The Ci Poem on the Burial of Fallen Flowers, the Glue Applicator, and the Love Letter
In 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic and the global turmoil in recent years have caused “all that is solid to melt into air.” The narrative of progress, the dream of globalization, and the technological optimism that have been the creed of humanity are shaken and shattered by the economic depression, the global shift to the right, and the COVID-19 pandemic. For the first time since the turn of the new millennium, mankind has fallen uniformly into a state of confusion, anxiety, and pessimism, in face of uncertain future developments. Against such a backdrop, a message left by a migrant worker from Hubei Province, China, who lost his job due to the pandemic and the trade war, at a library in the city of Dongguan, before he returned home, strikes a cord with everyone at this time of great changes. The message made him one of the most interesting men of the hour in 2020.
Why did the story happen to Wu Guichun? Why did the story take place at Dongguan Library, and in the Pearl River Delta?
This is almost a prefect story that is full of interconnections. This is also a story that cannot be replicated. It strikes a cord with everyone, and captures the zeitgeist at a time of great changes. Perhaps the story can only happen here to Wu Guichun at the Dongguan Library in the “arrival city” of the “factory of the world.” It can only grow out of an open, inclusive, pragmatic, warm climate and soil. It can only be seen in a system that still advocates for and practices public values.
Double Life
From Chapter 35, Dream of the Red Chamber:
“The parrot on the corridor saw Lin Daiyu coming, and swooped down with a loud bang…It then sighed a long sigh, just in the tone Lin Daiyu usually sighed, and then sang: ‘This year people laugh at my folly as I bury fallen flowers, next year who will know when I am buried? / See how spring draws to an end and flowers fall, then the beauty of youth fades. / When spring is gone and youth is over, who will care that both are dead!’”
More than ten years ago, as Wu Guichun just started reading books with a Xinhua Dictionary at hand, the first encounter of these lines by the parrot completely ignited his inner drive.
He marveled at Lin Daiyu’s bird: “Damn, a bird can recite poetry. I cannot even do this thing like this bird. Lin’s maid Zijuan says, ‘My dear lady, it’s all right that you tittle-tattle. Now even your bird follows your tittle-tattle.’ A bird can recite eight lines of verse, if I do not know this ‘Ci Poem On the Burial of Fallen Flowers,’ then I have read Dream of the Red Chamber for nothing.”
On a Friday night in early July, Wu Guichun sat in the staff dormitory of the Dongguan Everbright Property Management Ltd., and talked about the moment of shock at Lin Daiyu’s parrot. In the decade since then, Wu has read Dream of the Red Chamber four times. The human dignity and the eagerness to learn that were inspired by the parrot helped him know the “Ci Poem on the Burial of Fallen Flowers” by heart. Furthermore, this led to his double life of 17 years between the assembly line and the library in the “factory of the world” of Dongguan.
On the morning of June 24th, 2020, Wu Guichun, who could not find a job, decided to return his library card, and get back his deposit of 100 yuan, before returning home to Hubei. At the invitation of the librarian, he wrote down a message to Dongguan Library:
“I have been in Dongguan for 17 years, of which I have spent 12 years coming to the library to read books. Books enlighten our minds, and are the only thing that does only good and no harm. The pandemic this year has forced many industries to shut down. Migrant workers have no more work to do, and have chosen to go home. When I think of my life during these years, the best place is the library. Although I am awfully reluctant to leave, this is life. For the rest of my life, I will never forget you, dear Dongguan Library. I wish you great prosperity in the years to come. The city of Dongguan and migrant workers benefit from your existence.”
After this message went viral, Wu Guichun’s story at the library became a poignant public event in the turbulent year of 2020.
A week has passed since the story “Migrant Worker Leaving a Message to Dongguan Library” triggered a heated debate. During the two hours of eating and drinking in the dormitory, Wu has been called on the phone by journalists from three news outlets. A few days ago, during an interview, he mentioned that he had read Dream of the Red Chamber four times, some journalists showed their disbelief, which made him a bit sad. But he was unable to prove himself at that time.
Among the books he has read, he likes Dream of the Red Chamber and San Yan Er Pai the most. In terms of literary aesthetics, he’s a firm fan of Lin Daiyu.
“Lin Daiyu must be a genius. Those who have talent, like Su Dongpo or Li Bai, are definitely proud of themselves. Let us say Xue Baochai, another figure in the Dream of the Red Chamber, has traditional female virtues, whereas Lin Daiyu has the talent for poetry. Who then are the precedents for these two talented women?”
“The wife of Le Yangzi and Xie Daoyun,” he says to himself. Perhaps because of alcohol, Wu Guichun seems to be relaxed, and as he looks toward the wooden door of the dormitory, he starts to recite the complete “Ci Poem on the Burial of Fallen Flowers,” “Won-Done Song,” and “Won-Dong Song Commentary.”
“This is the essence of Dream in the Red Chamber. If you do not engrave it in your heart, you are not reading it at all.”
Right at the moment, his WeChat voice call rings. He picks up his phone and panics, “What the hell, how to answer it? Come, can you take over?”
Two years ago, after his son found a job, he gifted his father a smart phone, but other than making and receiving calls, Wu Guichun does not know any other functions. If not for the viral tweet, usually few people call him. “I am just an ordinary guy.”
