A few days ago, I was eating out beside a table of people having hotpot. They had barely settled in before their pot began boiling furiously. The tables were outside, so the wind kept changing its mind, and eventually all the steam was pushed toward one side of the table.
The person getting a faceful of hot vapor complained casually that the wind always seemed to find whichever seat they chose. I know the feeling. At a hotpot table, I have an alarming chance of ending up directly in the path of the steam.
Then I heard something I had never heard in Chongqing. A woman with a heavy Northeastern accent said, “It’s fine. The wind blows toward people with money.”
The wind blows toward people with money? So that is who the wind blows toward. I took out my phone and wrote it down immediately.
This belongs squarely in the category of hell being other people. What makes the line interesting is that the people inventing the rule and the people competing under it are the same people, or at least members of the same group. They can use it to flatter themselves, and they can use it to manage everyone else.
It is a small example of the art of saying things. Someone objects to the seating arrangement. Instead of admitting that they are being steamed alive by a pot of broth, you tell them the wind is blowing their way because they are rich. Presumably, that is meant to make them happy. At least, the person saying it believes it should.
I mentioned the strong Northeastern accent not to attach some regional label to her. It was because Northeastern errenzhuan performances often make excellent use of this particular verbal trick. A performer might say: “I wish everyone who applauds for me tonight a long life. As for those who do not applaud, may they lose at mahjong, forget toilet paper in the bathroom, lose their internet connection, and get caught paying for sex.”
It is framed as a blessing, but there is no comfortable way to decline it. You either clap, or you accept a string of petty disasters.
“Let the wind blow toward the rich” works in much the same way. You can continue letting the hotpot vapor scratch at your face, while also accepting the shiny label of a wealthy person. It is only an offhand good-luck phrase, but some people enjoy hearing these things, choose to believe them, and do not permit the slightest objection.
There is, of course, a simple way to puncture it. Follow the logic all the way through.
“The wind blows toward rich people.”
“But I’m not rich.”
Now the spell is broken, and the other person has no obvious response. But matching every move has its risks. These people have put themselves in the role of someone who knows how to speak properly. If you refuse to play along, others may decide that you are socially tone-deaf, the person ruining the mood.
I have been that person since childhood.
When I was young, a distant relative came to our home. I had never ridden one of those coin-operated rocking rides outside a supermarket, so I had not yet learned the complicated hierarchy of kinship terms. When faced with older relatives, I generally called everyone uncle or auntie. But this particular visitor belonged to my grandparents’ generation.
After doing the math, I understood that he was my grandmother’s older brother. The person who had organized the gathering, however, was the daughter of my grandmother’s older sister. She had a very clear understanding of her own rank in the family, and she naturally became the central director of the meal.
Children, first of all, were not allowed to eat at the main table. And at that table, for the adults who were permitted to eat, everything carried significance: where people sat, who reached for food first, the order in which dishes were served.
Because I had never taken a ride on one of those supermarket machines, I did not know what my grandmother’s brother was supposed to be called. That only made me more curious. I could not understand why so much effort had gone into the occasion, why so many rules and arrangements had appeared out of nowhere. It felt as if the children might be asked to line up and give a performance report for this unknown person at any moment.
I was crouched beside a smaller table, eating separately, and I asked the other children, “Who is he? Some kind of leader?”
None of them knew either. They only knew they were supposed to sit obediently and miserably at the little table, eating the food prepared for us. The dishes on the main table looked much better, but we all understood the rule: we were not getting any of that food today. It had been prepared for the man nobody could properly identify.
While we waited for our dishes, I kept entertaining the younger children at our table. We were all laughing. When a plate finally arrived, there was barely anything on it. It did not even compare with the leftovers sitting on the main table. So I complained, at the little table, “Why make us eat at all? We might as well go outside and play. We are not getting any of the food from the main table anyway.”
Naturally, the adults heard me. The woman directing the entire event, especially, heard me. Sorry, but I still do not know what I was supposed to call her. She came over, looked at me fiercely, and said, “Keep talking like that and you will not get to eat.”
I do not know where I got the nerve, but I stepped directly into her verbal trap and followed it to its conclusion.
“Fine, I won’t eat. Can I go out and play now?”
She froze for a moment, then worked hard to control herself. Unfortunately, I did not manage to force a full public meltdown. Apparently, in that setting, showing the unknown relative a perfect side of the family mattered more than disciplining an unruly child.
She may have wanted to complain to my mother. But perhaps she had already placed my entire family in the category of people with no manners, and the matter disappeared without further action.
Years later, the same woman arranged another gathering. This time she was inviting her older sister back from the United States, which meant she was my grandmother’s older sister’s eldest daughter. She had apparently forgotten how close I had come to making her lose control before.
She invited us again, perhaps because having a sister who was half American was considered something worth displaying to the entire extended family. I was sixteen by then. At another internal family dinner, she asked something of the younger generation.
Once again, I climbed right up the pole she had provided.
“So are we allowed to eat at the main table this time?”
Someone in the family laughed. They probably connected my childhood bluntness with what could now be interpreted as grown-up humor. People joked that, this time, everyone would be allowed to sit at the main table.
The woman herself did not look pleased. I had probably revived a memory she would rather have buried. Still, inviting everyone to the welcome dinner for her half-American sister mattered more than lecturing me for being rude. Besides, she had to invite us. A welcome banquet with only a handful of people would make it look as though she lacked influence.
In the end, I did not go. I thought I might make her uncomfortable again. More importantly, I still had not figured out exactly who she was in relation to me. What if I arrived and another mysterious senior figure appeared? What if I did not know their title either? What if the whole thing turned into another exercise in formalities, ending with some sort of family performance report?
I still have not untangled this whole web of relatives. I suppose I should go sit on one of those rocking rides outside a supermarket until it finally becomes clear.