Almost everyone knows about capitalism and capitalists, but many people don't know what the "tail of capitalism" and "cutting the tail of capitalism" are.
The purpose of the so-called "cutting the tail of capitalism" is to "take the road of socialist common prosperity" and prevent the bourgeoisie from restoring. In essence, it is a struggle between the rural areas adhering to the socialist collective road of collectivization and the capitalist road of making individuals rich. Eating a big pot of rice can't even solve the problem of food and clothing, of course, everyone has no enthusiasm, the road of common prosperity fails, and finally embark on the road of getting rich first and getting rich later.
I remember when I was a child, every once in a while, the secretary of the brigade would lead the cadres of the brigade to sharpen their knives and go to various production teams to search. The leader of the team is naturally the captain of this production team. Even my remote mountain village, where "traffic is completely dependent on walking, lighting is completely dependent on fire, and communication is completely dependent on roaring", is not immune.
Once the search team discovers who is doing manual work or over-cultivating the land for themselves, they will confiscate and eradicate the handicrafts and crops at least, and at worst hold a criticism meeting to criticize them, which is "cutting the tail of capitalism".
Families from poor backgrounds will also carry out carpet searches, and if they find good food, clothing, and use, they will all be treated as the "tail of capitalism". Chickens are also "capitalist tails", exceeding the prescribed number and mercilessly cutting off their necks and confiscating. The number of chickens in our area is divided by the population on a one-to-two basis. As for pigs, they are not allowed to raise them at all, and they cannot afford to raise them.
As soon as the secretary of the brigade "entered the village", each household drove the chickens to the mountains. The secretary of the brigade loves to cut the "tail of capitalism" such as chickens, and every time they cut to improve their lives, their enthusiasm continues to rise. In those years, almost every household was cut off by the tail of capital to varying degrees.
Once, a villager who refused to change his way and repeatedly cut off his mistakes was dragged to a criticism meeting held by the whole brigade to criticize the fight, and the secretary of the brigade criticized his nose and warned him that "you must clamp your tail and be a man, otherwise the consequences will be unimaginable." He cried and said: "Secretary, my tail has long been cut off with hatred, I don't have to clip it, where to clamp it, it's almost the same as being a man with JB!."The brigade was angry and funny: "Then from now on, you will be a man with JB!."”
My grandfather was the most active speculative in the village, but he never had his capitalist tail cut, thanks to my father. The grandfather will make pot brushes, which is very good, and every time the farming season comes, his old man will carry a sack of secretly made bamboo pot brushes into the city to sell.
My grandfather didn't go directly to the market to sell, otherwise he would have cut off the tail of capitalism. He asked his son-in-law, who was my father, to help sell it. His father was a small cadre in the county industrial and commercial bureau, and of course he did not dare to sell it in the market, but secretly sold it to relatives and friends.
In those days, pot brushes were the same as firewood, rice, oil and salt, which were necessities of life, and they were not durable.
My grandfather was very greedy and selfish, he used most of the money from the sale of pots to buy biscuits, and secretly ate them in the middle of the night, in order not to let the children in the family see it. I barely ate his cookies. It's hard to believe that one night, my grandfather may have eaten in a hurry, and because he was old and suffering from asthma, he couldn't get up in one breath, and he choked to death on biscuits.
When my grandfather died, my father was secretly happy in his heart, because he no longer had to worry about helping my grandfather sell pots. In the third year after his grandfather's death, he was reformed and opened up, and if he insisted on living for a few more years, he could swagger and sell pot brushes in the bazaar without worrying about being cut off the tail of capitalism.