was nearly eleven years old when, one day at school, while we were busy as usual memorising some of Chairman Mao's sayings, the headmaster came into our freezing classroom with four dignified- looking people, all wearing Mao's jackets and coats with synthetic fur collars.

I immediately thought of the incident about the writing on the wall. Not again. What's wrong this time? But to my surprise, the headmaster introduced them as Madame Mao's representatives from Beijing. They were here to select talented students to study ballet and to serve in Chairman Mao's revolution. He asked us all to stand up and sing "We Love Chairman Mao":

The east is red, the sun is rising.

China's Mao Zedong is born.

Here to give us happiness.

Hu lu hai ya.

Our lucky star who saved us all.

As we sang, the four representatives came down the aisles and selected a girl with big eyes, straight teeth and a pretty face. They passed me without taking any notice, but just as they were walking out of our classroom, Teacher Song hesitated. She tapped the last gentleman from Beijing on the shoulder and pointed at me. "What about that one?" she said.

The gentleman from Beijing glanced in my direction. "Okay, he can come too," he said in an off-hand manner, in perfect Mandarin dialect.

The girl with the big eyes and I followed Madame Mao's people into the headmaster's office. It was the only room with a coal- burning heater, a handmade contraption cobbled together from a bucket, with pipes attached in all directions like spider legs. Despite this luxury though, the room was still extremely cold.

There were other children already in the room when we arrived— ten children had been chosen altogether and we all wore our thick-quilted homemade coats and pants and looked like little round snowballs as we stood together in the freezing room.

"Take all your clothes off except your underwear! Step forward one by one! We are going to measure your body and test your flexibility," a man with glasses ordered.

Everyone stood there nervously. Nobody moved.

"What's your problem? Didn't you hear? Take your clothes off!" our headmaster barked.

"I'm sorry," one of the boys answered timidly, "but I don't have any underwear."

To my surprise, I was the only child who had underwear, hand-me- downs from several older brothers, multi-layered and patchworked with mending by my niang. All ten of us during that audition had to share my one set of underwear.

The officials measured our proportions: our upper body and our legs, our neck length, even our toes. I watched a few of the students being tested before me, and they cried out and winced. One of the officials came over to me and bent both of my legs outwards. Another official held my shoulders to stabilise me and a third pushed his knee against my lower back, at the same time pulling both of my knees backwards with great force to test the turnout of my hip joints. It was so painful it felt like everything would break at once. I wanted to scream as well, but for some reason I didn't. I had a stubborn thought: I didn't want to lose my dignity, I didn't want to lose my pride. And I clenched my teeth.

By the time they'd finished testing everyone, only one boy and one girl were selected to go to the next level. I was that boy. I was excited but frightened. I didn't know what was going to happen. The officials mentioned ballet, but all I knew about ballet was what I'd seen in the movie, The Red Detachment of Women. I had no idea what ballet was all about.

The audition was a hot discussion topic both at school and in our village over the next few days. At first my parents didn't pay much attention. There was no way in the world anyone in our family could have any artistic talent. Several of my brothers and my classmates teased me. "Show us a ballet step! Show us a ballet step!" But they knew I had no idea. For me, the most exciting aspect of it all was not the ballet but the possibility of going to Beijing to be near our beloved Chairman Mao; the possibility, however unlikely, of getting out of my deep well.

I went to the commune office a few weeks later to go through the next level of audition. This time they sent notices to parents beforehand, asking candidates to come dressed with underwear.

This audition was much harder. The girl with the big eyes from my class didn't pass this round: she screamed when they bent her body backwards and was disqualified for inadequate flexibility of her back. Then it was my turn. One teacher lifted one of my legs upwards, two others held my other leg steady and straight. They kept asking me if it hurt. Of course it hurt: it was excruciating! But I was determined to be chosen, so I kept smiling and replied, "No, it doesn't hurt," as they lifted my leg higher and higher. Be strong! Be strong! You can bear the pain! I kept telling myself. I did bear the pain, but the hardest thing was pretending to walk normally afterwards. They had torn both my hamstrings.

