraged by the midwife, I bore the pain until after midnight, when the baby cried at last—a girl. Sister Chunmei, the midwife, said, “Your wish came true—congratulations!” As she bathed the infant she added, “A child born at this hour will have a very good life.” I thought if my daughter’s fate was good, my hardship would be worth it. The baby was adorable; my husband was glad to have a daughter.

After her full-month celebration, for some reason she began to cry as soon as it grew dark and would cry until dawn.

She slept by day and cried by night, loudly. I rocked her in my arms; when she slept I laid her gently on the bed and she woke at once and cried louder. My husband and I took turns holding her. Sometimes she still cried in our arms loudly enough for the neighbours to hear. We were worn out. My husband worked day and night shifts; without enough sleep his work would suffer, so we were desperate.

The kind landlady and the wives of colleagues offered advice: imitate locals and worship the “bed mother” (in Taiwanese); imitate mainlanders and cover the child with Father’s clothes and shoes turned inside out (these had to be done while the child slept). We tried everything; she still cried. Days passed; she was three months old and nothing was solved.

One day Mrs Liu Quancheng—she was from the north—taught us another method: “Write a short charm and paste it on a roadside telegraph pole or wall. Passers-by who read it aloud help; the more who read, the better. Try it.” This was the charm she gave us: “Heaven so bright, earth so bright, our home has a crying child; gentlemen passing by, chant it thrice, and sleep till broad daylight.” My husband was embarrassed to post by day; when it was quiet at night he went out with the written charm and pasted it here and there, hoping this time it would work.

Not long after the charms went up our daughter reached four months. Whether the charm worked or, as some say, crying stops naturally at four months, from then on she no longer cried through the night. I was grateful to friends for every suggestion that helped us through those exhausting days.

Our daughter grew very lovely. The flaw was that she knew people too well: only Mama would do. If anyone else tried to hold her she wailed at once. In the end only Mrs Tong could mind her; no one else might even touch her.