Silkworms and mulberry trees
I loved to put a few soft silkworms in my palm and caress their cold back. They would remain still in my hand and stiffen to my touch. They were meek, but
sensitive. Even a few drops of dew on the leaves could drown them. Once Father, an avid smoker, accidentally blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke toward them.
They immediately jolted up their heads and waved back and forth, as if to protest. Amazed by their reaction, we asked Father to do it again. He did a few more
times. We were surprised to find a dozen or so silkworms had died before the end of the day.
Ping was in charge of raising them. She got up early in the morning to collect the leaves and dry them with a towel before feeding the silkworms. I liked to
watch them. They seemed so patient. Once, a silkworm clung to Ping’s sleeve and rode with her to school. A girl in her class screamed when she saw it. Ping
calmed her down by gently placing the silkworm in her palm and proudly showing it around.
When they were ready to spin silk, they stopped eating. Their fully-grown bodies turned yellowish, looking transparent. After cleansing their bodies of all the
excrement, they started weaving. Big Aunt showed us how to collect tree twigs and tie them together for silkworms to make cocoons. She also set up a smooth
wooden board and put a number of silkworms on it.
“They will make a fine, flat sheet,” she said.
For three days, they span non-stop. They moved their heads smoothly in all directions and a very fine line of silk poured out from their mouths like an
exhaustible stream of spring. The silk was spread on the board evenly as if orchestrated by order. They had no possibility to make cocoons, but they kept
spinning. In the end, they left their bare bodies in the open. They shed one more layer of skin and turned themselves into pupae.
“Each silkworm could produce a thread one and a half kilometers long,” Big Aunt told us.
We were impressed. They consumed these plain, rough mulberry leaves and produced the most delicate threads in the world. It seemed miraculous. They
would weave and weave until they had nothing left. No wonder people often used silkworms as a metaphor for selfless giving. I finally got a better understanding
of the poem.
We raised silkworms for two more years, increased the number to a couple of thousands. Ping gave up her bedroom for them. They spread out all over the
floor and her bed. Each day, we gathered baskets of mulberry leaves to feed them. Picking the leaves soon became a chore. We started stripping a branch
clean with a single sweep. My sisters Yan, Ping, Wen and I took turns to keep the mulberry leaves in ample supply. Our rough harvesting of the leaves broke the
trees’ tender branches and ruined many fluffy, tiny flowers in the early spring. I was surprised to see that enough survived our abuse and bore fruits. We found out
soon that tough and hardy as the mulberry trees were, they also had their soft spots. If a large branch was broken off or a big batch of bark was scaled, their
wounds would bleed, spreading liquid-like substance. They were very vulnerable to such cuts.
The trees became symbolic for our lives. One day, after the start of the Cultural Revolution, Father didn’t come home. We were all worried. A few days later,
we learned that he had been detained by the Red Guards, the driving and violent force of the political movement. He was not allowed to go home for two years.
I was the only one in the family who was allowed to visit him on occasion. I was young enough to be considered harmless. It was a difficult time for our family.
Mother was pressured to divorce him, but she refused. We were forced to move out of the government compound and settle into a mud house. I had to bid
farewell to my trees, and to our silkworms. When we said good-bye to all that, we also left part of our childhood behind.
But little did I know that we would soon adopt the spirit of the tough mulberry trees. We were abused and scarred. Our hearts bled with wounds like that of the
mulberry trees. Yet, like those resilient trees, we managed to survive.
Years later, after Father’s eventual release, I learned of another poem, one that Mother had secretly hidden within the tobacco I used to bring Father during
his detention. When Mother told me about it years later, it was well after the Cultural Revolution. But she could still recite it word for word:
Happily reunited we will be, one day;
I laugh at the burning flames of the battlefield.
My thoughts, like gently flowing water, are with you;
You are my hero, made of unbending steel.
About the author:
Jian Ping is author of “"Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China." She has a BA degree in English from Jilin University, Changchun, China and a master's degree
in Film and a master's degree in International Affairs from Ohio University.
sensitive. Even a few drops of dew on the leaves could drown them. Once Father, an avid smoker, accidentally blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke toward them.
They immediately jolted up their heads and waved back and forth, as if to protest. Amazed by their reaction, we asked Father to do it again. He did a few more
times. We were surprised to find a dozen or so silkworms had died before the end of the day.
Ping was in charge of raising them. She got up early in the morning to collect the leaves and dry them with a towel before feeding the silkworms. I liked to
watch them. They seemed so patient. Once, a silkworm clung to Ping’s sleeve and rode with her to school. A girl in her class screamed when she saw it. Ping
calmed her down by gently placing the silkworm in her palm and proudly showing it around.
When they were ready to spin silk, they stopped eating. Their fully-grown bodies turned yellowish, looking transparent. After cleansing their bodies of all the
excrement, they started weaving. Big Aunt showed us how to collect tree twigs and tie them together for silkworms to make cocoons. She also set up a smooth
wooden board and put a number of silkworms on it.
“They will make a fine, flat sheet,” she said.
For three days, they span non-stop. They moved their heads smoothly in all directions and a very fine line of silk poured out from their mouths like an
exhaustible stream of spring. The silk was spread on the board evenly as if orchestrated by order. They had no possibility to make cocoons, but they kept
spinning. In the end, they left their bare bodies in the open. They shed one more layer of skin and turned themselves into pupae.
“Each silkworm could produce a thread one and a half kilometers long,” Big Aunt told us.