After the audition at commune level we went through to county, city and provincial levels. Each time there were more children who auditioned and each time more were eliminated. During the physical examination at the county level, the scar on my arm from the burn I received as a baby nearly disqualified me. One of the teachers from Beijing noticed it and referred me to a medical examiner.

"How did you get this scar?" the doctor asked.

I didn't want anyone to think of my niang as irresponsible, so I told him I'd cut my arm on a piece of broken glass and that the cut had got infected.

"Do you have any funny sensations, like itching on rainy days?"

"No, never." I looked straight into the doctor's eyes. I prayed he wouldn't eliminate me. I prayed for my niang's sake. She would be so sad, feel so guilty, if I was disqualified because of this scar. She didn't need to suffer any more.

After the examination, as I was putting my clothes back on, I overheard the doctor talking to a tall teacher from the Beijing Dance Academy. The teacher's name was Chen Lueng. He was the same gentleman from Beijing that Teacher Song had tapped on the shoulder that day at my school. "That boy's scar will definitely get larger as he grows," the doctor said. My heart sank. My only chance of getting out of my deep well was gone. I would be disqualified. I made up my mind never to tell my niang it was the scar that did it. The scar was from an accident. My niang was the best mother with the most loving heart. No one should take that reputation away.

When the physical tests were completed, we were tested for other abilities: our response to music, our understanding of Chairman Mao's ideology. They also checked our family background three generations back. Chairman Mao's communist theory about the so- called "three classes of people" was crucial when selecting us. All three classes had to be represented—peasants, workers and soldiers. Children whose families were associated with wealth and education anywhere in the past three generations were classified as class enemies and were disqualified. Madame Mao wanted to train us to be faithful young guards, so our backgrounds had to be pure, safe and reliable.

The final hurdle in the selection process was for the officials to meet my family. They wanted to meet everyone: parents, brothers and grandparents, to check out their physical proportions. I was nervous that they might have a problem with my niang because she was short, but her larger-than-life personality, and my dia's good figure, saved the day.

Days passed, weeks passed. No news from Beijing. The hope in my heart gradually dimmed with each passing day. I felt disappointed, then devastated. I became quiet. I shrank into my own cocoon. I kept looking at my scar, convinced it was the sole reason that I'd missed out. I wanted to cut my arm off to rid myself of the scar. But still, I didn't blame my niang. It wasn't her fault. It was just my unfortunate fate.

Everyone in my family had also given up hope by now. I could tell they felt sorry for me, because they all went out of their way to be nice. This only left me feeling sadder.

Then one day, just as my dia was going back to work after lunch, a group of village, commune, county and city officials suddenly came into our small courtyard, for our door was always open. They had broad smiles on their faces. My parents offered them some tea. Some sat down on our crowded kang, others just stood around. Eventually one of the officials asked my niang, "Which of your sons is Li Cunxin?"

My niang pointed at me.

The city official turned back to my niang. "Your lucky son has been chosen for Madame Mao's Beijing Dance Academy."

I was stunned. We were all stunned. A whole month had gone by! How could this be? My mother was speechless, but her face smiled like a full-bloomed flower. "Thank you! Thank you!" was all she could say.

My dia poured more tea for the officials, and then more, and then still more. His face was filled with pride.

When all the officials had left our house, all my dia said was, "I'd better get to work. I'll see you tonight." But he looked at me in a strange way, as though he was seeing something new.

After everyone had gone, my niang and I were left to ourselves. She looked at me for a long time, lost for words for the first time in her life. Finally she said, "My lucky boy, I'm so happy for you. This is the happiest day of my life!"

"I don't want to leave you," I said.

She looked at me with a slight frown. "Do you want to stay here and eat dried yams for the rest of your life? My dear son, this is your lucky chance to escape from this cruel world. Go, go and do something special with your life! Become someone other than a peasant boy. Don't look back! What is here? A leaking roof, your brothers' smelly feet and an empty stomach?"

"Stop it!" I said. I put my hand over her mouth. Happy tears welled in her eyes. She pulled me close and hugged me tight. I heard the loud beat of her heart, as though any minute it would jump out with joy.

