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Where Do All the Birds Go? | The Walrus

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Māmā, as a child living in rural China, did not believe in God. She believed in gambling and studying under the sunlight of oil lamps and carrying cow dung to and from school. She did not believe in saints or capitalism or prophecy. She believed in crops growing to their fullest size, steamed buns made from potatoes, and the cabbage head of Mao. This was their Father—Mao was Father—and all children planted and sown were His children. Generations and generations were destined for greatness and superpowers, destined for fortune and red eyes that held His stars. In the morning, rows of dry houses would birth vegetables into the earth and see which of their children would survive the cold dryness of the soil. Māmā would tie on the only pair of shoes in the neighbourhood and chew sunflower seeds until her teeth fell out. She would walk a few miles to school—snow and fire and ice and freezing rain—and she would stand for the national anthem. To Māmā, this was what made them—mute children, bl

Māmā, as a child living in rural China, did not believe in God. She believed in gambling and studying under the sunlight of oil lamps and carrying cow dung to and from school. She did not believe in saints or capitalism or prophecy. She believed in crops growing to their fullest size, steamed buns made from potatoes, and the cabbage head of Mao. This was their Father—Mao was Father—and all children planted and sown were His children. Generations and generations were destined for greatness and superpowers, destined for fortune and red eyes that held His stars. In the morning, rows of dry houses

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