In 2003, the father of Wu Guichun, a native of Xiaogan, Hubei Province, died. In the same year, Wu’s wife left him and their son because of his poverty. With the passage of his mother a few years earlier, Wu, alone, came to this “arrival city” of Dongguan.
He had a diploma from elementary school, and was 37 years old. With his qualifications and age, he was classified as one of the most uncompetitive workers, as he first stepped into the Dongguan Labor Market. The assembly lines of larger factories only welcomed young and strong workers. Older workers, like Wu Guichun, were left to very small factories with poor working conditions.
At first, he went to work in an illegal factory. He did half a month without being paid a cent. Later, he was introduced to an industrial park adjacent to Houjie in the southern part of the city. Houjie in Dongguan is the world’s “shoe capital.” Thanks to its proximity, this park has gathered hundreds of privately owned shoe factories opened by businessmen from Wenzhou.
These small and packed workshops, like matchboxes, are hidden in self-constructed buildings. Because of fire and environmental problems, most of these factories do not even have signs. Only after one passes the gate, bows one’s way up to the second floor, then a factory comes into full view, filled with smells of glue, leather, and plastic soles.
In Wu Guichun’s memory, only middle-aged and elderly workers are to be seen. These small workshops do not provide any insurance or pension, whose success lies in their flexibility, “as long as one has hands, one can do it.”
When he first started, he worked as a handyman. He swept the floor, carried the soles and the leather. As time went by, he learned the last step of the whole manufacturing process, namely, polishing, before the shoes were boxed.
One needs two tools for polishing: a glue applicator and a hot air gun. The head of the glue applicator rotates at a high speed to remove dried glue and stains from the shoes, whereas the hot air gun burns off threads that show up.
Before polishing, there are more than a dozen steps in the process. Wu Guichun spent a lot of time waiting. His workstation was next to a dozen steel racks full of new shoes. It was far from the other workers’ stations, and was surrounded by dusty soles, leather, and miscellaneous materials.
Wu’s co-workers share the same image of him: he always polished the leather shoes in the shadow. When the shoes were brought to his station, all the others had already finished their work, and were ready to go home. Yang Li, the boss of the shoe factory, where he had worked for 7 years, recalls that as he waited for the shoes, Wu liked to take his stool to a well-lit corridor to read.
Most of his co-workers were married pairs who worked and lived together. For 17 years, Wu has kept a minimal existence, in order to save for the tuition and the living expenses of his son in high school, in college, and in graduate school.
His rent was 180 yuan. This was the cheapest place you could find in this urban village. The bathroom was communal. Only a metal bed and a gas stove could fit in the room. On his bed, there was a fan, a Xinhua Dictionary, a magnifying glass, two books on healthy diets and the prevention of hyperlipidemia. Under his bed was a jar of goji berry and orange peel wine—this was all Wu Guichun had, to ensure that he could take everything away with his two hands and a suitcase, and that he could leave at any time.
Before his son gifted him the smartphone, he had an old phone with a monthly fee of 8 yuan. He bought 10 yuan worth of data. Altogether, that cost him 18 yuan.
He has never owned a down jacket because of the short winners in the South. He has three outfits for the year, a short sleeve, a pair of shorts, and a pair of long pants, 15 yuan a piece, altogether less than 100 yuan.
His daily living expenses are kept at around 30 yuan. Most of the time, he takes his lunch and dinner at an inexpensive fast food restaurant on the street: two meat dishes and two vegetable dishes for 10 yuan or a bowl of noodles for 8 yuan. The lady owner from Sichuan Province has run her restaurant in Dongguan for twenty years. She sympathizes with migrant workers. Upon seeing a customer like Wu Guichun, she gives him more noodles.
For 17 years, he has almost given up on fruits. He says that he has spent less than 40 yuan on fruits for all these years.
A typical Chinese father-son relationship: he and his son do not have much communication. As both of them are all by themselves and away from home for years, they have spent little time with each other. He keeps 1000 yuan from his salary, and asks his boss to transfer the rest to his son’s bank account. His son boards at school, and spends holidays at his grandmother’s.
Only a guy from Jiangxi Province could be counted as a friend. One time, this guy knocked his wine over by accident, they fought, and became friends. “Closer than brothers.” A few years ago, this “only friend” passed away.
He has a brother and a sister back home in Hubei. After the death of his parents, the late parents’ bungalow was torn down and rebuilt. His siblings’ children have all grown up. He does not have a place to stay. The bed, blankets, dishes are all theirs. He goes to eat at whichever family has the food ready first.
The winters in Hubei are cold. Occasionally, when he goes home for the Chinese New Year, he wears his brother’s overcoats and down jackets. When he leaves, he takes them off and gives them back.
He often wants to talk, but cannot find anyone. He has not yet officially divorced his wife, but has not seen her for years. The father of the shoe factory owner used to talk to him sometimes. The old man has heard him sigh: “It’s enough to live until 60. My life is not good, and I do not want to live long.” The work at the factory was not technical, and he had no sense of accomplishment. In the off-season, there was too much time to kill. His co-workers played the card game Landlord, went shopping, or just wandered around. He had no money to play cards or buy things, “as if I am always short of money in my entire life.” At first, he bought a few used books from the stalls to kill time. It was at this time that he read a Rouge Version of the Dream in the Red Chamber in eighty chapters.
Before coming to Dongguan, he did not like reading books. After two years of buying books from the stalls to pass the time, one day in 2007, a co-worker recommended that he go to Dongguan Library. He was worried about the costs or “whether they would charge a fee for the AC.” At the time, he lived less than a kilometer away from the library.
