A Letter to Hairy

Hairy, how have you been lately?

Writing to you now, it's already a somewhat chilly December. But whenever I think of you, I recall the days spent this summer in the lush green valley of Lugu township... the pleasantly cool summer days, the rainy afternoons, the morning mist and dawn that seeped refreshingly into the soul, days passed amidst the noisy clamor of children and the laughter of close friends and companions.

Why did you join the Chinese orchestra club's instrument camp for Lugu Elementary School in Nantou? It seems like it was the first time in your life you left home to stay outside alone, working busily on an activity for ten days straight with friends. What kind of place would Lugu be? What would it be like to live out of a backpack in an elementary school for ten days? And the kids? Would they be easy to get along with? Would they be willing to laugh and play, mingling with us older brothers and sisters who came from afar to spend the summer with them? Hey, Hairy, dare you say you weren't counting down the calendar secretly with eager anticipation after signing up, just like me?

Ah, it's just that none of us really expected those ten days of the instrument camp to be quite so busy. Our large group marched grandly into Lugu Elementary School, rightfully took over two classrooms, laid down interlocking foam mats, and then ensued a flurry of clattering and banging—I don't even remember clearly all the things we did. The night before the camp officially started, I saw you lying exhausted on the scattered luggage with a wry smile. Good heavens, why is it so busy on just the first day?

Novice camp counselors are truly nervous (I still remember you constantly flipping through your small squad roster notebook, checking if anything was missed). When the children came to register on the first day, you feigned calmness, putting on the mature and authoritative air you felt an older brother should have, while secretly observing the kids. But it seemed like it had really been a long time since I heard the playful noise that so often fills an elementary school campus. In a moment of distraction, squatting down to pat the head of a little boy who had just arrived, unafraid of strangers and staring straight at me, I thought to myself, Hey! Being the king of the kids for a few days doesn't seem so bad!

But as facts proved, Hairy, you were wrong. Hearing "Brother Hairy" over and over didn't mean the kids in your squad would obediently behave. Cute as they may be, they would inevitably pluck at your tense nerves in places you'd never expect. One moment someone needs the bathroom, the next, two little brats have rushed out to fight, and you still have to split your attention to keep an eye on the demure, delicate older girls in the squad. Fortunately, Brother Hairy, you seemed to retain a shred of authority; once you raised your voice, the children would still listen to you. Did you know, every noon, I would lean against the classroom pillar and watch the "Mistress" counselor sister and the "Sun" brother inexplicably being crowded together and forcefully matched up by a mob of kids. I don't know if the TV drama "The Fierce Wife" was too popular or if the Mistress sister was just too well-liked, but a dozen little rascals surrounded the two of them, frantically chanting: "Get together!" "Get together!" The two subjects of this chanting were dumbfounded, while the orchestra club partners watching the spectacle from the sidelines grinned and chuckled. When was the last time we had been so crazy?

So many things happened in the days that followed. The feeling of being a wanderer in a strange land was gently diluted by the busy routine of a fixed schedule, just like the quiet, soft rain of every afternoon. Putting on our counselor name tags in the morning to wait for the sleepy-eyed squad members arriving one by one; sitting low on small stools in the classroom to practice the erhu with our little apprentices; suppressing yawns during nap time while patrolling back and forth to ensure the little rascals had drifted into a peaceful slumber; guarding the gate after school in the afternoon to watch out for the children's traffic safety; walking into the town's alleys to enjoy dinner with partners after wrapping up; gathering together with everyone from the orchestra club at night to play cards, chat, and hold review meetings until we were dead tired. Putting on a stern face to lead the kids during the day, relaxing and gossiping at night—once the heavy burdens were lifted from our shoulders, the topics of conversation were invariably about who got bullied by the kids again, how the duty officer trying desperately to look serious almost broke character today, or complaining bitterly that their apprentices ignored them during lessons and were so slow to learn it was infuriating, and so on. Busy and bustling, chattering away, the days truly went by so fast, yet felt so long.

