A few of them, however, were there to argue. An older woman in sunglasses, with a black scarf around her head, told Zhuang he should get a job. She asked him where he was born, reminding him that he wasn’t really American. He had forgotten, she was suggesting, that he was Chinese.
Zhuang lost his temper. “How much money are you getting to come here?” he yelled at her. “Do you dare say it?! You don’t dare! I am Zhuang Liehong! I am from Wukan Village! No one paid me to be here!”
With his phone, he started filming the crowd of people around him. Some hid their faces behind red binders that they were carrying or put on sunglasses. Some tried to knock the phone out of his hands. He, in turn, spewed a string of harsh words into his amplifier, yelling at the woman, yelling at the apathetic smoking men and the WELCOME sign across the street.
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