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In today’s China, where skyscrapers pierce the clouds and bullet trains crisscross the land, it’s easy to be swept away by the narrative of progress and prosperity. Yet, beneath the gleaming facade of modernity lies a world often overlooked: the world of China’s hardworking, often invisible, service workers. “My Mother, the Cleaner” (我的母亲做保洁), a poignant and deeply personal account by Zhang Xiaoman, pulls back the curtain on this hidden realm, offering a glimpse into the lives of those who toil tirelessly to keep China’s cities running.
The book centers on the experience of the author’s mother, Chunxiang, a woman in her early fifties who relocates from her rural village to the bustling metropolis of Shenzhen to find work. Chunxiang, like millions of other rural migrants, embraces the role of a cleaner, a job often seen as menial and lacking prestige. Through her mother’s eyes, Zhang Xiaoman unveils the gritty reality of this demanding profession, exposing the physical strain, low wages, and constant struggle for respect that these essential workers endure.
Published in late 2023 by Guangqi Books (光启书局), “My Mother, the Cleaner” quickly resonated with Chinese readers, climbing the bestseller charts and sparking widespread discussion online. The book’s emotional depth, coupled with its unflinching portrayal of the social and economic realities facing China’s aging workforce, has struck a chord with readers from all walks of life. Many have praised the book’s raw honesty, its depiction of the resilience and dignity of ordinary people navigating a rapidly changing society. Online forums are abuzz with personal stories mirroring Chunxiang’s journey, echoing the anxieties of a generation grappling with an uncertain future. The book has become more than just a personal memoir; it’s a powerful testament to the often-unseen labor that underpins China’s economic miracle.
The year 2020 brought an unexpected turn of events for Chunxiang, a 52-year-old woman living in the rural backwater of Shangnan County, nestled in the Qinling Mountains of Shaanxi province. For years, Chunxiang had relied on her tireless work ethic and resourcefulness to make ends meet, juggling a series of physically demanding jobs to support her family. But when her decade-long stint as a cook at a local vanadium mine came to an abrupt end, she found herself adrift in a changing economic landscape.
Faced with unemployment and a dwindling sense of purpose, Chunxiang grappled with a growing anxiety. Her daughter, Xiaoman, had established a life in the distant city of Shenzhen, a symbol of opportunity and prosperity in southern China. Xiaoman, witnessing her mother’s struggle, extended an invitation: come to Shenzhen, I’ll help you find work.
Chunxiang, accustomed to the familiar rhythms of rural life, initially hesitated. She worried about becoming a burden on her daughter, about navigating the complexities of a modern city, and, most importantly, about her ability to find work at her age. These weren’t unfounded concerns. Her left knee, weakened by a bout of synovitis a few years prior, still ached, a constant reminder of her advancing years and the physical toll of her past labors.
Her relatives, bound by the traditional mindset of rural China, echoed her anxieties. They cautioned against the perils of city life, warning of the fast pace, the overwhelming crowds, and the impersonal nature of urban relationships. “Why go ‘up’ to Shenzhen?,” they asked, using a phrase common among rural Chinese, reflecting a deeply ingrained sense of hierarchy between rural and urban areas. Going “up” to a city implies ascending to a higher level, both geographically and socially, a journey fraught with uncertainty and potential risks.
But Chunxiang, despite her fears, possessed a deep-seated resilience, a spirit forged through years of overcoming hardship. As she weighed her options, a familiar refrain echoed in her mind, a phrase she often uttered during her years of back-breaking labor: “I’m not afraid of anything!” This defiant declaration, a testament to her unwavering determination, ultimately tipped the scales.
With her characteristic blend of trepidation and anticipation, Chunxiang embarked on her journey to Shenzhen, a 1,500-kilometer odyssey from the familiar embrace of her mountain home to the unknown landscape of a megacity.