Some say that a child's eyes are the clearest they will ever be in a person's lifetime, and that as they gradually grow up, their eyes will irreversibly become murky, just as a person gathers the dust of the world. Hairy, do you still remember? You once told me, amused yet exasperated, about a noon when the Mistress and the Sun were being crowded outside the classroom by the kids, raising such a ruckus they nearly tore off the roof. A quiet, introverted little girl in the squad blinked her eyes, her cute oval face suddenly leaning in, one hand on her hip, pointing at you with the other, demanding: "Hairy, do you have a girlfriend? She's here, isn't she? Hurry up and tell me." With her pitch rising, she carried an imposing aura in her fearless demeanor. At that moment you were stunned. Just as you were about to casually find an excuse to brush her off, you looked into her crystal-clear eyes and felt a sudden panic; you subconsciously shrank back. Unprecedentedly, Hairy, who thought he could still somewhat handle children, actually swallowed his pride and begged the little girl not to ask anymore. Pursing her lips, her light, delicate eyebrows raised, the little girl possessed an authority that forced Hairy to dodge the question and quickly change the subject. But the little girl's resolve was beyond imagination. Over the next few days, whenever he saw her pleading for an answer with a pitiful expression and incredibly clear eyes, Hairy wouldn't even dare to meet her gaze.

Right, and your apprentice. Mentioning him, Hairy, you seemed very proud, saying you were lucky to have taken on quite a bright child. Even though he was only in second grade, he was a bit too hyperactive during recess, vanishing without a trace in the blink of an eye, requiring you to shout at the top of your lungs to call him back for class. But after several days of teaching him the instrument, growing close to him, the child was actually very honest and adorable. He was willing to obediently listen to your slow explanations and practice the basics of pushing and pulling the erhu bow straight back and forth just as you taught him. Although sitting on a low stool made your legs very uncomfortable, it allowed you to bend down to the child's height, seeing the world at eye level with him. You proudly said that over these past few days, you realized something: to know how to teach children, you must understand that their attention span absolutely will not last. Let him practice for a while, observe if he seems tired, let him rest, chat with him about interesting things for a bit, and then let him continue practicing. Don't force or compel him; let his concentration rest intermittently in a natural way, guiding him to maintain his interest in the erhu without leaving a bad impression. You said that although you only taught him for a few days, taking him from knowing nothing at all to being able to play along to the rhythm of songs like "Little Donkey" and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," when you sat shoulder to shoulder, head to head, smiling foolishly at each other, and when you saw him grin and say he would want to continue practicing the erhu in the future, you truly felt that your patient and careful nurturing from the sidelines had paid off.

Countless busy days passed, and the moment when my heart was calmest was perhaps the evening of the last day of the camp, after we sent the children off, right? Celebrating with everyone at a small hot pot restaurant by the road, watching the noisy crowd, recalling the cooperative figures of everyone over the past few days; walking back to the gate of Lugu Elementary School, gazing at a smear of light from a classroom in the misty campus under the dim yellow streetlights in the drizzling rain; tidying up the desks and chairs in the lower-grade classroom, staring at the messy scribbles left by the children on the blackboard, while the calls of the head-aching kids, my own helpless, gentle reprimands, and soft concerns echoed in my ears; lying on the cleaned interlocking foam mats, looking out the pitch-black window at a patch of night sky—the intimacy of pinching cheeks, the affection of squatting down head to head. As the evening breeze swept past, everyone lying in the classroom fell silent. Yeah, this was truly the last night before saying goodbye to this place.

Hairy, will you go back and taste that bowl of squid thick soup we ordered together by the street again? Will you go back to see the corridor we once walked along in front of the Lugu Elementary School classrooms? Children are very simple; perhaps they will soon forget the faces and names of the older brothers and sisters from the Chinese orchestra who taught them during that one summer. But the days of teaching instruments at the elementary school faintly stirred a trace of memory within me of my own days at my alma mater elementary school. The names of the teachers? The most hated classmate? All have slowly weathered away with time, but what remains? Perhaps a hint of nostalgia? A trace of pure, carefree longing? I think what we should be glad about is that we gave the children such a simple, happy period of learning, right? What will their futures be like when they grow up? Education, career, life? I don't know, and you, Hairy, cannot foresee it either. Perhaps, if fate permits, we can send a blessing in our hearts, and say goodbye.

Thank you, Hairy, for being willing to patiently finish reading this long letter. Wishing you all the best for your final exams in advance,

Respectfully yours, December 26, 2012

P.S. By the way, Hairy, your counselor name tag is with me; I will keep it safe forever.