——献给我的小学老师蔡荣生

作者：侯改英 编辑：黄吉洲 校对：程筱筱 翻译：吕峰

摘要：笔者生于河北太行山偏远山区，此文记录缅怀在我村义务支教10多年，后被我村聘为临时老师多年，最终年老家庭变故陷入困境，但因为不是中共编制内教师拿不到退休金导致其与孤儿孙女生活艰难陷入赤贫的故事。后我村村民集体联名请愿才使她勉强得到公正。但正义已晚，正式编制待遇仅仅消受不足一年，便撒手人寰，留下孙女被县孤儿院收容。

蔡荣生是一位女士，在我以黑户身份返乡入村里小时，她就已经在我们村做临时老师好多年了，具体多少年我也不知道，但她在教我三年后又教了我弟弟三年，至少在我上初中时她一直在我们村支教。

她是一位中年女人，教我的时候约30多岁，白净整齐，戴着那个年代鲜有的金丝眼镜，齐耳短发，身材微胖，常年穿庄重或黑或灰套装制服，中性皮鞋，声音偏低沉，看起来感觉起来都像一个男人。

她说话慢，坚定，清晰，眼神犀利，整个人透着那个年代在农村极少见的文化人的睿智儒雅。她一条腿有一点微跛，走路左右摇晃摆幅较大，再搭配她常背着手微微驼背检查学生背诵功课的体态时，看起来跟我爸一样是一个与众不同非常优秀的——男人。

听说她婆家在短短的二里山路外的隔壁村，但她似乎没有家，她常年住在学校，独来独往，除了教学外几乎不跟村民攀谈。

她的工资因为不是正式教师，一直由我们村大队象征性的每月发二十块钱。她也没有地，无法种粮种菜，所以不得已她工资不足以果腹时，她会让学生每人带一点小麦谷子，冬天太冷时，她也会让学生带玉米轴（褪了玉米粒后的那个玉米棒）在教室生火取暖。

她最偏爱我，除了借书给我，有一次还叫我帮忙给她冷风倒灌的卧室窗户糊毛头纸。于是我有幸瞥见了她的卧室：逼仄，昏暗，我看到了火炉，桌子上的碗筷，也看到了挤在一起的单人床和放在其下的尿盆……虽然收拾的很整齐，但看着很憋屈。

我当时的感受是有些不适应，强烈的反差，让我觉得不真实，因为我的老师看起来那么优秀，儒雅，精致而有尊严……

我们村的学校是几所破房子，她的卧室是其中一间约6个平方，囊括了她的整个饮食起居，还有一间则是她不知从哪里带回来的许多童书堆砌成的图书室，是她对偏爱学生的福利。比如我，她常让我进去挑书借书给我看。

这就是我的学校，也是她的城堡和象牙塔。

没错，在我童年的记忆中，她是一位男老师。

蔡荣生——这名字听起来也挺像男人的。

我在村学校只上到三年级，后来我跟我弟长大在外上初中时，也不再跟老师有联络。听村民说蔡老师的二儿子二十七八岁，刚结婚没几年被自家房顶上塌方的黄土砸断了脊柱，变成植物人了……然后老婆跑了，蔡老师只好告别教师生涯回家照顾二儿子。

然后普通人的岁月在残酷的中国社会野萍般地离散沉浮。

一晃多年过去，许多人分开后相别相忘于茫茫人海，从来没想过上次对视竟然是今生的最后一面。

2022年，我开始在破碎的婚姻里挣扎，我从城市回老家给我爸上坟，听我舅说，蔡老师的大儿子车祸死了。我当时心里一紧，我问他，蔡老师怎么样了？我舅说，她命苦啊，小儿子她伺候了这么多年，前年刚去了。现在留下老大家的一个小孙子，这日子怎么过啊？

我当时真的很难受，真的很有冲动想去她的家看她一下，但是想着自己也做不了什么，我当时也挣扎在自杀的边缘，曾一次次的想了结生命，我满脸的颓废和破碎的心……，我自惭形秽，觉得自己没脸去，我曾是她最爱的学生，她的那么那么的骄傲，我们村的人都知道。

