More importantly, at that time, family planning had not yet been established as a fundamental national policy—it was just a newly introduced concept, and nobody really paid attention to it. Having two or three children in a family was considered few; four or five was extremely common, and even seven or eight kids wasn’t all that rare. So the family’s burden wasn’t just the cost of sending one child to kindergarten—sometimes they had to pay for three or four children at the same time. Since the grandparents at home could look after the kids, if they could save that five yuan, they would.

Chapter 2 My Kindergarten

The games in kindergarten could be summed up as the classic three, with the most popular being “Drop the Handkerchief.” A group of children would carry their little chairs and sit in a big circle facing inward, then one child would stand up, take a handkerchief, and run around the outside of the circle while everyone sang:

“Drop it! Drop it! Drop the handkerchief! Gently place it behind a little friend, everyone don’t tell him! Hurry, hurry, catch him! Hurry, hurry, catch him!”

The child running around the circle had to quietly drop the handkerchief behind another child before the song ended, then quickly return to their own seat. If the chosen child discovered the handkerchief and caught the runner before they sat down, the runner had to keep running and dropping the handkerchief.

Actually, this game was mainly a test of a child’s popularity. When the handkerchief was dropped behind you, if you were well-liked, the kids across from you would give you a look to tip you off. If you weren’t popular, nobody would warn you—everyone would pretend not to see, and you’d just have to keep running.

Then there was “Eagle Catches Chicks,” which needs no introduction—everyone has played or at least seen it. Someone like David Bolton, a chubby kid, was the perfect choice for the mother hen. With his wall of flesh blocking the way, even the fiercest eagle would be stumped. But he could never be the eagle—imagine such a fat eagle trying to catch chicks! That would be the end of the eagle!

Another group game was divided by gender: boys played “Horseback Battles,” and girls played “Beanbag Toss.” There’s no need to talk about beanbag toss—Brian Carter never played it as a child. But “Horseback Battles” is worth describing: one child acted as the horse, another as the rider. The horse carried the rider, and they’d crash into and pull at other pairs. If the rider’s feet touched the ground, they lost.

David Bolton was the best horse in the whole kindergarten, even better than the older kids. But at the same time, he was the worst rider—if a horse had to carry a rider like him, it wouldn’t even need to wait for the enemy to crash or pull; just making it to the battlefield would make it a champion steed.

Now, Brian Carter was that champion steed. After he returned to kindergarten, the teacher, wanting the kids to work up a sweat and drive away the chill, started organizing “Horseback Battles.” It was a free-for-all, with all but the youngest kids (the little class) mixed together.

“Da Jiang, be my horse!”

“Da Jiang, come here, it’s your turn to carry me!”

As soon as “Horseback Battles” was mentioned, a few of the more assertive boys among the dozens immediately started shouting for David Clark to be their horse. The other kids wanted to as well, but were too timid, so they gave up the chance to ride the best horse.

“Step aside! Today I’ll be David Clark’s horse. Anyone got a problem with that?” At this moment, Brian Carter stepped forward, walked up to the grinning David Clark, bent over with his hands on his knees, and waited for David Clark to climb on. The other kids were stunned—not just them, even the teacher supervising the game was surprised.

Could Brian Carter really command the respect of all the kids in kindergarten? The answer was yes—absolutely! Not because he was a time traveler, but because he’d earned it with his own strength—call it prestige! But how could a four-year-old have any prestige? Brian Carter really did, and it all started from the day he entered kindergarten.

In this era, kindergartens had strict requirements for admission, all hard rules. First, your household registration had to be in the same neighborhood as the kindergarten. Second, you had to be at least three years old—any younger and the kindergarten wouldn’t accept you, as they couldn’t take care of you.

Brian Carter’s household registration was definitely in the Beixinqiao neighborhood. His home was just north of the kindergarten, across a single alley—about 200 meters away, just a few minutes’ walk. He grew up at his grandmother’s house, which was only a few dozen meters from his own home, in a big courtyard. It wasn’t that Brian Carter’s parents didn’t care for him—first, both of them worked full-time, and second, their jobs were a bit special.

Brian Carter’s father was a university teacher, teaching advanced mathematics at the Capital Institute of Steel, which is now the predecessor of the University of Science and Technology Beijing. Brian Carter’s mother was a doctor at the Beijing Tuberculosis Research Institute. On the surface, Brian Carter came from an intellectual family, with both parents having good jobs. But that’s by today’s standards—back in the 1970s, especially before 1976, his father was considered a classic “stinking intellectual.”

In fact, his father really was a “stinking intellectual.” Teaching was out of the question. From as far back as Brian Carter could remember, his father had been sent down to Shougang (the Capital Steel Factory) for labor reform. Every day, before dawn, he had to pedal his heavy 28-inch bicycle from Dongcheng District all the way to Shijingshan—a round trip of about 50 kilometers. And you’d better not be late—if you were, it meant you had a bad attitude toward reform, and you’d be criticized on the spot. Sitting on the “earth airplane” for an hour was the least of it.