The first time he went to the library, Wu Guichun was apprehensive. When he saw the security guards at the entrance, he was afraid. Because when he first came to the South, he was “treated badly by the security guards.”
That day, the security guards did not check his ID as he went in. He took a book from the shelf on the third floor, and read until it turned dark. Nobody paid any attention to him, as he came out of the library. He then believed that this library did not charge anything. After that, he had no more worries.
The second time he went there, he brought a pen and a notebook to write down the words he did not know, and then looked them up in the dictionary, when he returned. There was no work at the shoe factory during off-season, so he went there after breakfast, and came back in the evening without having any lunch. “I do not feel hungry, perhaps because the AC is perfectly set. I do not have to move much when reading a book, and that does not burn much energy.”
From then on, Wu Guichun started his double life between the shoe factory and the library, which was one kilometer away. Starting with a series of biographies on famous people on the bookshelves, he gradually became interested in history and literature. He had never learned pinyin, and could only use radicals to look up characters and words. Over the years, through self-learning, he has read The Spring and Autumn Annals, The Zizhi Tongjian, The Chronicles of the Eastern Zhou Kingdoms and San Yan Er Pai.
On June 24th, the day he went to return his library card, Wu Guichun ran into a boy at the service desk, who had come to get his library card. After a short chat, they found out that both were interested in history. Wang Yanjun, the librarian who later invited Wu to leave a message, recalls that the boy asked, “ There are so many history books. Everyone says a different thing. Have you ever thought about which one is true, and which one is false?”
Wu Guichun’s answer: “There is no absolute truth in history. People write history in the ways in which history feels to them. It depends on how much you have read, and which version you are willing to believe.”
The reading room on the third floor of the library is the place where Wu Guichun visits most often. There is a red sofa by the wall in the north corner of the room, which is his favorite spot. The sofa leans against a steel structure. When he feels tired from reading, he leans against the steel, and dozes off. It feels really comfortable. When he is occasionally late, and the seat is already taken, he will be a bit sad. Looking out from the window behind the sofa, one can see mangoes, banyan trees, magnolias, and camphor trees, which are quite common in the Lingnan region.
All the staff members in the reading room remember him. Sometimes he brings in some cookies or bread. Normally it is forbidden to eat and drink in the library, but they never stop him. Seeing how focused he is, they “would feel quite uncomfortable to disturb him.”
At the end of each year, the peak season of making a living comes to an end. With the arrival of the Spring Festival, the entire Pearl River Delta quiets down. The city empties itself out overnight.
To go home means spending money. For 17 years, Wu Guichun has spent most of the Spring Festival in Dongguan. After the 28th day of the lunar calendar, all the cars parked on the flanks of the main roads are gone. On the bus from City South to the library, there is only Wu Guichun along with the driver.
His co-workers were all gone home for the New Year. The off-season at the shoe factory lasted forty days.
“Basically if not in the library, I do not know how to celebrate the Chinese New Year. For me, the library seems to be my destiny in this life, in the past life. Everything is destiny.”
Wu Guichun finds his destiny meaningful. If he had not been too old to enter a big factory, and had come to this ever-shrinking industrial park adjacent to the library, then his story would have been a different one.
The diverse, mixed, and flexible industrial ecology has allowed Wu Guichun and his generation of older workers to survive in the warm Southern cracks. Located in the heart of the city, the library, like a lighthouse on the sea, offers lonely people reliable companionship and solace in this indifferent “arrival city.”
Love Letter
Before the Spring Festival holiday began in 2019, Wu Guichun told his boss Yang Li at the shoe factory that now that his son had a stable job, he would not continue working at the shoe factory anymore, and instead, he would like to find an easier job, even a monthly salary of 2,000 yuan would do.
Yang Li let him go. The trade war between China and the US sent shock waves through Dongguan’s manufacturing industry. In previous years, Yang Li had nearly one hundred workers, but half of them left after he received fewer orders. “The industry is going downhill. Year after year there are fewer and fewer workers. When the older generations are gone, there will be nobody left.”
The pandemic in 2020 has disrupted everybody’s plan. Wu Guichun, who was supposed to return to Dongguan in February to look for work, stayed at his brother’s until June. Yang Li’s shoe factory should have started in April at the latest in previous years, but until mid-June, there was not a single order from overseas.
Like a pendulum, the macroeconomic trends and unforeseen events determine the destiny of every worker in this “factory of the world.” Last year, there were still 70 to 80 small shoe factories in the industrial zone, where Yang Li has his own factory. This year, there are only 20 or so left. “Those who are out of business are out of business, and those who are bankrupt are bankrupt. More factories have been shut down in Houjie, the desolation is everywhere,” Yang Li says. In the streets of Dongguan, one encounters chauffeurs who used to drive for chiefs of enterprises, but now have switched to driving cabs or vehicles for hire.
In early April, the lockdown in Wuhan was lifted. Workers with official certificates issued by their employers were able to purchase train tickets. Wu Guichun’s factory was too small to issue such a certificate. It was not until June 23rd, two days before the Dragon Boat Festival that he was able to return to Dongguan.
He paid back five months of rent, which expired on June 26th. Before his return, he had already called people he knew in Dongguan, and got to know that many shoe factories collapsed, and many co-workers could not find a job. He also knew that his chances of landing another job in Dongguan were slim. After returning his room and the library card, he planned to find a couple small gigs back in his hometown.