所以我没去看她，我觉得等我有时间调整回来，看起来不那么狼狈了，我再去。因为我对自己失望，无法面对她。

然后又过了一年，我陷于四面楚歌，六亲断绝的境地，又因为跟教育局，前夫，村委，派出所等的僵持，压力和恐惧过载罹患了很严重的神经疾病，手抖的几乎无法拿筷子，那时我跟我妈为数不多的电话中，她给我说从我舅那听来的村里的八卦，我以前是从来不听的，但她突然大骂共产党，她说村里正在联名给教育局写信，蔡老师现在生活极度贫困，而教育局因为她不是正式编制老师，不给她发退休金还是说退休金不是正式编制的标准来着，具体记不清了，引起了我们村村民的愤怒，大家都很气愤纷纷联名上书教育局，要求善待蔡老师，具体结果还不知道。然后我妈又骂政府没人性……

我心中泛起一阵酸楚，湿了眼睛，心疼她，也为我自己的无能。

2024年，当我抱要么死去要么重生的决心带着俩娃坐着渐行渐远离开故土的火车出发时，我流了最后一次泪。

擦干泪，我给我姐电话想让她帮我给蔡老师带点钱，替我去看看她。我姐不等我话说完，说，蔡老师去世了，她也是刚知道，听大舅说的。

蔡老师也教过她和我大姐，她也是她们俩的老师。

然后她也一阵感慨，她说好在好像村民联名上书迫使教育局给蔡老师转正了……

然后她又轻轻说，又有什么用呢，这才不到一年……

我压着眼泪匆匆挂断了电话，然后在火车的厕所里压抑的哭了一场。当时的眼泪不知是哭自己还是为她，可能都有吧。

我这一走是永远的跟故土告别，告别那些山水树木，鱼鸟花虫……我爱的山河故土，自然万物……只不过它们也和我一样痛苦，不得解脱，而我无能为力。

我悄悄的离开，没有跟任何人告别。

在渐渐模糊远去的故乡里，我在乎的人都消逝于暴政的桎梏之中，我的父亲，我的老师…我为自己的无能无力感到深深的遗憾。

好在我还能带走我仅有的，珍爱的——我的孩子。

擦干最后一滴泪，我踏上了征途。

侯改英2026年3月9日于纽约

原文发表于作者侯改英的X帐户，原文链接

https://x.com/hgylucky2017/status/2032839224492216331?s=20

May You Be Safe, Fulfilled, and No Longer Wandering— Dedicated to My Primary School Teacher, Cai Rongsheng

Author: Hou GaiyingEditor: Huang JizhouProofreader: Cheng XiaoxiaoTranslator: Lyu Feng

Abstract:The author was born in a remote mountainous region of the Taihang Mountains in Hebei Province. This essay documents and commemorates a teacher who voluntarily provided education in the author’s village for more than a decade, and was later employed there as a temporary teacher for many years.

In her later life, due to family misfortunes, she fell into hardship. Because she was not formally included within the state-sanctioned teaching system, she was ineligible for a pension. As a result, she and her orphaned granddaughter lived in severe poverty.

Only after a collective petition by the villagers was she able to obtain a measure of justice. However, that justice came too late. She was able to receive the benefits of formal employment status for less than one year before passing away. Her granddaughter was subsequently taken in by the county orphanage.

Cai Rongsheng was a woman. By the time I returned to my village as an undocumented child, she had already been working there as a temporary teacher for many years. I do not know exactly how long, but she taught me for three years, and then taught my younger brother for another three. At the very least, she remained teaching in our village until I had gone on to middle school.

She was a middle-aged woman, in her thirties when she taught me. Fair-skinned and neatly dressed, she wore the kind of gold-rimmed glasses that were rare in those days. Her hair was cut short, just to the ears. She had a slightly plump build and dressed year-round in solemn black or gray suits, paired with neutral leather shoes. Her voice was low and deep. In both appearance and bearing, she felt almost like a man.

She spoke slowly, firmly, and clearly. Her gaze was sharp. Her whole being carried the wisdom and refined dignity of an intellectual—something rarely seen in rural areas of that era. One of her legs had a slight limp, and when she walked, her body swayed noticeably from side to side. When she inspected students reciting lessons, she would often clasp her hands behind her back, slightly hunched. In those moments, she looked—much like my father—to be an extraordinary and remarkable man.

I heard that her husband’s family lived in the neighboring village, only about two li (roughly one kilometer) away. But she seemed to have no real home. She lived at the school year-round, keeping to herself, rarely speaking with villagers outside of teaching.

Because she was not an officially appointed teacher, her salary was merely symbolic—twenty yuan a month, paid by the village collective. She had no land to cultivate, no way to grow food. When her income could not sustain her, she would ask each student to bring a little wheat or grain. In the harsh winter, she would also ask students to bring corn cobs—what remained after the kernels were removed—to burn in the classroom for warmth.

