What If My American-born Son Asked Me What Elementary School Was Like?

One day I just forgot it, the red scarf 
we wore every day. I believed 
it was a piece of the national flag, 
dyed by the martyrs' blood.
 
I begged my mom to buy a new one
at the school gate, otherwise I'd be 
caught by the Students on Duty
who wore red armbands. 
 
They seized the ones who talked 
or ran in the hallway, who failed 
to make a right angle turn 
at the landing on the stairs. 
 
They patrolled on the pedestrian overpass
and roads outside the school. If someone 
bought candy floss, tofu skins, 
 
flavored chicken brittle bones, or deep-fried 
skewered mutton, they immediately took out 
the armbands from their trouser pockets: 
 
I am a Student on Duty!
Tell me your name, class and grade.
Let's go to the Discipline Office!
 
I hated them but also dreamed of
becoming one of them, who had nothing
to be afraid of. In front of my chest,
 
I tied my newest red scarf (the sixth one 
I think). As loudly as everyone else, I swore: 
Fight for the cause of communism. Always prepared!