At noon on June 24th, Wu Guichun went to the service desk on the first floor of the library to return his card. The librarian on duty that day was Wang Yanjun. For the return, one needs the library card and an ID card. After handing her his ID card, Wu Guichun kept rubbing his library card in his hand.
It felt strange to Wang Yanjun. “What’s wrong?” “It pains me to return the card. I have been reading books at this library since 2008. I have read so many books. Were I able to find another job and did not have to return home, I would never give up my card.” Wu Guichun said.
The issuance and return of library cards is what happens most frequently during a day at the main service desk. Dongguan Library has a different tempo than libraries in other cities. Every year before the Spring Festival, a large number of migrant workers come to return their cards. There are three kinds of deposits: 100 yuan, 200 yuan and 300 yuan. Every day, the librarians at the service desk have to prepare several thousand yuan worth of cash in advance during this period. When it is spring, the crowd migrates to the service desk again for the issuance of a library card.
Most patrons of the library are calm and quick, when they return their cards. It was the first time in her 16 years at the library that Wang Yanjun had seen a patron with such reluctance, and fondness for his library card. She took at look at his ID, 55 years of age. Wang Yanjun thought, “Others might come back again after they have returned their library cards. Perhaps he thinks he’s too old to ever come back again.”
Wang Yanjun thought this was such a rare thing. She took out a service form, and asked Wu Guichun to leave a message.
Wu Guichun thought for a few minutes, and was at ease. He had expected that he would not be able to find a job. In his long message of 133 Chinese characters, he wrote down this:
“When I think of my life during these years, the best place is the library. Although I am awfully reluctant to leave, this is life. For the rest of my life, I will never forget you, dear Dongguan Library.”
After Wu Guichun finished his message and left, Yanjun’s colleague Huiting, who was on lunch break, returned to the service desk. She read the message, “It is like a love letter, ‘For the rest my life, I will never forget you,’ passionate like love.”
She took a picture of the message, and shared it with the library’s internal group. In the following 24 hours, circles of friends, social media platforms and press media kept forwarding and commenting on this message. “Migrant Worker Leaving a Message to Dongguan Library” has become a public topic in 2020.
On the morning of June 25th, Wu Guichun still held onto a last bit of hope. He rented an e-bike, and rode it around a few streets in the vicinity of the Xinji neighborhood of City South, but he did not see any notice of employment.
However, his destiny was reversed within 24 hours, because of his library message. After lunch, Wu Guichun received calls from journalists from Dongguan TV Station and the local newspaper Dongguan Times. “They say you are super famous on the Internet. I say I don’t know a thing about it. I only know how to answer a call and nothing else.”
In the evening, he received a call from the local Human Resources and Social Security Bureau, who asked him whether he had any wishes in terms of a job, as they hoped to find one that matched his requirements so as to keep him in Dongguan. He replied that he still wanted to work in a shoe factory. A day later, the bureau found a job at a big shoe factory in Houjie for him. But Wu Guichun did not want to move to a neighborhood far from the library. At this time, Guangdong Dongguan Everbright Property Management Ltd. approached him through the bureau. The company was willing to offer him a maintenance job at their Jinhua Garden Property. The location of the job was in City South, less than two kilometers from the library. Wu Guichun took the offer and stayed. On June 26th, he left his rental room, where he had lived for 17 years, and moved into the staff dormitory of Everbright Property.
It seemed that one serendipity after another finally changed Wu Guichun’s life. But almost every interviewee mentions the same serendipity—namely, if Wang Yanjun, the librarian, had not been on duty that day, if she had not been able to see and empathize with an ordinary patron’s sadness, as he returned his library card, and asked him to leave a message, then this story would not have happened.
In the mid-nineteenth century, the modern public library was born in England. From its inception, the public library carried with it the need to serve industrial workers. It came from a simple, and just social ideal—namely, equal access to knowledge for all.
In 2020, Wu Guichun, one of millions of industrial workers in Dongguan, the “factory of the world,” used his message to bring the public library, a sector that has not been in the limelight, into the public eye.
The library directors were all thrilled. All the public librarians experienced a moment of shared glory of their profession.
On the evening of June 25th, Fang Jiazhong, the director of Guangzhou Library, saw the news forwarded by his colleagues, and was very touched by it. He left a message to a news report: Dongguan Library is one of the best public libraries in China! Hats off to the librarians!
For Fang Jiazhong, “Migrant Worker Leaving a Message to Dongguan Library” is almost a perfect story: “It has all the elements necessary to move people: the simple and passionate flow of true feelings, the simple and concise expression of the role reading and libraries play, the special status of migrant workers, the difficult moments under the impact of the pandemic…Professional and compassionate librarians, the best library, a sensitive and enthusiastic professional job agency…”
The former director of Capital Library, scholar Ni Xiaojian, comments, “A library that is recognized by its patrons, and is unfailingly loved is eternal in its vitality.” He recalls that this was only the second time in recent years that a public library had received such widespread attention.
“Last time, it was the dialogue between Mr. Chu Shuqing, the director of Hangzhou Library, and its patrons. A patron said to Director Chu that it was disrespectful of other patrons to allow beggars and scavengers into the library. Director Chu replied that he had no right to refuse them entry into the library, but the patron had the right to choose to leave.”
