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The Cultural Revolution: Then and Mao
The Cultural Revolution: Then and Mao
The Cultural Revolution: Then and Mao
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The Cultural Revolution: Then and Mao

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America goes through a cultural revolution now and then. We had one in the 1960s that involved hippies, communes, and anti-war demonstrations. And it appears we’re in the beginnings of one now. Only this revolution seems much more dangerous than the one in the 1960s. Peaceful protests have erupted into rioting, looting, and burning down buildings. And calls to defund the police have alarmingly won the support of many people in positions of authority.

China also had a cultural revolution during the 1960s. And some pundits and scholars have compared our current civil unrest with China’s turmoil, some 55 years ago. But is that a fair comparison?

In some ways yes, but in other ways, no. Thankfully, no. China’s Cultural Revolution is said to have killed millions of people. But so far ours has killed far less. However, just as in China, the police have been hamstrung by politicians. And this has helped perpetuate the chaos and disorder in our American streets.

History never exactly repeats itself, but it has been known to rhyme. And there are strong rhymes coming from our current cultural revolution, with that of China’s.

Learning from China can help us to identify the similarities, which might keep us from making the same tragic mistakes. This book describes the horrible events that unfolded during China’s Cultural Revolution. It also tells the story of the instigator of that revolution, Chairman Mao Zedong, and of the events he set into motion that led to one of the greatest tragedies in human history.

Excerpt from The Cultural Revolution, Then and Mao:

What would you do if you knew that the child you were raising would become the most prolific murderer of all time? If you were Mao Zedong’s father, Mao Yichang, I’m guessing you’d kill him. But if you were his mother, Wen Qimei, you might try harder to turn him into a good person.

I don’t know if Mao’s father actually tried to kill him, but at times it may have seemed like it. Mao Yichang was a cruel man, and a strict disciplinarian, and he often beat his son severely. Wen, on the other hand, was a practicing Buddhist. She tried her best to protect her son from the cruel hand of his father.

Wen used the teachings of Buddhism to try to convince the elder Mao to temper his rage and go easy on their son. Sadly, she was largely unsuccessful. She also used Buddha’s teachings to convert Mao to Buddhism. This may have been her best hope, but eventually it too fell flat, because when Mao was a teenager he left the religion.

He was born on December 26, 1893, into a life of privilege and hardship. His family was rich, and from that came the privilege. But his father was mean, and from that came the hardship. They lived the peasant farmer life, but as relatively rich peasants, in a rural area of Hunan Province, in China.

Mao became an avid reader, between beatings and work on the farm. And from his reading he cultivated a political consciousness. He found a good cause to fight for. Perhaps the Buddhism he learned from his mother inclined him toward finding a good cause. But if so, then maybe his father’s beatings inclined him toward fighting for his cause using the most sadistic means possible.

Revolution was in the air, in Mao’s young life. In fact, revolution would hang in the air throughout his life. In his young days, the Qing dynasty held power over China. But it was tenuous power, corrupted and weakened by foreign influence, and left vulnerable to attack by those who sought political change.

And many in China did seek such change.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherTippy Gnu
Release dateFeb 1, 2021
ISBN9781005019648
The Cultural Revolution: Then and Mao
Author

Tippy Gnu

My last name is pronounced Guh-NEW, and rhymes with canoe.I began writing when I was five years old. About all I could handle back then were a few scribbled letters that were hardly legible. But eventually I expanded my works to include the full alphabet.I wrote my very first short story when I was in the third grade. And it won an award. The award came from Mrs. Gypsum, my third grade teacher, and was actually just a letter grade. I think it was an A, but it could have been a B. Or a C. Would you believe, D?Hell, I can’t remember what grade I got. But it turned me on to writing so much, that in the 11th grade I wrote another short story. I was in a high school creative writing class and my teacher, Mrs. Nutt, insisted that I write a short story. Damn her! So I scrawled one out, and it got a few laughs from the other students.A few laughs is all it takes to encourage me. I can’t remember my grade, but I do remember the scowl on Mrs. Nutt’s face. So it was probably an F. But it was fun to write a story that my fellow students liked, but my teacher hated. So I kept up the good work, and somehow I passed the class.I had so much fun that a few years later, in college, I signed up for another creative writing class. I intended to sail through without doing much work, by simply submitting all my old high school short stories, to fulfill assignments.I found it very easy to get Professor Mushroom’s goat, and this encouraged me to chuck all my high school work, and come up with new material, specially tailored for her. That got my creative juices flowing. And somehow, I passed the course. She gave me a B, for Bitch. But I think I deserved an A. For Asshole.Out in the real world, I realized how hard it would be to make a living from my rogue writing, so I got real jobs and pursued real careers. I was a disc jockey for a few years, but that didn’t pay much. Greedy, lazy bastard that I am, I decided that I needed a government job. So I managed to get hired by the U.S. Postal Service, and started throwing letters into mailboxes for a living.But in a sense, I really was writing for a living. Management tried their best to fire my lazy ass, so I became a union steward and got good at writing grievances. This was how I got my start in non-fiction (although some claimed it was fiction). It was a lot of hard work, writing contentions and organizing exhibits and such. But I had to work this hard in order to keep my cushy job.I’m now retired from writing, er, the Postal Service, and can spend all day lazing about on my ass, while drawing a fat pension check. Ah, this is paradise. And yet, I’m still writing. What the fuck is wrong with me? Writing is grueling mental labor.The ghosts of my lazy past haunt me. I can’t sleep unless I write and give back to this world. I have to atone for all my past laziness. I will admit that I’ve tried selling my books, but usually nobody wants to buy them. So my fucking karma is forcing me to give away some of my books for free.I hope you enjoy the free reading. Consider it compensation for all those postage stamps you’ve bought. And thanks for helping me clear my conscience.

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