She hugged me for a long time. I was too afraid to move. I wanted us to stay like that for ever. My entire body melted under her warmth.

"What about you?" I eventually asked. "Can you come to Beijing with me?"

"Do you want me to come and wipe your bottom, silly boy?" she replied with a chuckle. "You are the lucky one. Don't you think your brothers would love to have a chance like this? No, I can't go with you, but my love will. I will always love you, with all my heart. I know you have your secret dreams. Follow them. Make them come true. Now, go and play with your friends." She gave me a gentle push, but just as I was disappearing into the streets, she called out. "Don't forget to come back and help me push the windbox!"

A few days after this, we received a letter notifying me that I had been awarded a full scholarship and that I was to leave for Beijing in four weeks, just after the Chinese New Year. For the reopening of Madame Mao's new Beijing Dance Academy, fifteen students had been selected from Shandong Province. Fifteen from over seventy million people. Twenty-five students from Shanghai, three students from Beijing and one student from Inner Mongolia were also selected. It was February and I had just turned eleven.

The whole village came to congratulate my parents. There would be one less mouth to feed and now at least their sixth son had some hope of escaping from the poor living conditions and of making a decent life for himself.

Several of my niang's lady friends gathered on our kang one day, shortly after this, to sew, gossip and drink tea as usual. One of the ladies said to me when I walked into the room, "Jing Hao, take off your shoes, let me see your feet."

I was puzzled, and hesitated to take off my smelly shoes.

"Ah ya, come on, don't be shy," my niang urged me. "You can't be a dancer if you're shy!"

I reluctantly took off my shoes. The lady took my feet in her hands, like a doctor examining a seriously sick patient. Suddenly she shouted with excitement, "Look at this, I was right! Look, just look at his three long toes! I knew his feet would be different. This is the reason he was chosen! These three long toes will help him to stand steadily on his pointe shoes."

All the ladies, including my niang, nodded their heads and praised her wisdom. As I was putting my shoes back on, another lady added, in a more serious tone, "I heard it is very painful to stand on your toes. You must have a high pain threshold."

"Yes," a third lady said. "I heard dancers often get bloody toes from standing in their pointe shoes all day long. It must be like binding your feet and standing on top of them!"

I couldn't imagine my toes growing together and walking on my heels like Na-na used to. I began to worry. Eventually I had to tell myself not to think about it until I had at least tried on the pointe shoes. Then I'd know.

News of my selection spread quickly throughout our commune. Our usually quiet village sprang to life. People began to talk about me. "A smart kid." "That boy was born with a lucky look." I was embarrassed by all of these comments. I especially felt uncomfortable with my niang's friends' constant examinations.

Besides my three long toes, they were convinced that my double- folded eyelids, which made my eyes appear larger, were a factor too. It was true that many of my friends in the village had eyes that looked smaller than mine, but now people would stop me in front of my friends and examine my eyelids. One of my niang's friends even believed that the teachers of the Beijing Dance Academy had specific roles in mind for a dancer with a scar on his arm.

Our Chinese New Year was extra special that year. My eldest brother was home from Tibet. Everyone gave me firecrackers as gifts. It was a joyous time.

A few days before New Year's Eve, however, one of my "double kicker" firecrackers went wrong and exploded in my hand. It nearly tore off my whole thumbnail, and blood gushed out from under it. My parents immediately worried that this could jeopardise my chances of going to Beijing, so as an extra precaution they took me to the hospital to get my first tetanus shot, an expensive luxury. If it wasn't for Beijing, nobody would have bothered. "Put some dust on it," my niang would have said.

• • •

My last dinner at home. Nine of us sit around the food tray. My niang has cooked a delicious meal. She's made an egg dish with bits of dried shrimp, and Chinese cabbage with a few pieces of pork. We also have a cold dish—marinated jellyfish—and she has used her precious flour to make some mantos. My dia and my older brothers drink rice wine while everyone talks enthusiastically about my bright future.

I am quiet. I can't eat much, despite the good food. My stomach is too full with anxiety and dread. I am too afraid to look into my niang's eyes because if I do I know my tears will flood out.

