“You don’t have to wash clothes for lo fan, make their meals, clean their houses, or answer their doors,” I say. “You don’t have to be an office girl or a clerk in a store either. When your baba and I first came here, all we could ever hope for was to have our own café and maybe one day live in a house.”
“You and Dad got that—”
“Yes, but you can have and do so much more. Back when your aunt and I first arrived, only a handful of people could go into a profession. I can count them on one hand.” And I do. “Y. C. Hong, the first Chinese-American lawyer in California; Eugene Choy the first Chinese-American architect in Los Angeles; Margaret Chung, the first Chinese-American doctor in the country—”
“You’ve told me this a million times—”
“All I’m saying is you can be a doctor, a lawyer, a scientist, or an accountant. You can do anything.”
“Even climb a telephone pole?” she asks tartly.
“We just want you to get to the top of the heap,” I reply calmly.
“That’s why I’m going to college. I never want to work in the café or the shop.”
I don’t want her to either, which is exactly what I’ve been saying. Still, there’s a part of me that hates that our family businesses—the very things that have kept Joy fed, clothed, and housed—are so embarrassing to her. I try—not for the first time—to make her understand.
“The sons in the Fong family have become doctors and lawyers, but they still help out at Fong’s Buffet,” I point out. “That one boy goes to trial in the courthouse during the day. At night the judges go to the restaurant to eat. They say, ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ And what about that Wong boy? He went to USC, but he’s not too proud to help his father at the filling station on weekends.”
“I can’t believe you’re telling me about Henry Fong. Usually you complain he’s become ‘too continental,’ because he married that girl whose family came from Scotland. And Gary Wong is only trying to make up for the fact that he broke his family’s heart by marrying a lo fan and moving to Long Beach so he can live a Eurasian life. I’m glad you’ve become so open-minded.”
This is how Joy’s last summer at home unfolds—with one petty argument after another. At one of our church meetings, Violet tells me she’s experiencing the same things with Leon, who’ll be going to Yale in the fall. “Sometimes he’s as unpleasant as a fish left behind the couch for too many days. Here they talk about the bird leaving the nest. Leon wants to fly away all right. He’s my son and my heart’s blood, but he doesn’t understand that a part of me wants to see him leave too. Go! Go! Take your stinkiness with you!”
“It’s our own fault,” I tell Violet on the phone another night when she calls in tears after her son complained that her accent means she will be forever labeled a foreigner and that if anyone asks where she’s from she should answer Taipei in Taiwan and not Peking in the People’s Republic of China, otherwise J. Edgar Hoover and his FBI agents might accuse her of being an undercover agent on an intelligence mission. “We raised our children to be Americans, but what we wanted were proper Chinese sons and daughters.”
May, aware of the discord in the household, offers Joy work as an extra. Joy flutters with excitement. “Mom! Please! Auntie May says if I go to work with her, then I’ll have my own money for books, food, and warm clothes.”
“We already saved enough for that.” This isn’t quite true. The extra money would be welcome, but having Joy go off with May is the last thing I want.
“You never let me have any fun,” my daughter complains.
I notice that May isn’t saying a word, just watching us, knowing that the impish Tiger will have its way in the end. So my daughter goes off with her aunt for several weeks. Every night when she comes home she treats her father and uncle with stories of her adventures on the set, but she still finds ways to criticize me. May tells me I should ignore Joy’s rebelliousness, that it’s just part of the culture these days, and that she’s only trying to fit in with American kids her age. May doesn’t understand how confused I feel. Every day I have an inner battle: I want my daughter to be patriotic and have all the opportunities that being an American will give her. At the same time, I worry that I’ve failed to teach Joy to be filial, polite, and Chinese.
Two weeks before Joy leaves for the University of Chicago, I go out to the screened porch to say good night. May’s in her bed at one end of the porch, flipping through a magazine. Joy sits on top of the covers of her bed, brushing her hair and listening to that awful Elvis Presley on her record player. The wall above her bed is covered with pictures she’s cut from magazines of Elvis and James Dean, who died last year.
“Mom,” Joy says, after I kiss her, “I’ve been thinking.”
I know by now to beware this opening.
“You always said that Auntie May was the most beautiful of the beautiful girls in Shanghai.”
“Yes,” I say, glancing at my sister, who looks up from her magazine. “All the artists loved her.”
“Well, if that’s so, why is your face always the main focus on those magazines Dad buys, you know, the ones that come from China?”
“Oh, that’s not true,” I say, but I know it is. In the four years since Father Louie bought that issue of China Reconstructs, Z.G. has designed another six covers in which May’s and my faces are absolutely recognizable. In the old days, artists like Z.G. used beautiful girls to advertise the luxurious life. Now artists use posters, calendars, and advertisements to communicate the Communist Party’s vision to the illiterate masses, as well as to the outside world. Scenes in boudoirs, salons, and baths have been replaced by patriotic themes: May and me with our arms outstretched as though reaching for the bright future, the two of us with kerchiefs in our hair, pushing wheelbarrows filled with rocks to help build a dam, or standing in a shallow paddy, tending rice shoots. On every cover, my face, with its rosy cheeks, and my body, with its long lines, is the central figure, while my sister takes the secondary position behind me, holding a basket into which I put vegetables, steadying my bicycle, or bending her head from the burden she carries while I gaze skyward. Always there’s some hint of Shanghai in the painting: the roll of the Whangpoo outside a factory window, the Yu Yuan Garden in the Old Chinese City for uniformed soldiers to practice their rifle drills, the glorious Bund made drab and utilitarian for marching workers. The subtle hues, romantic poses, and soft edges that Z.G. once loved have been replaced by everything outlined in black and filled with flat color—especially red, red, red.