Upon arriving in Shenzhen, Chunxiang found herself enveloped by a world of sensory overload: towering skyscrapers, a sea of unfamiliar faces, and a relentless pace of life that left her breathless. The heat, the humidity, the sheer scale of the city threatened to engulf her. She clung to her daughter, relying on her guidance to navigate the intricate web of subways, buses, and pedestrian crossings, each step a tentative foray into uncharted territory.
Despite the initial disorientation, Chunxiang, fueled by her innate resourcefulness and the unwavering support of her daughter, embarked on her mission to find work. Job hunting for a woman in her fifties, with limited literacy and no experience in the modern service industry, proved challenging. Leads turned into dead ends, her hopes dashed against the realities of ageism and the fierce competition for even the most menial jobs.
Undeterred, Chunxiang, drawing on her years of experience navigating the informal networks of rural China, turned to those who understood her circumstances: other cleaners. She struck up a conversation with a street cleaner, a woman her age, who, recognizing a kindred spirit, offered a lifeline: a cleaning job at a high-end shopping mall in the heart of Shenzhen’s financial district.
With a mix of hope and apprehension, Chunxiang, dressed in her best clothes, a pair of newly purchased “Mary Jane” style shoes intended to convey a sense of professionalism, went for the interview. To her surprise, the hiring process was swift. She was assessed not on her literacy or technical skills, but on her one undeniable asset: her willingness to work hard. She readily accepted the eight-hour shift, a welcome respite from the back-breaking labor of her past, and a chance to prove that age was no barrier to her determination to make a life for herself in this unfamiliar city.
Chunxiang’s first foray into Shenzhen’s service industry was a baptism by fire. Her designated battleground: the gleaming, sprawling expanse of the mall’s basement floor, a chaotic confluence of restaurants, shops, and subway exits. Armed with her mop, bucket, and an array of cleaning solutions, she joined the ranks of the mall’s “House Keeping” (HK) crew, a term both ironic and apt. For these cleaners, maintaining the illusion of order and cleanliness was a full-time occupation, their lives a far cry from the luxurious ease implied by the term borrowed from their wealthier counterparts across the Shenzhen Bay in Hong Kong.
The job was a relentless cycle of mopping, scrubbing, and polishing, a constant battle against the tide of foot traffic and the inevitable spills, stains, and discarded debris that marked the passage of thousands of shoppers. Chunxiang quickly learned that the mall’s pristine facade was a carefully constructed illusion, maintained by the invisible labor of an army of cleaners who toiled tirelessly behind the scenes.
The pressure to maintain a spotless environment was immense. Every stray wrapper, every misplaced shopping bag, every smudge on the gleaming surfaces was a potential source of reprimand. The mall’s management, obsessed with projecting an image of flawless luxury, employed a team of young supervisors whose sole purpose was to scrutinize the cleaners’ work, snapping photos of any perceived imperfections and relaying them to the cleaning company with a ruthlessness that belied their youthful appearances.
Amidst this pressure cooker environment, Chunxiang found solace in the camaraderie of her fellow cleaners, a motley crew of men and women, mostly in their fifties and sixties, hailing from diverse corners of China. Each carried their own stories, their own reasons for seeking refuge in the anonymity of Shenzhen’s service industry. Some, like Chunxiang, had left families behind in search of economic opportunity, driven by the desire to secure a better future for their children or to save for a more comfortable retirement. Others had fled troubled marriages, seeking a fresh start in a city where anonymity offered a shield from judgment.
Their shared experiences, the ache in their backs, the chapped skin on their hands, and the unspoken understanding of the indignities they endured, forged a bond of unspoken solidarity. They shared tips on navigating the mall’s labyrinthine corridors, traded stories of their hometowns, and offered each other a shoulder to lean on when the demands of the job or the loneliness of city life felt overwhelming.
Yet, despite their hard work and dedication, the harsh realities of their situation remained. The wages were meager, barely above Shenzhen’s minimum wage, and the benefits nonexistent. They worked long hours, with few breaks and even fewer days off. Their lives were governed by a strict set of rules and regulations, enforced with a rigidity that left little room for individual expression or even basic human needs.
