Riches to Rags

Riches to Rags

Cole Fowler

Last year was the most life-changing event to happen to any of us. We were your average aristocratic family living in Chang’an, where merchants from the western world brought over the most extravagant gifts in exchange for our wood-blocking and tea-brewing. My father owned a large rice farm, where rice crops were harvested in late spring after a long and heavy winter shower. My parents called my Yuan, and most of my childhood was in the lap of luxury. I spent my days inside our brick house writing poetry and if the wind was strong enough, I would fly a beautiful silk kite that was given to me by a local shop owner. My mother’s bound feet caused her daily pain, but she was a great mother nevertheless. As I flew my silk kite in sync with the howling winds, I couldn’t help but gaze at the farmers my father had hired to harvest the crops. Day by day, I sat on the fence surrounding the field and watched the sweat run down their skin as they gathered the rice and dropped it into their baskets ready to sell. It brought sorrow into my mind. Little did I know that I would one day experience the heartache and workload that they make it through on a regular basis.

The end of the year was coming upon us. The government was not turning out to be successful. Buddhists were forging belief in order to avoid tax payment (our family practices Confucius teaching), our slaves had finally had enough with the working conditions out on the fields and began a strike. The peasant rebellion of course made father furious and immediately asked of more taxes from the poor slaves who were already struggling financially from paying unfair rent. This along with the paranoia of the Emperor that caused him to block all trade with western civilizations ultimately led to a new leader Quan Lu ruling our potion of the country. A new leader meant changes in the social structure of the city, so when I woke up one morning shortly after the new year, my mother gave me the news: “Our farmland has been sold without our reassurance, we have become slaves,” she revealed. A slew of questions went through my mind after hearing this. “Does that mean we’ll lose our home and work all day?” I asked. “Yes. We will be housed in a small hut just outside the farm,” mom answered. “But what about you? You can hardly even walk,” I wondered. “I will cook you meals and raise the small children of the village,” she assured. She told me to take only the most important necessities with me to our new living space, as it was incredibly small in size. Our life at the peasant farm filled me with fear. I had seen first hand how our slaves worked, planting and picking their life away. I gave up alchemy school and time that could be spent writing poems. But as Confucius once said, “Everything has it’s beauty, but not everyone sees it,” So I tried to keep an open mind as much as possible.

Our first day was beginning, there was still more left to harvest from the long winter rain that brought more crops to the city than usual, as well as help from the new irrigation system. Going out into the fields for the first time where I had not been permitted before, I was slightly relieved since I had recently heard that new mechanical devices had been invented in order to make work in the farm easier. Perhaps those had been in use since the last time I sat and watched them. I made my way with a hand-weaved basket from Turkey out into the field. It was a letdown to see the poor slaves still using their bare hands. I am assigned to my row of freshly-grown rice and quickly begin a conversation with a peasant who had done this routine many times before, name was Chao Zhao. He had been working for my father’s farm for the past five years. We each told our backgrounds while we picked the crops. He tells me he was born a peasant to his parents, who offered to work for my father in exchange for housing, and has been here ever since. The hours went by. It was at this time before my slave days would hear their cries of exhaustion. Never in my life would I think to hear them from my own voice. The sun was beginning to set and the working day was over. I returned to our hut, where buttery and rich rice was boiling, but only enough for about two people. As I finished the small portion I was giving, I was ready for a long night's rest. Over the next few weeks, I had to be up bright and early for the final harvest before we would plant next year’s crops. I took my empty basket, found Chao Zhao as before, and worked from sunset to sundown. We were able to finish early because that night was the night of the New Year festival. We gathered our rice and headed over to the town square, where peasants from all across the city came to celebrate a hard work we had accomplished. Mother used a long stick in order to get herself there. It was at this moment that I began to realize the good I was doing for the community. The families of our town were well fed because of our good deeds. Even though I missed our care-free life of kite flying, big meals, and incredible riches, but the fact that we as slaves can feed a family and weld useful tools for them made our families’ suffering worth it in the end. Maybe one day I will have the opportunity to rank higher in the government, but until then, I think I will be alright. Over those next five years, I grew older, still picking crops on the same farm. By the time I was fifteen years of age, I moved from farming to wielding weapons for the army as a blacksmith. Throughout that course, my family had raised enough money to send me to an alchemy school, where I studied gold production. These five years have taught me a lot. I went from a wealthy noble who never had anything to achieve or care for, to a peasant farmer who kept an open mind about his new lifestyle. In the end, this experience led me to become a wiser and more caring person. Although’ I may never be as wise as the great Confucius his wise teachings is what got me through my journey.