Joy hops up and walks the length of the porch. She examines the magazine covers that May has on the wall next to her bed.
“He must have really loved you,” my daughter says.
“Oh, I hardly think that’s possible,” May says, covering for me.
“You should look at these more closely,” Joy says. “Don’t you see what the artist has done? Thin, pale, and fashionable girls, like you must have been, Auntie May, have been replaced by robust, healthy, strong working women, like Mom. Didn’t you tell me that your father always used to complain that Mom had a face like a peasant—ruddy and red? Her face is perfect for the Commies.”
Daughters can sometimes be cruel. They sometimes say things they don’t mean, but that doesn’t mean her words don’t sting. I turn away and stare out to the vegetable patch, hoping to hide my feelings.
“That’s why I think he loves you, Auntie May. Surely you see it.”
I take a breath, one part of my brain listening to my daughter, the other part reinterpreting what she said before. When she said, “He must have really loved you,” she didn’t mean me. She meant May.
“Because look,” I hear my daughter say. “Here’s Mom, all peasant-perfect for the country, but look how he painted your face, Auntie May. It’s beautiful, like you’re a fairy goddess or something.”
May doesn’t say anything, but I sense her examining the pictures.
“You know, if he saw you now,” my daughter cont
inues, “he probably wouldn’t recognize you.”
Like that, my daughter manages to wound both her mother and her aunt, poking at our softest, most vulnerable, parts. I press my fingernails into my palms to bring my emotions under control. I lift the corners of my mouth, exposing my teeth, and then spin around and put my hands on my daughter’s shoulders.
“I came out here to say good night. You should climb in bed. And, May,” I say lightly, “can you help me with the books from the café? I can’t seem to make the numbers work.”
My sister and I have had a lifetime together of false smiles and escaping things we don’t like. We leave the porch, acting as if Joy hasn’t hurt us, but as soon as we get to the kitchen, we hold each other for strength and comfort. How can Joy’s words be so painful after all these years? Because inside we still carry the dreams of what could have been, of what should have been, of what we wish we could still be. This doesn’t mean we aren’t content. We are content, but the romantic longings of our girlhood have never entirely left us. It’s like Yen-yen said all those years ago: “I look in the mirror and I’m surprised by what I see.” I look in the mirror and still expect to see my Shanghai-girl self—not the wife and mother I’ve become. And May? To my eyes, she hasn’t changed at all. She’s still beautiful—Chinese-beautiful, ageless.
“Joy’s just a girl,” I tell my sister. “We said and did stupid things when we were that age too.”
“Everything always returns to the beginning,” May responds, and I wonder if she’s thinking about the original meaning of the aphorism—that no matter what we do in life, we will always return to the beginning, that we will have children who’ll disobey, hurt, and disappoint us just as we once disobeyed, hurt, and disappointed our own parents—or is she thinking about Shanghai and how in a sense we’ve been trapped in our final days there ever since we left, forever destined to relive the loss of our parents, our home, Z.G., and carry the consequences of my rape and May’s pregnancy?
“Joy says these mean things so you and I will come together,” I say, repeating something Violet said to me the other day. “She knows how lonely we’ll be without her.”
May looks away, her eyes glistening.
The next morning when I go out to the porch, the covers of China Reconstructs have been taken down and put away.
WE STAND ON the platform at Union Station, saying good-bye to Joy. May and I wear full skirts fluffed by petticoats and cinched with little patent leather belts. Last week we dyed our stiletto heels to match our dresses, gloves, and handbags. We went to the Palace Salon to have our hair curled and teased to impressive heights, which we now protect with gaily colored scarves tied smartly under our chins. Sam wears his best suit and a somber face. And Joy looks … joyful.
May reaches into her handbag and pulls out the pouch with the three coppers, three sesame seeds, and three green beans that Mama gave her all those years ago. My sister asked if she could give it to Joy. I didn’t object, but I wish I’d thought of it first. May loops the string around Joy’s neck and says, “I gave this to you on the day you were born to protect you. Now I hope you’ll wear it when you’re away from us.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” my daughter says, clasping the pouch. “I’m not going to squeeze another orange or sell another gardenia as long as I live,” she vows when she hugs her baba. “I’m never going to wear atomic fabric or one of your felt jumpers,” she promises after she kisses me. “I never again want to see another back scratcher or a piece of Canton ware.”