As Chunxiang navigated this challenging new world, she began to understand the true cost of the mall’s immaculate facade. The gleaming floors, the sparkling displays, the carefully curated atmosphere of luxury and abundance, all came at a price: the sweat, the toil, and the often-invisible sacrifices of the city’s “House Keepers,” the unsung heroes who labored tirelessly to maintain the illusion of order and cleanliness, ensuring that Shenzhen’s shoppers could enjoy their retail therapy in blissful ignorance of the human cost.
After a grueling stint at the high-end shopping mall, Chunxiang found herself yearning for a work environment where she felt less like a cog in a relentless machine. Fate intervened in the form of a flyer, handed to her by a fellow cleaner, advertising a position at a nearby government building. Intrigued by the promise of a more regulated schedule and the prospect of working in a less frantic setting, she decided to give it a try.
The transition from the frenetic energy of the mall to the comparatively serene atmosphere of the government building was stark. Instead of the constant din of shoppers and the ever-watchful eyes of supervisors, she found herself surrounded by an air of quiet efficiency. The building, an older structure dating back to the 1980s, retained a sense of order and hierarchy, with offices arranged in a traditional layout, reflecting the bureaucratic structure within.
Chunxiang’s new responsibilities involved cleaning the offices, corridors, and restrooms on two designated floors. Unlike the mall, where she was constantly on the move, her work at the government building allowed for a more measured pace. There was time to chat with the employees she encountered, to learn their names and stories, and to develop a sense of connection that had been missing in her previous job.
She discovered that the government workers, far from the aloof and detached figures she had imagined, were a diverse group of individuals, each grappling with their own set of challenges and anxieties. The young woman who confided in her about the stress of balancing work and motherhood, the man who always seemed to be rushing to the restroom with a stomachache, the kindly older gentleman who always offered a smile and a word of encouragement – these encounters chipped away at Chunxiang’s preconceived notions of what it meant to be a government employee.
The relative “freedom” she experienced in this new environment extended beyond the physical space. She felt a sense of respect from the people she served, a recognition of her work that had been absent in the impersonal world of the mall. She was no longer just an anonymous cleaner, but “Auntie Chunxiang,” a valued member of the building’s community.
This newfound sense of dignity coincided with a particularly stressful period in the author’s life, when work pressures and personal anxieties mounted. Chunxiang, despite her own challenges adapting to city life, became a pillar of support for her daughter, offering a listening ear, a comforting presence, and the kind of unwavering love that only a mother can provide. She would patiently wait for Xiaoman to return home from work, ready with a warm meal and a gentle inquiry about her day. Even when Xiaoman, overwhelmed by stress, retreated into silence, Chunxiang remained a steadfast presence, a source of comfort and stability in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.
While Chunxiang found solace and a sense of belonging in her new job, she remained acutely aware of the social stigma attached to her profession. When speaking to relatives back in her village, she would downplay the nature of her work, emphasizing the “light workload” and “good benefits,” careful not to tarnish the image of her family in the eyes of her rural community. This act of minimizing her role, of protecting her “face” (mianzi), reflected a deeply ingrained cultural value, a desire to maintain a positive image and avoid bringing shame upon oneself or one’s family. For Chunxiang, this meant presenting a facade of success to her relatives, even if it meant downplaying the reality of her own struggles.
The news of her older sister, Xianlan’s, cancer diagnosis cast a long shadow over Chunxiang’s newfound contentment in Shenzhen. Back in their rural hometown in the heart of the Qinling Mountains, Xianlan, affectionately called “Older Sister” by Chunxiang, was facing a battle that would ultimately consume her. Pancreatic cancer, a cruel and relentless disease, had taken root in her body, slowly chipping away at her strength and her hope.
