From childhood I have had a unique ability to dispel, shift, or ignore the tragic aspects of things. In any kind of antagonistic situation, I always give precedence to my own feelings. I have a kind of strength that allows me to push on recklessly in dead-end situations. This feeling of not caring about ultimate annihilation is much like the passion of a martyr. When I encounter grief, I automatically try to find a way to change the direction of my feelings. Maybe my focus at that moment on the mud between my toes is a good illustration of this quirk of mine.

Mother said, "Your father doesn't want Nanny to live here anymore."

Nanny was the housekeeper who had been looking after us for many years. She only had one eye; she had lost sight in the other one many years ago when her husband had struck her. In the years she spent with us, she cried many times. Whenever she cried, to avoid getting caught in her grief myself, I would carefully watch her blind eye. I discovered that it never shed tears.

I once asked her why she cried.

She told me because of her grief.

I asked why her bad eye didn't grieve.

She said because it couldn't feel grief anymore.

I asked why it couldn't feel grief.

She said it was because it was already dead, that it had been killed by her husband many, many years ago. It was only after she had left him that she had come to work for us, and endure my father's anger.

I told her that when I grew up I was going to find her husband and make him pay for that eye.

She said to me, "Ni Niuniu, if you marry a good man when you grow up, then you won't suffer."

I replied that when I grew up I would make my husband suffer – a man like Teacher Ti, for instance.

I remember very clearly that Nanny wanted me to find a good husband.

In those days, I had a bad habit of dropping my chopsticks (a problem I haven't totally shaken till this day).