As soon as dinner is finished I announce that I am going to my friends' houses to say goodbye.

"Why don't you do it tomorrow?" my fifth brother Cunfar says.

"I won't have enough time tomorrow," I lie.

"Stay! We can play your favourite card game," Cunfar persists.

"Why didn't you show Jing Hao this kind of passion before?" my fourth brother Cunsang says, which makes everyone laugh.

"Speedy return if you want to go tonight," my niang says. "You should get some good sleep in your own familiar bed. Who knows if you can stomach the luxurious life in Beijing."

I quickly slip off the kang and go outside.

"Who couldn't stomach a luxurious life!" I hear my second brother say as I hurry into the darkness. I have no intention of going to my friends' houses. I just want to be alone. I walk through the usually scary, dark narrow lanes between the houses and I pass my friends' places but don't go in. You should be happy, I keep telling myself. And I am, deep inside, happy about this god-given opportunity, but I am overwhelmed by the sadness in my heart as well. I don't want to leave my niang, my dia, my brothers and my friends. Already I feel so alone. I can't imagine how alone I will feel in Beijing. I look up at the stars, and even they are few and distant tonight.

Eventually I wander home. All my older brothers have gone out. My parents have already spread the quilts on the bed and are waiting for me.

"How are your friends?" my niang asks.

"Fine," I reply. I look at her eyes for the first time that night. They are moist.

"Sixth Brother, can I sleep on your side tonight?" my little brother Jing Tring asks.

"Yes," I reply. For the first time I am happy about that. I wish I could put him and the rest of my family in my pocket and take them to Beijing with me.

Tonight, as Jing Tring is sleeping, I look at his content and peaceful face. Suddenly I feel a rush of brotherly affection for him. I wish I'd been kinder to him. I wish I'd taken time to enjoy his company more.

My niang has made me a black corduroy jacket to take to Beijing, but I know my youngest brother loves that jacket. I know my parents don't have enough money to make him one too, so in the middle of the night, I pretend to get up for a wee, and quietly take my new jacket out of my bag and tuck it inside one of the papier-mâaché clothes boxes—Jing Tring will find it there after I'm gone.

The morning finally arrives. I've had a restless night and I wake with the first sound of the rooster's call. My dia rose earlier, to pack my belongings in two string bags. They are net bags, loosely woven, so you can see clearly what is inside. Many of my relatives, friends and neighbours have given me presents: souvenirs or some local specialty food such as dried shrimp. The shrimp has a strong "dead fish" sort of smell and it makes the bags stink.

Some of my classmates and friends have chipped in to pay for us to have our photos taken together. They also give me a beautiful diary with many pictures of Chairman Mao in it. The photo means a lot to me because my parents can't afford to waste money on such a luxury. We have very few photos, and only one family photo—a black-and-white one of my niang and all her seven boys. There is also my niang's handmade quilt, a thin futon-like mattress, two small handtowels, a metal washing-basin, a metal mug, some clothes, apples, pears, and a Qingdao specialty called "sorghum sweet", a soft lolly made from the grain. My niang has also packed some dried snakeskin. No one has noticed that I have taken out the new corduroy jacket.

After he finishes packing my bags, my dia quietly hands me five yuan. "I wish I could give you more, but this is all we have. Be good. Don't let the Li name down." He leaves for work, saying he'll try to make it back for lunch so he can see me one more time before I leave.

My niang is busy making dumplings this morning, as a special treat to send me on my way. I want to stay with her for every remaining minute, but I can't. I know if we look at each other we will not be able to control our tears. So I walk around the village, bidding farewell to my friends. I ask several of my niang's friends to come to our house after lunch to keep her company. I don't want her to be sad and on her own. I go to my na-na's grave and to our ancestors' burial place and kowtow. I want to smell the earth, the air, to remember the surroundings and take everything in. This village has been my life for my whole eleven years. Even the things I hate about it are suddenly not so bad. My heart feels as though it is hanging in mid-air. I return home for lunch.