Xianlan’s life had been one of ceaseless toil and sacrifice, a story all too familiar in rural China. Bound by tradition and the weight of familial obligations, she had married her husband, Chunxiang’s sixth uncle, in a “marriage exchange” orchestrated by their mothers. The arrangement, common in their village, ensured that both families would have a daughter-in-law, securing the continuation of their lineages and the care of their aging parents. But for Xianlan, it meant a life tethered to a man she did not love, her own dreams and aspirations relegated to the margins.
Like Chunxiang, Xianlan had spent years working grueling jobs, her body bearing the scars of her labor. From the vanadium mines to the construction sites of Xi’an, she had toiled alongside her husband, their lives a constant cycle of physical exertion and financial precarity. When an injury forced her to abandon construction work, she found a job washing cars at a local repair shop, a position considered “good” for a woman in their town, despite the long hours spent standing in water, her hands perpetually chapped and raw from the harsh chemicals.
When Xianlan first complained of stomach pains and a persistent loss of appetite, she dismissed it as a minor ailment, a mere inconvenience in the face of her daily struggles. She sought solace in traditional remedies, herbal concoctions brewed by local healers, clinging to the belief that her strong constitution would prevail. Deeply ingrained cultural norms, a distrust of modern medicine coupled with the prohibitive cost of healthcare, often led people in her village to delay seeking medical attention until their conditions became dire.
It wasn’t until her symptoms worsened, her body visibly wasting away, that she finally relented to her family’s pleas and went to a hospital in Xi’an for a proper diagnosis. The news, delivered with a cold finality, confirmed their worst fears. The cancer had spread, her chances of survival slim.
Even as she faced her own mortality, Xianlan’s primary concern remained her family. She worried about the financial burden her illness would place on her husband and children, about her son’s future prospects, and about leaving her family without her care. Her anxieties echoed a common refrain among women in her village: a life defined by sacrifice, their own well-being secondary to the needs of their families.
Chunxiang, witnessing her sister’s decline, was torn between her obligations in Shenzhen and the pull of family back home. She desperately wanted to be there for Xianlan, to offer comfort and support during her final days. But the fear of losing her hard-won job, of returning to the uncertainty of unemployment, held her back. The guilt gnawed at her as she juggled phone calls and video chats, trying to bridge the distance between her sister’s bedside and her own life in Shenzhen.
When Xianlan’s condition deteriorated to the point where she could no longer be cared for at the hospital, her family brought her home, a tacit acknowledgment that her time was drawing to a close. Chunxiang, unable to bear the thought of being absent during her sister’s final moments, requested a leave of absence from her job, knowing that it could mean losing her position.
She returned to her village, to the familiar landscape of her childhood, now shrouded in the shadow of impending loss. She spent her days by Xianlan’s side, holding her hand, sharing stories, and offering words of comfort. As Xianlan drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts turned to her past, to the life she had lived, the sacrifices she had made, and the family she would soon leave behind.
Her death, on a sweltering August day, left a void in Chunxiang’s life. The grief was profound, a visceral ache that resonated deep within her. She had lost not just a sister, but a confidante, a fellow traveler on the arduous journey of rural womanhood, a witness to the shared struggles and triumphs that had shaped their lives.
Xianlan’s passing forced Chunxiang to confront her own mortality, to grapple with the fragility of life and the inevitability of loss. The experience left an indelible mark on her, deepening her appreciation for the preciousness of time and the importance of cherishing the bonds of family. It also reinforced her determination to make the most of her remaining years, to live a life that honored the sacrifices of those who had come before her.
Chunxiang often declared, with a mixture of pride and self-deprecation, “I’m the most calculating one in our family!” This statement, delivered in her thick Shaanxi dialect, encapsulated her unwavering commitment to financial prudence, a trait forged in the crucible of her upbringing in a poverty-stricken village nestled in the Qinling Mountains.
For Chunxiang, “calculating” wasn’t a pejorative term. It signified a shrewdness, a resourcefulness born from a lifetime of making do with limited means. It meant squeezing every last drop of value from every yuan earned, stretching resources to their limits, and always planning for a future that held no guarantees.