As for Wu Jianzhong, the director of University of Macau Library, this event reflects the “spirit of tolerance” that public libraries have been pursuing since their first day of existence.
In their comments on the event, scholars Wang Yuguang and Ke Ping who specialize in library and information management also mention that a public library with “no threshold and no walls” is “people's university” and “civilians’ university.”
In evaluating whether “Migrant Worker Leaving a Message to Dongguan Library” is a fortuitous or inevitable event, the directors of libraries and experts have come to a consensus: “Whoever knows about Dongguan Library will not think that it is a fortuity,” in the words of Wang Zizhou, Professor of Information Management at Peking University.
The Refuge
In 2002, Li Donglai from Northern China came to Dongguan. Just two years into the new millennium, everyone was full of optimism about the future.
Li Donglai was no exception. After graduating from the Department of Library and Information Science at Peking University, he became the deputy director of Liaoning Provincial Library. In September 2002, Li Donglai was recruited to Dongguan as a senior talent, and became the director of the new Dongguan Library.
The construction of the library started in 2002, and the library opened its door to the public on September 28th, 2005. In a June 27th interview with News 1+1, Li Donglai mentioned, “Dongguan has a large migrant population. We look forward to providing them with universal, equal, and free public library services.”
Mo Qiyi, the director of the library’s reader service center, recalls that before the opening, Li Donglai and the management level discussed the composition of the population and the needs of patrons, and they jointly established the philosophy of Dongguan Library: leisure, interaction, knowledge.
Many people did not understand why the library did not put “knowledge” but “leisure” in the first place. Wang Yanjun remembers that before the opening of the new library, Li Donglai often talked about the concept of “leisure.” “For Li Donglai, it is important not to worry about whether a patron reads books or not, but to let the patron in first. Even if a patron does not know what this place is for, and just comes in for a stroll, as long as the patron does not disturb others, the patron doesn’t have to read books here, and can do anything.” Wang Yanjun thinks that putting “leisure” first “is meant to encourage patrons first to come in and only then to read.”
There are millions of migrant workers in Dongguan, “the general education level is not particularly high, and so if you say directly that there are lectures on the comparisons of Chinese and Western cultures or on international relations, people will not be interested.”
In addition, summers are particularly hot in the Lingnan region. Dongguan Library is located in the administrative center of the city, surrounded by squares, parks, exhibition halls, and government buildings. Mo Qiyi thinks, “The library is not only a place to study, but also a place, with ACs and a comfortable reading space, for people to relax.”
What does an ordinary person need before entering the library? Mo Qiyi says, “Nothing at all. No ID checks (before the pandemic), no library card necessary, one can simply enter the reading room, and grab a book.”
Mo Qiyi recalls that the government stipulated free access to art museums, public libraries, and cultural centers in 2011, but since the opening of the new library building, Dongguan Library has been open and free, with no threshold, to all. Before that, the old library building in the city center was also open and free to all.
The first 24-hour self-service library in China was also born here. The summers in Lingnan are long, and residents usually have outdoor activities until after 10 p.m. Some patrons left a message, saying that it was too early to close the library at 9 p.m., and asking whether it could be opened throughout the night like at the university.
After receiving this suggestion, Li Donglai quickly decided to turn an unused space of about 100 square meters on the first floor into a 24-hour self-service section. After this was opened in 2005, other patrons said that the space and the selection of books were too small.
Li Donglai then moved the adjacent comic strip section to the third floor, freeing up another 600 square meters for the 24-hour section.
Wang Yanjun remembers that previously the library adopted the policy of closed shelves: patrons submit their book titles and numbers, and the librarians go find them. “This guarantees the lightest workload.” Not long after the opening of the new library, some colleagues complained to Li Donglai at a meeting about the huge workload caused by open shelves in the reading room. “Since the shelves are open, anyone can come in and grab a book. After reading the books, many people just put them back to wherever they want. The books are a mess.”
But Li Donglai said, “This is taxing, but since the shelves are open now, it is impossible to close them again. Everything should move in the direction of more openness; it is not possible to turn back. Patrons may cause a mess for us, but we should know where these books belong. If not, then we should organize the shelves a few more times. This is where the use and value of librarians lies.”
Li Donglai’s words left a deep impression on Wang Yanjun. Her colleagues usually call Li Donglai, Lao Li. Wang Yanjun thinks that Li has a special talent, “He is especially good at considering everything from a ‘human’ perspective. He once said, ‘If you are a patron, you may come in and take a book from this self and another book from that shelf, just like when you go to a supermarket. After you have a cartload of stuff, and you do not want three items anymore, do you put them back?’”
“I put them back,” someone answered.
“Then that’s very nice of you,” said Li Donglai, “but what’s wrong if you do not put them back. One can only say that you are not a perfect patron or customer, but one cannot say that you are doing it wrong.”
Wang Yanjun thinks Li Donglai’s subtle influence upon all her colleagues lies in the daily details. “It is the width of services that everyone is trying to achieve here.”
These discussions and trials are based on Li Donghai and his colleagues’ deep understanding of Dongguan as the “factory of the world.” According to recent statistics from official sources, Dongguan’s population of permanent residents is about 1.9 million, whereas that of temporary residents is about 8.3 million. Migrant workers take up nearly 80%. The inverse ratio of permanent and temporary population has made Dongguan one of the most individual and inclusive cities in China in the 40 years after China’s Opening Up.