We listen to her giddiness and respond with our best advice and final thoughts: we love her, she should write every day, she can call if there’s an emergency, she should eat the dumplings her baba made first and then switch to the peanut butter and crackers packed in her food basket. Then she’s on the train, separated from us by a window, waving and mouthing, “I love you! I’ll miss you!” We walk along the platform next to the train as it leaves the station, waving and crying until she’s out of sight.
When we go home, it’s like the electricity has been shut off Only four of us live in the house now, and the quiet, especially during the first month, is so unbearable that May buys herself a brand-new pink Ford Thunderbird and Sam and I buy a television set. May comes home after work, eats a quick dinner, says good night to Vern, and then goes out. Remembering Joy’s love of cowgirls when she was younger, the rest of us sit in the main room and watch Gunsmoke and Cheyenne.
“DEAR MOM, DAD, Auntie May, and Uncle Vern,” I read aloud. We sit on chairs around Vern’s bed. “You wrote and asked if I’m homesick. How can I answer this question and not make you feel bad? If I tell you I’m having fun, then I’ll hurt your feelings. If I say I’m lonely, then you’ll worry about me.”
I look at the others. Sam and May nod in agreement. Vern twists his sheet in his fingers. He doesn’t completely understand that Joy is gone, just as he hasn’t completely understood that his parents are gone.
“But I think Dad would want me to tell the truth,” I continue reading. “I’m very happy and I’m having a lot of fun. My classes are interesting. I’m writing a paper on a Chinese writer named Lu Hsün. You probably haven’t heard of him—”
“Ha!” This comes from my sister. “We could tell her stories. Remember what he wrote about beautiful girls?”
“Keep reading, keep reading,” Sam says.
JOY DOESN’T COME home for Christmas. We don’t bother to put up a big tree. Instead Sam buys a tree no more than eighteen inches high, which we put on Vern’s dresser.
By late January, Joy’s initial enthusiasm has finally given way to homesickness:
Why would anyone live in Chicago? It’s so cold. The sun never comes out and the wind always blows. Thank you for the long underwear from the army surplus store, but even it doesn’t make me warm. Everything is white—the sky, the sun, people’s faces—and the days are too short up here. I don’t know what I miss most—going to the beach or hanging out with Auntie May on film sets. I even miss the sweet-and-sour pork Dad makes in the coffee shop.
This last is really bad. That sweet-and-sour pork is the worst kind of lo fan dish: too sweet and too breaded. In February, she writes:
I’ve been hoping to get a job with one of my professors during spring break. How can every single one of them not have work for me? I sit in the front row in my history class, but the professor gives handouts to everyone else first. If he runs out, too bad for me.
I write back:
People will always tell you that you can’t do things, but don’t forget you can do whatever you want. Make sure you go to church. You’ll always be accepted there and you can talk about Bible times. It’s good for people to know you’re a Christian.
Her response:
People keep asking me why I don’t return to China. I tell them I can’t return to a place I’ve never been.
In March, Joy suddenly cheers up. “Maybe it’s because the winter is over,” Sam suggests. But that’s not it, because she still complains about the endless winter. Rather, there’s a boy …
My friend Joe asked me to join the Chinese Students Democratic Christian Association. I like the kids in the group. We discuss integration, interracial marriage, and family relationships. I’m learning a lot and it’s nice to see friendly faces, cook together, and eat together.
Quite apart from this Joe, whoever he is, I’m happy that she’s joined a Christian group. I know she’ll find companionship there. After reading the letter to everyone, I write our reply:
Your dad wants to know about your classes this semester. Are you keeping up? Auntie May wants to know ’what the girls are ’wearing in Chicago and if she can send you anything. I don’t have much to add. Things are the same or nearly the same. We closed the curio shop—not enough business to hire someone to sell that “junk,” as you always called it. Business at Pearl’s is good and your dad’s busy. Uncle Vern wants to know more about Joe.
Actually, he hasn’t said a thing about Joe, but the rest of us are
itching with curiosity.
And you know your auntie—always working. What else? Oh, you know the kind of things that go on around here. Everyone’s afraid of being called a Communist. During troubles in business or rivalries in love, one person can find a solution by labeling the other a Communist. “Did you hear so-and-so’s a Commie?” You know how it is, people gossiping, chasing the wind and catching shadows. Someone sells more curios; he must be a Communist. She spurned my affections; she must be a Communist. Fortunately, your father doesn’t have any enemies, and no one is ‘wooing your aunt.
This is my around-the-corner-and-down-the-block way of trying to get Joy to write more about this Joe. But if I’m Joy’s mother, then she’s definitely my daughter. She sees right through me. As usual, I wait to read the letter until everyone’s home and we can gather around Vern’s bed.
“You’d like Joe,” she writes.
He’s in premed. He goes to church with me on Sundays. You want me to say my prayers, but we don’t say them at my Christian association. You’d think that Jesus would be all we’d talk about at those meetings, but we don’t talk about Him. We talk about the injustices that were done to people like you and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa. We talk about what happened to the Chinese in the past and what’s continuing to happen to black people. Just last weekend we picketed Montgomery Ward because they won’t hire blacks. Joe says that minorities need to stick together. Joe and I have been getting people to sign petitions. It’s nice to think about other people’s problems for a change.