Her frugality, often a source of amusement and exasperation for her children, was a deeply ingrained habit, a reflex honed during her childhood in an era of scarcity. She could vividly recall the gnawing hunger that had haunted her early years, the constant worry about where the next meal would come from. This experience, etched into her memory, had shaped her worldview, instilling a deep-seated aversion to waste and a relentless drive to secure her family’s financial well-being.
This legacy of scarcity manifested itself in countless ways, from her meticulous budgeting to her uncanny ability to repurpose discarded items into useful household objects. She would scold her children for leaving lights on, for taking long showers, for indulging in what she perceived as frivolous spending. Her admonishments, often delivered with a mix of humor and exasperation, reflected a deep-seated anxiety about squandering hard-earned money.
In her cleaning jobs, Chunxiang’s “calculating” nature translated into a meticulous approach to her work. She would carefully ration cleaning supplies, making sure to stretch them to their limits. She would repurpose discarded plastic bottles and cardboard boxes, transforming them into storage containers and makeshift organizers. Every action, every decision was filtered through a lens of cost-effectiveness, a relentless pursuit of maximizing value and minimizing waste.
This drive for financial security was often contrasted with her husband’s perceived lack of ambition. While Chunxiang possessed an entrepreneurial spirit, always seeking ways to supplement their income, her husband seemed content with a life of steady, if unspectacular, labor. This difference in outlook often led to friction, with Chunxiang lamenting his lack of “calculation” and his seeming indifference to the financial anxieties that consumed her.
Their contrasting approaches reflected a broader cultural dynamic in Chinese society, where the responsibility for financial stability often falls disproportionately on women. From managing household budgets to ensuring that children receive a good education, mothers are often tasked with the burden of securing the family’s future. Chunxiang, like countless other women of her generation, had internalized this responsibility, her drive to “calculate” and save fueled by a deep-seated desire to shield her family from the hardships she had endured.
In a society where economic mobility is often tied to educational attainment, Chunxiang placed immense value on her children’s education. Despite her own lack of formal schooling, she understood that a good education was the key to a better life, a path out of the poverty that had defined her own upbringing. She scrimped and saved, sacrificing her own needs to ensure that her children could attend the best schools, her hopes and dreams pinned on their success.
Chunxiang’s “calculating” nature, far from being a mere personality quirk, was a testament to her resilience, her unwavering commitment to her family, and her deep understanding of the precarious nature of life in a rapidly changing society. Her frugality, her resourcefulness, and her relentless drive to secure a better future for her children reflected deeply ingrained cultural values, a legacy of hardship that had shaped her worldview and fueled her determination to create a more secure and prosperous life for herself and her loved ones.
As time wore on in Shenzhen, the relentless pace of the city began to take its toll on Chunxiang’s aging body. The aches in her knee, a lingering reminder of her years of strenuous labor, intensified, making the constant standing and walking required for her cleaning job increasingly difficult. Each step became a negotiation with pain, a reminder of her own physical limitations in a city that worshipped youth and efficiency.
The strict regulations and constant surveillance that governed her work life added to her growing sense of powerlessness. Every action, every movement was scrutinized, monitored by a web of cameras and the ever-watchful eyes of supervisors. The pressure to maintain a spotless environment, to meet the unreasonable expectations of her managers, felt suffocating.
“They treat us like we’re robots,” Chunxiang confided in her daughter, her voice laced with frustration. “They want us to be everywhere at once, to clean up every mess the moment it happens. But I don’t have wings to fly!”
Her managers, caught between the demands of their clients and the limitations of their workforce, often resorted to a management style that prioritized compliance over compassion. Every minor infraction, every missed deadline, was met with a barrage of criticism and threats of disciplinary action. The constant fear of losing her job, of being replaced by someone younger and more agile, hung over Chunxiang like a dark cloud, adding to her already heavy burden.