My niang has made many dumplings for my last lunch and although they are my favourite, I can't eat even one. A hot ball of emotion is plugged in my throat. All six of my brothers are at the table. Everyone pushes their bowl of dumplings in front of me, but still I eat nothing. I want to say something special to each of my brothers, but few words are spoken. Time seems to run so fast and before we know it, it is time for me to go. Now I have to say goodbye to my niang and my brothers.

My brothers take my bags outside. My dia did not make it back for lunch. I look at my niang for the first time today and we both burst into tears. We can say nothing. We just hold each other. Then some of her friends come into our house, as I had asked them to, and I go quickly into the street.

My oldest brother Cuncia is to come with me as far as Qingdao City, and as a special honour our village has provided us with their only tractor to take us there. The admission letter from the Beijing Dance Academy said that all fifteen students chosen from Shandong Province are required to meet at a dormitory where we will spend the next eighteen hours before we embark on our train journey to Beijing. As the tractor pulls away from our house, three of my brothers run after us in the dust, crying and shouting goodbye. I can no longer hide my emotions; I sob and sob, all the way to the city.

The tractor journey takes us over an hour. The ride is bumpy, but I don't really notice. Finally we reach our gathering place, a kind of dormitory divided into six rooms. Everything smells mouldy and dusty, and the rooms are dark with only small windows. It feels foreign and unwelcoming. Nothing feels right. I am shy. I already miss my parents and brothers.

The time at the dormitory allows us to meet the other students. Four are from the countryside and others are from the city. There is something different about the city students. They seem more worldly than us country kids. There is also a man wearing a military uniform. He is called "the political head". And there's one of the teachers who auditioned us. They have come to Qingdao to collect us and will accompany us on our train trip to Beijing. We are briefed by the political head about certain rules and expectations the academy has for us. I have trouble understanding some of the terminology because they all speak in the Mandarin dialect.

By the time night comes, I still have not eaten since breakfast, so my brother peels me an apple. It's the first time I've ever had a whole apple to myself. I feel so lucky and so special. We settle down for the night. My only real comfort is my big brother, sleeping on a small bed next to mine.

Early next morning, we take a bus to the train station, an old building crammed with hundreds of people. I have never been to a train station before. I've only seen trains from a distance. Our train is a steam train, puffing out volumes of smoke and making an enormous noise. Our teachers push their way through the crowds and onto the train, and we pass our luggage through the windows because everyone is fighting their way on at the same time.

I leave my brother standing on the platform and find my seat on the train. Then, five minutes before departure, the loudspeakers announce that all family members and friends are to leave the platform. This is my last chance to say goodbye to my brother. He extends his hand through the window. As I grasp it I feel him give me something. It is a two-yuan note, his cigarette money. He will have to go without his beloved cigarettes for the next few months. I know how precious his cigarettes are to him. But he quickly runs into the crowd before I can say anything. I hold the money in my hand, tears streaming down my face, and watch Cuncia disappear into the crowd.

I listen to the sound of the train. With a sudden jolt, a massive puff of steam swallows our carriage and Qingdao Station slowly slips away. With the click-clack sound of each passing section of the track I know I am moving further and further away from my parents. My heart races along with the gathering speed of the train. I don't know how I am going to survive the next twelve months before seeing my niang again. I long to sleep next to my parents. Even my brother's smelly feet don't seem too bad now.

We have reserved seats on the train, but being Chairman Mao's good children, we give our seats to some elderly people who can only afford to buy standing-room tickets. Five people are squeezed on a bench for three. The overhead rack is overflowing with luggage. A couple of times the train makes a sudden jolt and some bags crash down onto unfortunate passengers below.

At first, the trees and fields flashing by are familiar sights, but then the landscape changes and the trees, crops, even the smell of the air, become different and unfamiliar. Even though it is winter, the windows are open to allow the fresh air in.

At almost the halfway point in the journey, the train stops at Jinan, the capital of Shandong Province. Here the station is grander than Qingdao's, and well lit. Our teachers tell us that we can go and stretch our legs. There are peasants selling smoked chicken, steamed bread, roasted peanuts, sunflower seeds and sweets. Most of the students from the city buy something but the country students like me just watch.

