My name is Ding Fengchun. I only hate that it wasn't spring when I arrived. But I refuse to accept that. To hell with spring—even a plum blossom can bloom in the defiant snow.
But my name wasn't always Ding Fengchun. I was born Ding Zhaodi. Names like Zhaodi, Pandi, and the like were the most common where I'm from. As a child, I had no idea whether these names sounded nice or not. My mother only ever called me Daya.
My so-called childhood memories are just a blur of countless beatings and scoldings. Every time my mother called out "Daya," it was always followed by an order. "Daya, light the fire and cook." "Daya, fetch water and wash the dishes." "Daya, it's time to work the fields." "Daya, hurry up and cut the pig feed."
It turned out a daughter was born to be a slave. Even back then, she dreamed of studying hard and leaving that poor little village, but she discovered she was too stupid. She just couldn't learn any of it.