The anxieties surrounding retirement loomed large in Chunxiang’s mind. With no pension to fall back on and limited savings, the prospect of being unable to work filled her with dread. The cultural expectation of filial piety, the belief that children are obligated to care for their aging parents, weighed heavily on her. She feared becoming a burden on her children, a drain on their already strained resources.
“What will we do when we’re ‘old?'” Chunxiang would often ask her daughter, her voice trembling with unspoken fear. “We have no one to rely on but ourselves.” This sentiment, shared by many of her fellow cleaners, reflected a deep-seated anxiety about the future, a fear of being cast aside in a society that valued productivity above all else.
The lack of a social safety net for aging workers in China, coupled with the erosion of traditional family structures as young people migrated to cities in search of work, had created a generation of elders facing an uncertain future. For Chunxiang, the only path to security seemed to lie in her own hands, in her ability to continue working, to save every yuan she could, to ensure that she wouldn’t become a burden on her children.
The relentless pursuit of financial security, the constant struggle against physical limitations, and the ever-present fear of losing her job created a sense of perpetual anxiety for Chunxiang. Yet, despite these challenges, she persevered, her spirit unbroken, her determination to carve out a dignified existence in Shenzhen unwavering. Her story, a microcosm of the struggles faced by millions of aging workers across China, serves as a stark reminder of the human cost of economic progress and the urgent need for policies that address the needs of a rapidly aging population.
Chunxiang’s journey as a cleaner in Shenzhen exposed a stark truth: the essential role cleaners play in maintaining a city’s hygiene is often met with a dismissive, almost invisible, attitude from those who benefit most from their labor. The gleaming office towers, the spotless shopping malls, the pristine public spaces – all exist thanks to the tireless efforts of cleaners like Chunxiang, yet their contributions are rarely acknowledged, their presence barely registered by those who inhabit these sanitized spaces.
The tension between the necessity of their work and the lack of respect they receive is a constant undercurrent in Chunxiang’s experience. She encounters this dissonance in countless small interactions, in the averted gazes of those who step gingerly around her as she mops the floor, in the impatient sighs of those who queue for a restroom she’s just meticulously cleaned, and in the complaints lodged against her for the slightest speck of dust that dares to appear on her watch.
Yet, amidst this sea of indifference, Chunxiang also encounters kindness and empathy. The young office worker who offers a shy smile and a “thank you” as she empties his overflowing wastebasket, the security guard who helps her carry a heavy bucket of water, the elderly gentleman who engages her in conversation, asking about her life and offering a kind word – these small acts of recognition, these fleeting moments of human connection, serve as a balm for her weary spirit.
As Chunxiang gains experience, she also gains confidence. She learns to assert her rights, to speak up against unfair treatment, and to challenge the unreasonable demands of her managers. When a supervisor criticizes her for a water stain on a bathroom counter, she retorts, “Do you expect me to stop people from using the restroom? I can’t be everywhere at once!” Her words, delivered with a mix of frustration and newfound assertiveness, reflect a growing understanding of her rights and a refusal to be treated as an invisible, disposable cog in the machine.
The arbitrary firing of Chunxiang’s colleague, Cuizhu, for the minor infraction of plugging in her rice cooker in a vacant office, throws a harsh light on the precarious nature of cleaning jobs in Shenzhen. The incident sparks outrage and fear among the cleaners, who recognize the injustice of the situation and the vulnerability of their own positions.
“He’s too ‘ruthless’,” Chunxiang fumes to her daughter, referring to the manager who summarily dismissed Cuizhu without a second thought. The anger is palpable, but so too is a sense of resignation, a recognition of the power dynamics at play in a workplace where they are easily replaceable. This reluctance to openly challenge authority is deeply ingrained in Chinese culture, where deference to superiors and the preservation of harmony are highly valued.
