A Tale of Two Cities Supporting Xinjiang

Time seemed to drag on endlessly as people bent over, reached out, and pulled.

The sun is getting stronger and stronger, making people's scalps burn.

The shells of cotton bolls can sometimes be very hard and prickly; the cotton fibers, when damp with sweat, stick to your hands and arms, causing itching and discomfort.

Chang Peng and Jiang Hengli soon experienced backaches and their fingers ached from the friction, causing them to slow down more and more, while Abudu persisted.

After working for less than two hours, Abudu's fingers developed two shiny blisters.

At noon, the foreman brought lunch: two hard, dry steamed buns, a bowl of vegetable soup with hardly any oil, and a few pieces of pickled vegetables. The three of them sat on the edge of the field to eat.

Chang Peng took a bite of the steamed bun and chewed it for a long time before swallowing it.

Jiang Hengli drank the bland vegetable soup without saying a word.

The afternoon was even harder to endure.

Fatigue, scorching heat, repetitive and extremely tedious work, and increasingly painful blisters on the hands.

Abudu's movements slowed down noticeably, and each bend appeared heavy.

As the sun began to set, the foreman came over to weigh the items.

Chang Peng and Jiang Hengli together picked less than 40 jin (20 kg).

Abudu is a little over 50 jin (approximately 25 kg).

The foreman, pressing the calculator, said to Abudu, "Thirty-five yuan and a half. If you come again tomorrow, remember to bring your own gloves."

Thirty-five yuan. From dawn till dusk, nearly ten hours, my back was almost broken, my hands were bleeding, and I earned thirty-five yuan.

Abudu stood still for a long time without moving.

Chang Peng's voice rang out from behind, "Do you still think it's more useful than studying?"

Abudu lowered his head and did not answer.

"Let's go back first. Grandma is frantic with worry."

Abudu has returned, but it seems his soul is still lost in the cotton field.

He became even more silent in class, his eyes always drifting towards the window.

Jiang Hengli seized the opportunity and completely overturned the content of the next Chinese lesson.

Instead of teaching the text, he wrote two essay topics on the blackboard:

1. A Day in the Life of a Migrant Worker

2. My View on Reading and Making Money

"No word count requirement, no need to pay attention to rhetoric, just write your most genuine thoughts and experiences."

Jiang Hengli said, "Abudu, you are the most qualified to speak on this, so let's start with you."

Abudu stared at the second question for a long time.

He remembered the scorching sun in the cotton fields, his blistered fingers, the thirty-five yuan, his parents' tired voices on the phone, his grandmother's back as she sewed under the lamp, and also the English he finally managed to speak in the dual-teacher classroom, though he stumbled over his words...

He picked up his pen and wrote slowly, but each stroke was written with extra force:

"Picking cotton is tiring; it hurts your back and cuts your hands. You can only earn a few dozen yuan a day."

But you can get the money that same night, and you can see it.

Studying is also difficult. You have to memorize a lot of words, learn grammar you don't understand, fail exams, and be laughed at.

Moreover, the money for schooling was saved up by my parents from every penny. After studying for a long time, they still didn't know what they could do in the future or whether they could earn money.

I don't know whether the hands that pick cotton are more useful, or the mind that reads books.

He finished writing, closed the notebook, and his heart was pounding.

Jiang Hengli collected all the essays, but instead of immediately commenting on them, he selected a few (without names) and read them aloud in class.

When the teacher read Abudu's passage about the confusion of "the hands that pick cotton and the mind that reads books," the classroom became unusually quiet.

Jiang Hengli put down his composition book, looked at the whole class, and said, "Many people may have similar confusion, feeling that their parents work to earn money, which is something they can see and touch."

I spend money on my own education, but I can't see the end of it all.

Let's think about it from another angle—

He walked up to Abudu and said, "Abudu, if your father could learn to operate a more advanced harvesting machine instead of just doing the hardest manual labor, and even read the English manuals for agricultural machinery, wouldn't he be able to earn more and have an easier life?"

Abudu paused for a moment, then nodded.

"Wouldn't it be more promising if your mother not just cooked in the cafeteria, but instead became a nutritionist or managed a small restaurant?"

Jiang Hengli's gaze swept across the entire class. "If you yourself can not only pick cotton in the future, but also tell the world about the benefits of Xinjiang cotton in English, design more beautiful cotton products, and manage a cotton field or even a cotton mill."

Back then, was the ratio of your earnings to your hard work completely different from what it is today?

"Reading doesn't instantly generate money. Reading gives you more choices for the future, transforms the situation from having to work to having the option to choose a better job, and turns selling physical labor into selling skills and knowledge."

Jiang Hengli's voice was not loud, but every word was clear: "It can't guarantee you great wealth and status, but it can make your and your family's hard work more valuable and dignified."

He encouraged the students to speak freely, share their parents' working experiences, and imagine how their lives would be different if their parents had more knowledge and skills.

The classroom discussion became lively.

Abudu sat in his seat, listening to his classmates' speeches, and seemed to feel a little more at ease.

But as time went on, even though Abudu was sitting in the classroom, his soul seemed to still be floating in the cotton field.

The tactile sensation of those thirty-five yuan felt more real than any English word.

The foreman's words, "Hurry up," stuck with him more than the teacher's encouragement.

Over the weekend, he made an excuse to go to a classmate's house, but secretly slipped back to the cotton field.

This time he found another field farther from home, thinking that no one would know him.

He worked diligently for two days, his back aching and new blisters appearing on his hands. When it came time to settle the bill, he had picked 93 jin (41.5 kg) and calculated that he should be paid 65 yuan.

The foreman was a middle-aged man with squinty eyes, smoking a cigarette, and pressing a calculator: "Ninety-three jin... seven mao per jin... sixty-five yuan."

"I'll round it down to sixty-five."

Just as Abudu was about to nod, the foreman said again, "However, you didn't pick them clean enough, you left too many cotton husks, so we'll have to deduct the impurity fee."

Also, you damaged two seedlings the other day; you have to compensate for that.

Abudu panicked: "I didn't damage the seedlings! I picked them very carefully!"

"I said I have it, so I have it. I'll deduct twenty from your account, leaving you with forty-five. Here, take it."

He took out forty-five yuan and stuffed it into Abudu's hand.

"No, you can't do that!" Abudu's face turned bright red.

The foreman glanced at him sideways, exhaled a puff of smoke, and said, "Why not? I'm the one who calculates the accounts, I'm the one who sets the rules, and whatever I say goes."

"You're not convinced? Then don't bother coming!"