Chapter 52: Millet Porridge

I don't eat millet, not even a bite, including any food that contains millet. Once I eat it, I feel uncomfortable all over, and my stomach feels like it's in turmoil. I remember a few times when I accidentally consumed millet products, and I ended up vomiting for a long time. However, my mother said I was being picky and that I should eat more to get used to it. But she never considered that the reason I don't eat millet is because of her.

In my mother's eyes, millet is an extremely precious good thing. Years ago, only women in confinement and the elderly who were seriously ill could eat millet. If some red dates or yam were added to the millet porridge, it would be a delicacy that only the emperor could enjoy. Therefore, my refusal to eat millet was seen by my mother as a provocation of her authority. Thus, for a long time before I reached adulthood, "millet porridge" evolved from food into an invisible bomb in the house.

To be honest, I am very unfamiliar with and even repulsed by the word "home." Just like now, when I am writing this about millet, the moment I think of its connection to home, my stomach churns violently. Yet, I am crazy about various electronic products from the Xiaomi brand. I wonder if this is a form of "atonement" in another way?

During the years I lived at my grandfather's house as a child, dinner was always porridge—rice porridge, millet porridge, corn porridge, and flour porridge alternated every day. I remember one time I accidentally injured my chin, and after getting stitches, my chin was bandaged for over a month. During this time, when I drank porridge, it would occasionally leak into the bandage, making it very troublesome to clean at home, and going to the hospital for cleaning would definitely cost money. So while my mother complained about me "leaking porridge," she increased the frequency of porridge consumption to show it was for practice. To reduce the irritation of hot porridge on the wound, I tried to cool the porridge before eating. As a result, while the whole family finished eating, I was still sipping my porridge bit by bit, which naturally led to my mother's cold sarcasm. This made me even more averse to drinking porridge, but at that time, it wasn't specifically against millet porridge, until later when something happened.

Every night at six-thirty, cartoons would always be played on TV, while dinner at home was usually set for six o'clock. In the summer, the whole family liked to gather under the grapevine in the yard, setting up a black folding table to eat. My mother stipulated that we could only watch cartoons after finishing dinner. So, I naturally sped up my eating. But in my mother's eyes, this became a sign of not knowing how to chew slowly and being uncultured. To strike a balance, I practiced for a while and even felt secretly proud of it. I remember one time before dinner, I don't know who had already turned on the TV in the house. That day, I happened to be a bit late getting home from school, and I thought I would quickly finish dinner and go watch TV, but unexpectedly, my mother started discussing my exam results at the dinner table. As time ticked away, I felt like I was growing anxious. Finally, after swallowing the last bite of food, I seized the opportunity to rush into the house.

My mother threw down her chopsticks and yelled for me to come out, but by then, I already knew what self-esteem was, and since a classmate happened to live next door, I preferred to attract my mother into the house to scold me rather than have the whole alley know about it. My mother is that kind of person; in her own words, knowing it's embarrassing isn't enough; you have to be even more embarrassed to "learn a lesson." Although she later vehemently denied having done this to me, every time I saw her use the same method to publicly scold the dog, it felt like the scene was replaying.

Sure enough, that day my mother fulfilled my wish. Seeing that I was slow to come out, she rushed into the house and slapped me a few times without saying a word. Suddenly, the cartoon playing on TV lost its appeal to me; I felt a wave of discomfort in my stomach, and the dinner I had just eaten surged out of my mouth and nose. My mother stood by, seemingly oblivious, continuing to curse me, from my exam results to wasting food, while I, curled up on the ground holding my stomach, was also accused of dirtying my clothes and the floor. Later, my father and grandfather brought some ashes to sprinkle on my vomit. My mother shouted at them not to care about me, saying I should clean up my own mess. I clearly remember that what I vomited that day was millet porridge.

Afterwards, I don't remember whether it was the cartoon that attracted me more that day or the importance of shifting the scene of my mother's scolding to the house. In any case, it should have been from that day on that I stopped eating millet porridge and any millet products. To this day, whenever I return to my hometown and eat with my parents, the smell of millet porridge still makes me feel nauseous.

My mother mocks me for being picky and says I deserve to be weak and frail. Over the years, I have summarized a self-preservation experience: never directly contradict my mother, even if I am right, I must learn to swallow my anger. Because every time I contradict her, it means more and longer accusations will follow. From wetting the bed as a child to glancing at boys a few more times during puberty... every little thing can be brought up and repeated, and even the smallest matters can ferment into unforgivable offenses. At the same time, I also learned: not to trust my parents. Because every time I confide my true feelings to them, it becomes new evidence for them to accuse me later. This feeling is like rubbing salt in a wound. Gradually, I even began to feel a sense of victory deep down whenever I saw her hysterically scolding me.

Over the years, I have been to many places both domestically and internationally, and rarely experienced symptoms of discomfort due to the environment. However, every time I return to my hometown, I get sick. My mother also tries to persuade me to eat nutritious millet porridge. Indeed, everyone in the country knows that millet is nutritious. But I can't eat it, not even a little bit. When I am in a calm state of mind, I have secretly tried to see if I should reconcile with millet porridge, which is actually reconciling with my original family. But I found that the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment. So, why self-torture? Don't tell me things like "there are no perfect parents in this world" or "children want to care for their parents but they are no longer around." Filial piety is the biggest lie in the world; the so-called family affection has long been obliterated in a series of slaps and curses.

For the rest of my life, the safest way to interact is probably to have only responsibilities, without obligations.

The End