Yet, beneath this surface acquiescence lies a deep well of solidarity and support. The cleaners, bound by their shared experiences and their understanding of the challenges they face, offer each other comfort and encouragement. They share tips on navigating the workplace, warn each other about difficult supervisors, and offer a helping hand when a colleague is struggling. This unspoken bond, this quiet network of support, provides a sense of belonging and a buffer against the harsh realities of their work lives.
The incident also reveals a more nuanced side to the “ruthless” manager. Chunxiang later learns that he is burdened by his own financial struggles, driven to harshness by the pressures of supporting a sick wife and repaying debts. This realization, while not excusing his actions, offers a glimpse into the complex web of personal circumstances that shape individual behavior, reminding us that even those who wield power are often grappling with their own unseen challenges.
Chunxiang’s three years as a cleaner in Shenzhen have been a journey of both hardship and triumph. She has faced physical pain, financial insecurity, and the sting of disrespect. Yet, she has also discovered a strength and resilience she never knew she possessed. She has found solace in the camaraderie of her fellow workers, learned to navigate the complexities of city life, and gained a newfound confidence in her ability to assert her rights.
Most importantly, she has found a sense of purpose and self-worth in her work, a quiet dignity that transcends the menial nature of her tasks. As she meticulously cleans a bathroom, she takes pride in creating a space of order and hygiene, knowing that her efforts contribute to the well-being of those who use it. She finds satisfaction in transforming a chaotic jumble of discarded waste into neatly sorted piles, knowing that her actions play a small but essential role in keeping the city clean.
Yet, the question that haunts Chunxiang, the question that echoes in the minds of millions of aging workers across China, remains: “What will we do when we’re ‘old?'” The answer is far from clear. The lack of adequate social safety nets, the precarious nature of their employment, and the ever-present threat of being replaced by younger, cheaper labor creates a pervasive sense of anxiety about the future.
Chunxiang’s story, however, is not one of despair. It is a story of adaptation, of finding strength in adversity, and of clinging to hope even in the face of uncertainty. It is a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit to find meaning and purpose, even in the most challenging circumstances. It is a call for greater recognition and support for the essential workers who keep our cities running, a reminder that the pursuit of economic progress must not come at the expense of human dignity.
As Chunxiang watches planes soar overhead from her new apartment, a symbol of freedom and possibility, she reflects on her journey. She knows that the road ahead may not be easy, but she faces it with a quiet determination, a resilience born from years of overcoming hardship. She is not alone. She carries with her the love and support of her family, the camaraderie of her fellow workers, and the indomitable spirit of a generation that has weathered countless storms. Their stories, like Chunxiang’s, offer a glimmer of hope for a future where all workers are valued, where dignity is found not just in the pursuit of wealth, but in the essential work that sustains us all.
“My Mother, the Cleaner” is a poignant and deeply personal exploration of China’s often-invisible workforce, told through the lens of the author’s mother, Chunxiang, and her experiences as a cleaner in Shenzhen. Zhang Xiaoman masterfully weaves together personal anecdotes, social commentary, and cultural insights to create a compelling narrative that sheds light on the lives of those who toil tirelessly to maintain the cleanliness and order of China’s bustling cities.
The book delves into the demanding nature of cleaning jobs, the meager wages and lack of benefits, and the constant struggle for respect that these essential workers face. It highlights the challenges of an aging workforce, the anxieties surrounding retirement, and the precariousness of their employment in a society that prioritizes youth and productivity. Through Chunxiang’s story, and the stories of her fellow cleaners, we witness the resilience of the human spirit, the enduring strength of family bonds, and the quiet dignity found in honest labor.
“My Mother, the Cleaner” is a must-read for anyone seeking a deeper understanding of Chinese society, beyond the glitz and glamor of its economic miracle. It’s a moving testament to the hard work and dedication of China’s cleaners, their unwavering commitment to their families, and their aspirations for a better future. By offering a glimpse into their lives, their struggles, and their triumphs, the book compels us to confront our own biases, to recognize the value of their often-invisible labor, and to advocate for a more just and equitable society for all.
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