There is no 7-Eleven in the city, but the local chain M.Y.J. There are no districts in the city. On the map, there is no center, or first, second, or third ring. Scattered neighborhoods and industrial clusters make up the “factory of the world.” The most beloved piece of clothing here is probably slippers. One likes to figure out which leg of the roast goose tastes better, and no one cases what you wear.
Dongguan Library is located at the junction of the old and new city. Next to Hongfu Road, the main road of the city, one can see the government building and Dongguan Exhibition Hall. In the square in front of the library, there are two pillars with “24-hour self-service library” written on them. 14 years ago, a patron left a message, saying it was so indescribably exciting that the library was open around the clock.
Based on Dongguan’s centerless urban layout, the new library has set up a “main-branch” system with one main library and 52 neighborhood branches. Patrons can borrow and return books at any branch library. In addition, taking the transportation costs for industrial workers to travel between neighborhoods into consideration, the library has set up vehicles for its 102 mobile stations.
More than ten years ago, a patron left a message about the mobile station:
“I am an ordinary employee of Xinke Magnetics Factory. I have always liked to read since I was a child. Because my family was poor, and could not afford my education, I had to come to the South to work in Dongguan with my fellow villagers. In my free time, I love going to the library of the factory. I have read a few hundred books there. It is too expensive to buy books from the bookstore. It was great news to me, when Dongguan Library’s mobile station came to Xinke Magnetics Factory…Every time before the mobile station comes, I mark the dates with a red pen on my calendar, afraid I would miss it. I remember last time I requested the textbook for non-majors Introduction to Management in the reservation book. This time, the station has really brought this book to me. I am so happy!”
Besides, Wang Yanjun and her colleagues have been offering free Cantonese classes since 2005, at the suggestion of patrons. This public service course is still going strong today.
Every summer, train stations in cities across the Pearl River Delta spit out many children from inland provinces every day. The media refer to these children, who travel long distances to reunite with their working parents, as “little migratory birds.” Three years ago, Wang Yanjun and her colleagues started a digital summer reading camp for them. They taught the children how to use computers and how to program. From not knowing how to turn on a computer, the children were finally able to present a small computer animation, Wang Yanjun thinks, “it was totally worth it.”
In 2007, Wang Zizhou, Professor of Information Management at Peking University, and Li Donglai attended a forum together. Wang suggested to Li that he should pay attention to the survival of rural libraries, and the reading situation of children left behind in the countryside. After hearing this, Li Donglai decided to ask his colleagues at the technical department to set up a website called “Finding Cultural Sparks” to record and showcase the current situation of rural libraries and their charity work.
The front page of the website reads, “Equal and free access to information and knowledge is a basic human right for citizens. However, many poor children have no extracurricular books or have never seen a library...”
At the end of 2011, Xinjiang Autonomous Region Library helped purchase train tickets online in its electronic reading room for migrant workers who did not have access to the Internet, so as to ease their difficulty of booking train tickets for the Spring Festival. On the day of this news, Li Donglai was on a business trip in Beijing. At lunch, Wang Zizhou mentioned the news to him.
“Before we had a chance to discuss the significance of this story, Donglai has already called his library to open this service and advertise it to the public immediately, so as to draw migrant workers to reserve train tickets at his library.”
Dongguan Library pays great importance to patrons’ opinions. At the south entrance of the library, there are three round tables, three large parasols, and twelve reclining chairs. This is the waiting area set up at the suggestion of patrons years ago.
At noon on a Saturday in July, this area was filled with patrons who came out to pick up their takeout, or to eat lunch there. Not far away, at the foot of the steps, there were stands selling fresh coconuts, flatbreads, grilled sausages, sushi, and Sichuan liangfen.
Wang Yanjun and her colleagues are used to this lively atmosphere.
She remembers how she and her colleagues got emotional: “hey, this is all too common here,” after the Hangzhou Library event drew national attention in 2011. Since the library began to operate 24 hours, people have been sleeping in it.
“That it costs nothing, provides water and AC draws people to the library, but it’s more of a benchmark to tell people that there is a place like this, where, at worst, you can come and spend the night.”
Among the people who have spent the night in the library, Wang Yanjun finds a Taiwanese businessman the most interesting. He appeared at the library with a luxury suitcase. When the library opened, he wandered inside, and after it closed, he went to sleep in the 24-hour section.
“He said he had lost his ID. He’s actually nicely dressed. His clothes were just a bit dirty.” One day he left his suitcase in the tool cabinet, which startled the cleaning lady. He lived in the library for two or three months, taking it as a temporary refuge. Later, the librarians helped him get in touch with the Taiwanese Association. A day later, he disappeared with his luxury suitcase.
Similar to the Hangzhou Library event, many patrons have come to the service desk from time to time to complain that “the person sitting next to me smells so bad that I cannot stand it,” during Wang’s 16 years at the library.
Wang Yanjun first goes and takes a look, and then suggests the reader who cannot stand the “smell” to change seats. “That seat looks good. Let me help you move your stuff over there. There is still plenty of room there. You don’t have to sit next to him.”
This has happened quite often. There is a shower room on the fifth floor. Once a colleague suggested that they take the “smelly” person to the fifth floor for a shower upon such complaints again. “But this suggestion was dismissed after a discussion. If you ask the patron to take a shower, you show some kind of disrespect toward him or her.”