We were impressed. They consumed these plain, rough mulberry leaves and produced the most delicate threads in the world. It seemed miraculous. They
would weave and weave until they had nothing left. No wonder people often used silkworms as a metaphor for selfless giving. I finally got a better understanding
of the poem.
We raised silkworms for two more years, increased the number to a couple of thousands. Ping gave up her bedroom for them. They spread out all over the
floor and her bed. Each day, we gathered baskets of mulberry leaves to feed them. Picking the leaves soon became a chore. We started stripping a branch
clean with a single sweep. My sisters Yan, Ping, Wen and I took turns to keep the mulberry leaves in ample supply. Our rough harvesting of the leaves broke the
trees’ tender branches and ruined many fluffy, tiny flowers in the early spring. I was surprised to see that enough survived our abuse and bore fruits. We found out
soon that tough and hardy as the mulberry trees were, they also had their soft spots. If a large branch was broken off or a big batch of bark was scaled, their
wounds would bleed, spreading liquid-like substance. They were very vulnerable to such cuts.
The trees became symbolic for our lives. One day, after the start of the Cultural Revolution, Father didn’t come home. We were all worried. A few days later,
we learned that he had been detained by the Red Guards, the driving and violent force of the political movement. He was not allowed to go home for two years.
I was the only one in the family who was allowed to visit him on occasion. I was young enough to be considered harmless. It was a difficult time for our family.
Mother was pressured to divorce him, but she refused. We were forced to move out of the government compound and settle into a mud house. I had to bid
farewell to my trees, and to our silkworms. When we said good-bye to all that, we also left part of our childhood behind.
But little did I know that we would soon adopt the spirit of the tough mulberry trees. We were abused and scarred. Our hearts bled with wounds like that of the
mulberry trees. Yet, like those resilient trees, we managed to survive.
Years later, after Father’s eventual release, I learned of another poem, one that Mother had secretly hidden within the tobacco I used to bring Father during
his detention. When Mother told me about it years later, it was well after the Cultural Revolution. But she could still recite it word for word:
Happily reunited we will be, one day;
I laugh at the burning flames of the battlefield.
My thoughts, like gently flowing water, are with you;
You are my hero, made of unbending steel.
About the author:
Jian Ping is author of “"Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China." She has a BA degree in English from Jilin University, Changchun, China and a master's degree
in Film and a master's degree in International Affairs from Ohio University.
By Jian Ping
One of the poems my sister Ping taught me when I was a child was written by Li Shang Yin, a well-known
poet from the Tang Dynasty (618-907).
Silkworms spin thread until their last breath;
Candles burn until their last drops of tears.
I did not understand the meaning, but was intrigued by the metaphors and images. I wanted to find out
more about the silkworms. When I was a child, my family and I lived in a government compound in Baicheng,
a small town in the northwestern part of Jilin province. My father was a high-ranking government official, before
the Cultural Revolution — a political turmoil started by Chairman Mao Zedong — turned us all into outcasts.
There were five mulberry trees in the compound where we lived, bent low by the strong Siberian wind.
One day, Ping came home with a piece of paper, covered with millet-size dots.
“These are silkworm eggs,” she said.
We decided to raise silkworms and feed them the leaves from our mulberry trees. I was excited. Soon, the
silkworm eggs, nurtured by sunshine, began to crack open. A tiny hole appeared in the shell and out came a
string-like creature, smaller than the tiniest ant I had ever seen. Within a few days, they were able to crawl
towards the leaves. They shed their first layer of skin. They grew fast, and soon turned from black to gray, then
to a milky white. In about a month, they grew to their full length—two and a half inches.
“If a baby grew like a silkworm, he would soon look like an elephant!” Big Aunt, my father’s oldest sister who
lived with us, said. We all laughed.
I watched their changes with astonishment. As soon as we spread bundles of mulberry leaves on top of
them, they popped up from under the leaves and moved their heads up and down along the edges in rhythm.
With each move, a thin layer of the leaves disappeared. With several silkworms clinging to one leaf, they
reduced it to a skeleton within minutes.
One of the poems my sister Ping taught me when I was a child was written by Li Shang Yin, a well-known
poet from the Tang Dynasty (618-907).
Silkworms spin thread until their last breath;
Candles burn until their last drops of tears.
I did not understand the meaning, but was intrigued by the metaphors and images. I wanted to find out
more about the silkworms. When I was a child, my family and I lived in a government compound in Baicheng,
a small town in the northwestern part of Jilin province. My father was a high-ranking government official, before
the Cultural Revolution — a political turmoil started by Chairman Mao Zedong — turned us all into outcasts.
There were five mulberry trees in the compound where we lived, bent low by the strong Siberian wind.
One day, Ping came home with a piece of paper, covered with millet-size dots.
“These are silkworm eggs,” she said.
We decided to raise silkworms and feed them the leaves from our mulberry trees. I was excited. Soon, the
silkworm eggs, nurtured by sunshine, began to crack open. A tiny hole appeared in the shell and out came a
string-like creature, smaller than the tiniest ant I had ever seen. Within a few days, they were able to crawl
towards the leaves. They shed their first layer of skin. They grew fast, and soon turned from black to gray, then
to a milky white. In about a month, they grew to their full length—two and a half inches.
“If a baby grew like a silkworm, he would soon look like an elephant!” Big Aunt, my father’s oldest sister who
lived with us, said. We all laughed.
I watched their changes with astonishment. As soon as we spread bundles of mulberry leaves on top of
them, they popped up from under the leaves and moved their heads up and down along the edges in rhythm.
With each move, a thin layer of the leaves disappeared. With several silkworms clinging to one leaf, they
reduced it to a skeleton within minutes.