Later, back on the train, the political head and the teacher lead us to the dining car. Not many people are allowed in this car. In fact, only government officials are allowed, but we are Madame Mao's students, so we are invited to go along. We occupy nearly half the car. There are two cold dishes on each table, a plate of pickled peanuts and some thinly sliced marinated beef. The beef is tough but delicious—this is heavenly food! We quickly demolish the cold dishes and then three steaming hot courses arrive: a whole fish, stir-fried pork with green chives and a mixed vegetable dish. We each have a bowl of rice too. The rich and delicious smells take my breath away. Every dish is shining with oil! Even the sauce for the vegetable dish is full of flavour. I have never seen so much meat in my whole life! We devour the food like hungry tigers. I wish for more, but I am too embarrassed to ask.

I hardly sleep for the entire twenty-four hours of the train journey. Just before we pull into Beijing Station, our teachers warn us that it will be very crowded. Stay very close, or we will get lost.

I am stunned when I see the sea of people at the station. There is no way our teachers could have prepared us for such a scene. Instead of hundreds of people, I see hundreds of thousands, all pushing and shoving in a huge open space. The ceiling is so high and bright, almost blinding me with its many fluorescent lights. It is so grand. Even the passageways are chock-a-block with people, sleeping on the floor while they wait for their next train. The sound is deafening—hundreds of thousands of people all talking at the same time. The smell too is indescribably strange—virtually everyone carries some kind of hometown delicacy: I have my apples, pears, sorghum sweets, snakeskin and dried shrimps, but who knows what others are carrying. The smell makes me want to escape this place as quickly as I can, but my bags are too heavy and I can only move slowly. I try so hard to keep up with my group. I enter a tunnel, but when I come out the other end, the familiar faces of my fellow students are nowhere in sight. My two bags are pushed and pulled by the crowd, and several times I nearly lose my balance. I look around. I don't know which direction to take. I am exhausted and desperate, so I move to the side, out of the way of the fast-moving people. I sit down against a wall, lost.

I am frightened. I want to go home to my niang. I start to sob. A soldier comes up to me and asks me why I am alone. I tell him I have become separated from my group and don't know which way to go. He kindly takes one of my bags and leads me to the exit. I am so grateful to him, this Lei Feng-like soldier, and as I step out of the crowded train station I am relieved to see one of our teachers from the Beijing Dance Academy.

It is Chen Lueng, the tall teacher who auditioned us, and he is with a couple more teachers from the academy who are at the station to greet us. A bus is waiting too and I am the last person to climb on. The students from Shanghai had arrived an hour before and are already impatiently waiting on the bus.

I hear one of the teachers tell the driver to close the door. I want to be helpful, so I start to pull the door closed, but the driver has pushed the control button and the door closes automatically in front of me. It takes me by total surprise. The buses at home don't have doors like this. I stumble back and fall. Everyone laughs. I have made a fool of myself within the first few minutes of being in Beijing. I feel desperately alone. At this moment I realise I have entered a completely new world.

Throughout the eleven years of my childhood in Qingdao, I'd always lived with the harsh reality of not having enough food to fill our stomachs, of seeing my parents struggle, of witnessing people dying of starvation, of constantly being trapped in that same hopeless, vicious cycle as my forefathers. I had been determined to get out of that deep, dark well. I cannot remember how many times I'd wanted to let go of my life and relieve some of my parents' financial burden. I would have sacrificed my own life to help my family, but would it have made much difference? Who did my life belong to anyway?

But somewhere deep in my heart there is a buried seed, a seed of hope. It isn't even a light. I can't see any light to guide me out of this cruel and unfair world. But that seed of hope has always existed, and it implants itself in my mind. Its power is strong. It makes me feel that one day everything will be all right. It is my escape, and my secret dream.

Beijing is my chance. I am scared to leave my parents yet I know this will be my only chance of helping them. I am afraid of what is waiting for me yet I know I have to take that first step forward. I can't let my parents down. I can't let my brothers down. I am carrying their dreams as well as my own. My niang said never look back.

I pick myself up off the floor of the bus, and walk down the aisle towards my seat.