There was another patron in the library that others often “complained” about. “He’s usually sort of wandering around,” in Wang Yanjun’s memory this patron was most of the time stable. He liked reading. For years, he was always alone in the reading room. But sometimes he was agitated, “and kept talking to the person next to him, or to himself.”
There is a lounge in the library. When this happened, Wang Yanjun and her colleagues took the patron, who was talking, to the lounge to let him calm down.
“After a drink of water, it will be all right again. Just a matter of a few minutes.” It never occurs to Wang Yanjun and her colleagues to keep such patrons out. “We won’t do this. For one thing, the law hasn’t granted you such a right; for another, there is no need, as he’s not always in that special state of mind.” Wang Yanjun says.
Wang Yanjun has not seen the patron in while, since the pandemic brought on strict ID and health checks. A few days ago, she and her colleagues ran into him at the entrance. He did not have a cellphone, so he could not show his QR health code.
Among the patrons she has encountered over the years, a mother and her daughter have made the greatest impression on Wang Yanjun.
One day in 2009, this mother and her daughter appeared in the comic strip section of the library. The little girl was about five or six years old. She looked a bit dirty, and her hands looked almost black. This mother told Wang Yanjun that she had often been beaten at home, so she took her daughter and ran away. Every day, the librarians at the comic strip section bought meals for them. The two of them spent the night at the 24-hour section.
Wang Yanjun really liked the girl. One day, she drew a pencil sketch for the girl. Another day, the girl brought two small steamed creamy custard buns, and left one for her at the service desk and ran away.
The mother and daughter stayed in the library for over a week. Many colleagues wondered how they could help them, who had run away because of domestic violence. Wang Yanjun said, “Why don’t we contact the social service agency for you?” Wang Yanjun remembers that the mother smiled embarrassingly. The next day, the two did not show up in the library again.
Ten years have passed. Wang Yanjun still thinks about them from time to time. She still blames herself for not doing a good job. She has often discussed this with her colleagues, and feels perhaps she shouldn’t have talked about contacting some social agency, “in any event, I have not done a good job. There must be better way of dealing with this matter.”
“Every society needs such public spaces: first of all, they should have no requirements for entry, and be free to all. Every citizen should be able to enter with confidence and gain access to resources and support that correspond to their needs.” The library and information scientist Fan Bingsi finds such spaces extremely important. They are the “urban beacons” that promote social inclusion.
In a paper titled “Libraries: Warmth and Hope,” Li Donglai wrote, “For many marginalized and lost people in the city, public libraries are not only spiritual but also physical refuges.”
Charming Pragmatism
In fact, for a long time, public libraries have not been able to realize the values of universality and equality that they were born to promote.
In the 1990s, the government encouraged libraries to “support literature with literature,” by charging for services to generate revenue. “Many libraries chose to charge for their services, and you couldn't even get in without money.” Fan has written many articles attacking this policy.
At a library and information conference in late 2004, Li Donglai heard some librarians “gleefully describing their experiences of paid services” and “failing to see the enormous changes that the concept of civil rights has brought to the Chinese society.”
It was also at this conference that Zhang Yong, then the deputy director of Hunan Provincial Library, advocated that "in the new century of social transition, public libraries should rebrand themselves, highlight their public and social nature, get out of the vicious circle of elitism and utilitarianism, advocate for equal services, approach ordinary people, pay attention to the disadvantaged, and narrow the digital divide.”
That Dongguan Library was seen because of Wu Guichun’s message attests to the reflection, advocacy, and practice of several generations of public librarians in the past 20 years.
It was Fang Jiazhong, the director of Guangzhou Library, who immediately called Li Donglai upon hearing the news of Wu’s message. The new Guangzhou Library, located in the CBD area of the city, was opened in June 2013. Both locals and migrant workers alike can register without a deposit by showing their IDs. Fang Jiazhong says, “The architecture of the new Guangzhou Library is open, equal, and public. Its resources and policies should also be open. Even a small deposit would be a hurdle that keeps some people away. So we have decided to remove all the hurdles and take no deposit.”
Yang Heyuan, a researcher at Dongguan Library, had worked at Foshan Library for many years. In 1995, he and his colleagues started a public lecture series, which later became known as “South Wind Forum.” Foshan Library was the first public library in China to offer public lectures. What Yang Heyuan and his colleagues had achieved has made “public lectures” a key component of the national public library performance assessment.
According to Yang Heyuan, stories such as Wu Guichun’s are pretty common in the libraries of the Pearl River Delta. He remembers that ten years ago, when he was still working for Foshan Library and the local TV station, he was often recognized by patrons who had attended the “South Wind Forum.” “Once at Nanhua Temple in Shaoguan. Once at a bank. Similar things have happened more than a dozen times.”
“South Wind Forum” has been around for almost 25 years. In 2014, a patron left a message
on the official Weibo of the Forum, saying “I am leaving Foshan tomorrow. What I will dearly miss is the library and its forum.”
Why do such stories always emerge in the Pearl River Delta? Yang Heyuan thinks that very often “people underestimate Dongguan and the Pearl River Delta.”
“This is indeed a fortuitous event, very fortuitous, but there must be an inevitable factor behind this fortuity.”
Yang Heyuan attributes the inevitable factor to the “public nature” of the Pearl River Delta.