She favored me especially. Besides lending me books, she once asked me to help paste paper over her bedroom window to block the cold drafts. That was when I caught a glimpse of her living space: cramped and dim. I saw the stove, the bowls and chopsticks on the table, and the narrow single bed pressed tightly against other belongings, with a chamber pot tucked underneath. Everything was tidy, but the space felt suffocating.

At the time, I felt a sense of discomfort—a stark contrast that seemed almost unreal. My teacher appeared so refined, dignified, and composed… yet her living conditions were so harsh.

Our village school consisted of a few dilapidated buildings. Her bedroom, about six square meters in size, contained her entire daily life. Another room had been turned into a small library, filled with children’s books she had somehow gathered. This was her gift to the students she favored. For example, she often allowed me to enter and borrow books.

This was my school. It was also her castle—her ivory tower.

Yes, in my childhood memory, she was a male teacher.

Even her name—Cai Rongsheng—sounded like a man’s.

I only studied at the village school until third grade. Later, my brother and I left for middle school elsewhere, and we lost contact with her. I later heard from villagers that her second son, in his late twenties and newly married, had been crushed by a collapse of earthen roofing at home, breaking his spine and leaving him in a vegetative state. His wife left. Teacher Cai had no choice but to give up her teaching career to care for him.

And so, like wild duckweed drifting in a harsh current, an ordinary life was scattered and tossed about in the brutal tides of Chinese society.

Years passed in a blur. People parted ways, disappearing into the vast sea of humanity, never realizing that the last glance they shared would be the final one in this lifetime.

In 2022, as I struggled through the wreckage of my marriage, I returned from the city to my hometown to visit my father’s grave. My uncle told me that Teacher Cai’s eldest son had died in a car accident. My heart tightened. I asked him, “How is she now?” He sighed and said, “Her life is bitter. She cared for her younger son for all those years, and he passed away just the year before last. Now only her eldest son’s young child is left. How is she supposed to live like this?”

I felt deeply distressed. I had a strong urge to visit her, but I knew I could do nothing to help. At that time, I myself was hovering on the edge of suicide, repeatedly thinking of ending my life. I was consumed by despair and shame. I felt unworthy of seeing her—I had once been her favorite student, her pride, as everyone in the village knew.

So I did not go. I told myself that I would visit her after I had regained some stability—after I no longer looked so broken. I was too disappointed in myself to face her.

Another year passed. I found myself besieged on all sides, estranged from family, and locked in conflicts with the education bureau, my ex-husband, the village committee, and the police. The pressure and fear overwhelmed me, and I developed a severe neurological condition—my hands trembled so badly I could barely hold chopsticks. During one of my rare phone calls with my mother, she relayed gossip from the village—something I had never cared to hear before.

Suddenly, she began cursing the government. She said the villagers were collectively petitioning the education bureau. Teacher Cai was now living in extreme poverty, and because she had never been formally recognized as a state-appointed teacher, she was denied a proper pension. The injustice had angered the villagers, who jointly signed a petition demanding fair treatment for her. The outcome was still unknown. My mother continued to curse the authorities for their inhumanity.

A wave of sorrow rose within me. My eyes filled with tears—for her suffering, and for my own helplessness.

In 2024, when I left my homeland by train with my two children—determined either to die or to be reborn—I shed my final tears.

After wiping them away, I called my sister, asking her to bring some money to Teacher Cai on my behalf and to visit her for me. Before I could finish speaking, my sister said, “She has passed away. I just found out—from our uncle.”

Teacher Cai had also taught her and my elder sister.

My sister sighed and added, “At least it seems the villagers’ petition finally forced the education bureau to grant her official status…”

Then she said softly, “But what was the use? It lasted less than a year…”

I held back my tears and hurriedly ended the call. Then, in the train’s restroom, I broke down and cried in silence. I do not know whether I was crying for myself or for her—perhaps for both.

This departure marked my final farewell to my homeland—to its mountains and rivers, its trees, fish, birds, and flowers… the land I loved. Yet they, too, seemed trapped in suffering, unable to escape—and I was powerless to change anything.

I left quietly, without saying goodbye to anyone.

As my hometown faded into the distance, the people I cared about had all been consumed under the weight of oppression—my father, my teacher… I was left with a profound sense of regret for my own helplessness.

At least I could take with me the only thing I still cherished—my children.

After wiping away my final tear, I set out on my journey.

Hou GaiyingMarch 9, 2026, New York

Originally published on the author’s X account:https://x.com/hgylucky2017/status/2032839224492216331?s=20