摘要：My insecurity stemmed not just from my family’s poverty but also from the destitution of my hometown. My home was in Longji Mounta

By SongMing

Outwardly, I appeared proud and strong, but deep down, I was filled with insecurity.

My insecurity stemmed not just from my family’s poverty but also from the destitution of my hometown. My home was in Longji Mountain, where stepping outside meant climbing up and down slopes, where tilting your head back far enough to lose your hat was the only way to glimpse the sky, and where even fetching a bucket of water required hiking to a spring behind the mountain. The farthest my vision could reach was from one mountain to another.

In 1968, an exiled cadre arrived in our village. His name was oddly foreign—Lin John. He was a university professor who had studied in England. Because he often spoke to his students about how wonderful England was, he was accused of "colluding with foreign forces," subjected to public criticism, and eventually sent down to our village. We all called him Teacher Lin.

The arrival of such an intellectual in our remote, impoverished mountain village was like stumbling upon a treasure. The production team vacated the best house in the village for him, arranged for a widowed elder to do his laundry and cooking, and even issued a village-wide decree: Teacher Lin was a public servant—he could eat at any household he pleased and pick vegetables from anyone’s garden. In truth, there was no need for such a rule. The villagers here revered educated people. We had a local superstition: paper with writing on it must never be burned, or else the King of Hell would make you read the words in the afterlife—fail to recognize them, and you’d be thrown into a vat of boiling oil. Everyone considered it an honor to host Teacher Lin for a meal. So, whether it was festivals, weddings, funerals, or even just slaughtering a pig or sheep, families would compete to invite him. With so many invitations, Teacher Lin couldn’t possibly accept them all, so an unspoken rotation system naturally took shape.

Deeply moved, Teacher Lin wanted to contribute in return, so the village committee assigned him to teach at the local primary school. He seemed to know everything—he could play the violin, sometimes cradling it like a guitar. He could paint, do advanced math… in short, there seemed to be no scholarly pursuit beyond his grasp. Coincidentally, I was also a student at that school. After his arrival, even children who had previously shown no interest in studying flocked to class, and soon, students from neighboring villages joined as well. Eventually, the school grew so crowded that it had to split into morning and afternoon shifts.

One day, Teacher Lin told us about a plant called the dandelion. With a few strokes of chalk, he drew one on the blackboard and wrote a long foreign word beside it. “In England,” he said, “there’s a plant called dandelion, which translates to pugongying in Chinese. It symbolizes love that cannot stay.” As he spoke, he began reciting in English: “The wind came, the dandelion with sincere love, across the river valley, across the sea of clouds, to people far away pass sincere love.”

I didn’t understand what he was saying, but the drawing on the board looked familiar. Suddenly, I stood up and exclaimed, “Teacher, the dandelion you’re talking about—we have it here too! It’s called popoding!”

“Impossible,” Teacher Lin murmured, his recitation interrupted as if he’d just woken from a dream. “This is a plant from the Encyclopædia Britannica. How could it grow here?”

“It really does! There’s a whole patch of them behind the school!” The entire class chimed in. “We’ll show you if you don’t believe us!”

We crowded around Teacher Lin as we led him to the hillside behind the school, where a patch of vibrant green dandelions grew, their long stems crowned with fluffy white spheres. Teacher Lin bent down, plucked one, and blew gently—countless tiny parachutes scattered into the wind.

II

From then on, Teacher Lin developed a deep fascination with the local flora. He took me and my classmates on surveys of the plants around the mountains, studying their characteristics and uses. We followed him eagerly every day, bustling about with purpose. Within a month, we had cataloged the plants of several surrounding mountains. Unsatisfied, Teacher Lin resolved to survey the entire Longji Mountain range. When the district authorities learned of his plan, they fully supported him, providing funding and even assigning a few armed militiamen to assist and protect him. After about a year, he completed The Flora of Longji Mountain, which was soon published.

Not long after, Teacher Lin was recalled to the provincial capital. On his last day, the entire village gathered to bid him farewell at a grand send-off. Emotionally, he said, “These two years living among you have been the most meaningful and valuable of my life. The people here have been my true teachers. This place is my second home.” He then improvised a poem: “I sought knowledge on distant western shores, yet knew not the plants of my own land. Reborn on Dragon Mountain, I found teachers, friends, and family.” The tears glistening in his eyes told us his words came from the heart.

Before leaving, Teacher Lin gave all his books to the students he had taught. He shook each of their hands and encouraged them: “Study hard. Every plant here is a treasure. With knowledge, you’ll turn them into prosperity.” He specially gifted me an English-Chinese Botanical Dictionary, inscribing on the title page: “Diligence and perseverance will bring success. Serve your country, bring good to your people.”

After Teacher Lin left, I threw myself into my studies. I copied his words into my diary and read his book over and over. Later, I was admitted to university, and eventually, I earned a government scholarship to study at the University of Birmingham in England—Teacher Lin’s alma mater. After returning in 1982, I requested to work at the provincial Agricultural and Forestry College where Teacher Lin was employed.

At the first opportunity, I visited Teacher Lin to express my gratitude and convey the villagers’ fond memories of him. By then, he had become vice-chairman of the Provincial Association for Science and Technology. To my surprise, he said something I struggled to comprehend:

“My Flora of Longji Mountain has won three major awards domestically and internationally, earning significant acclaim in academia. Had I not lost ten years to political turmoil, I might have had a shot at the Nobel Prize in Biology. The past is too painful to revisit—Longji Mountain is a land of sorrow for me. I completed that botanical survey under the watch of armed militiamen. It’s time to reevaluate history. Now, there’s nothing I dare not say. I will write my true story for future generations. You must write yours too. Despite those unimaginable hardships, I nurtured talents like you. Tell me honestly—without me, would you be where you are today?”

I fell into deep thought, unsure how to answer. After a long silence, I stood and said, “Teacher Lin, I sincerely thank you. You were the first to give me confidence. Without you, I might never have left those mountains, let alone walked the path I’ve taken since. I will honor your teachings—I will write my true story.”

After saying goodbye, memories flashed through my mind like scenes from a film. Half a month later, I finally completed this piece: Write Your True Story. I plan to show it to Teacher Lin first—I’m eager to hear what he’ll say.

来源：小说讲坛