“The whole cultural environment in the Pearl River Delta is highly open, and refuses nobody. This manifests not only in cultural institutions but also in service agencies. In the 1990s, there was nobody to serve you in Beijing. In Guangdong Province, there is a tiny detail: if you want to buy fish, you can buy the tail or the belly or the head, which is unimaginable in my hometown in Henan Province.”
When he first came to the Pearl River Delta, Yang Heyuan was shocked to learn that “you can't tell the difference between the super rich and ordinary people here from their appearance.”
“Guangdong is a special place. Even if you wear slippers, nobody will say you are improperly dressed. Nobody will look up to you or down on you because of this. They really treat you as who you are, a human being.” Yang Heyuan finds this “very lovely” in the Pearl River Delta—“charming pragmatism.” Consciously or unconsciously, those who have come here are exposed to this “shared freedom.”
More importantly, Yang Heyuan believes that “in order to enjoy public cultural services, one needs more than resources. It would not be enough just to provide facilities with a low threshold. Whether one can find a livable space and a social environment in a city, whether one finds a crack of existence, where one can take root at a low cost, that is most important.”
“Small factories are not completely for no good” – Wu Guichun firmly grasped the opportunity afforded by this “crack of existence.” This is the vastest yet easily overlooked context of his unique story.
Wu Guichun still keeps a notebook. It was a prize he received for participating in the library’s knowledge contest on the Chinese New Year of 2011. The question he answered was this: Wuliu Jushi is Tao Yuanming, who is Yi’an Jushi?
In this notebook, which he has kept for almost ten years, there are also records of Wu’s income in Dongguan.
2014: March 4400 yuan, April 6800 yuan, May 8000 yuan, June 4000 yuan, July 4300 yuan, August 6000 yuan, September 5600 yuan, October 7300 yuan, November 6400 yuan, December 4600 yuan, January 8000 yuan
2015: March 3100 yuan, April 6700 yuan, May 3700 yuan, June 4600 yuan, July 7600 yuan, August 7600 yuan
...
These were the two years, when his son was in his last year in senior high school and first year in college. “If not for these two years, I wouldn’t have been able to afford my son’s education.” In those two years, Wu Guichun saved 100,000 yuan for his son. He thinks if the “trade war” had happened a few years before, he wouldn’t have been able to pay for his son’s education.
Wu Guichun is grateful for these “cracks of existence” in the small factories in the Pearl River Delta.
“If the sun were completely buried underground, a plant would receive no sunlight at all. Without any nutrient, it would wither and die. If the sun shone from between the cracks, the plant would survive and adapt itself to such an environment.” Wu Guichun says.
After graduating elementary school, Wu Guichun led a wandering life without any goals in life. By every step, he was pushed by destiny and the zeitgeist. He became a migrant worker by following what others did. Before he turned 35, he had run a farm and then a canteen. After being laid off, he started a breakfast stand. He has done everything, but nothing has been successful. He thinks of himself as someone who can overcome hardships. He has been working hard for decades, but has been living on a shoestring for most of his life.
He attributes this to destiny. He always wants to write down a couplet, the first line of which is this: “a small fortune depends on hard work, which takes the effort of the whole family to achieve,” the second: “a great fortune depends on chance, which blossoms when every business goes well.” Because he has never had a place of his own, he has never written these down.
As he reads more over the years, he feels that he can see things more clearly, but he is also getting older. He often thinks, “It’s too late that I read this book.” If he had started reading earlier when he was younger, when he had nothing to do, if he did not go out bird hunting or fishing, if he had kept reading until 1990 or 1995 before he became a migrant worker, perhaps he might have found himself in a much different situation. “But this is destiny. There is no way of staring over.”
Over the years, Wu Guichun has a more realistic identification with and feeling for the South: “It is open, which means it accommodates people from the outside, like a sea taking in all the rivers. Such an oceanic feeling.”
Wu Guichun likes the Lingnan region. When one returns to the North in the spring, the trees are bare, without a single leaf. When it frosts and snows, the air is colder than the refrigerator.
In Lingnan, flowers bloom in all seasons. There is an abundance of sunlight and rain. The tall, lush banyan trees droop their aerial roots, and their roots under the soil break through bricks. Those who have been here say if you throw a branch into the soil, it will grow into a tree next year.
“We hope to treat everyone well, who comes to the library and to Dongguan. This is a kind of equality.” The library director Li Donglai said this at an internal exchange conference a week ago in Dongguan.
At the conference, he shared a PPT page, on which he juxtaposed two images. On the right was Wu Guichun’s message. On the left were the words from a patron to Dongguan Library in 2005—the most impressive message that Li Donglai has received in the past 17 years.
From a long distance away, Yang Heyuan feels that this message from 15 years ago perfectly echoes Wu Guichun’s message as well as the Public Library Manifesto adopted by UNESCO in 1994: The services of the public library are provided on the basis of equality of access for all, regardless of age, race, sex, religion, nationality, language or social status.
The message:
The library is not large in size
But she is a like a harbor
Where everyone can come in
And seek knowledge and shelter from the storm
Or take a rest
A library for everyone
I have seen many libraries
That are large, scarily large
These are not true libraries
Libraries are completely open to the public
With no cumbersome entry procedures
Tolerant of people from all walks of life
Expressing humanity and love
Not only libraries
I hope all the other public facilities
Will open their doors wide without hurdles
Without asking one’s place of origin
Without asking one’s age
Without asking one’s education
Without asking one’s purpose
Without asking one’s name
...
Li Donglai titled this PPT page—“The Human Request”
