The Cooked Seed: A Memoir

  THE FUN ENDS AT 18!

  GET READY TO SURVIVE LIFE!

  GOOD LUCK!

  Words cannot describe my emotions when Lauryann was accepted to Stanford University. She had applied to major in biology. It wasn’t until Lauryann printed out the acceptance letter and I read it word for word that I believed it was real. Lloyd’s reaction was, “Gee, making her jump through all your hoops was worth it!”

  The three of us celebrated. We reflected on how far we had come as a family. We shared laughter and tears. To Lloyd’s astonishment, Lauryann and I revealed our “secrets.” While Lauryann admitted that she had once written “I hate my mom” in her diary, I admitted that I had plotted “a conspiracy” using Lloyd as my weapon. I often took advantage of Lloyd’s short fuse and set him up. I added fuel to Lloyd’s smoldering fire, sat back, and watched him explode.

  “What do you say, Lloydee, now that I am a Stanford girl?” Lauryann held up her hands and the two of them gave each other a high five.

  “Oh, you are going to be in hog heaven.” Lloyd laughed. “You are going to have sooooo much fun, and your mother and I won’t exist anymore. You will be a puppy wagging your tail when the tingling hits. I have paid attention to your body language. You get animated when you talk about boys. Yesterday our neighbor Betsy said to me, ‘Oh, you are going to be missing Lauryann terribly, she is such a sweetheart!’ I said, ‘No, I won’t.’ And she said, ‘Oh, you’re just saying that. You’ll miss her.’ And I thought, What’s wrong with this American woman? Kids have to leave. I went to Vietnam when I was her age. But she’s going to Stanford—to party!”

  “Don’t get too carried away with your tough love, Lloydee.” Lauryann laughed. “I don’t talk back because I want to let you enjoy your senior moment. Just remember, you might one day need me to spoon-feed you when you turn a hundred and thirty years old. Be a good boy, Lloydee, behave and be reasonable.”

  I beamed at my child, now a five-foot-six, 110-pound young woman glowing with beauty and health. Her grandma was extremely pleased that she beat the height predictor. Lauryann was now ready to go out into the world. In a few months, she would call home to thank us for preparing her well—she received A’s in her writing classes. “Apparently, professors here think that I can write,” she said, although she cared more about bringing her math, physics, and chemistry grades up to “the Stanford level.”

  { Chapter 36 }

  It’s been twenty years since my first book, Red Azalea, my first publication. Sandra Dijkstra, my agent, is still the lady I met in Chicago. She is a zest of passion—beautiful, ageless, and superior in what she does. She is known as the Gate Tiger, someone who has so successfully put unknown authors on the literary map. She has created and re-created sensations and is a legend herself.

  My longtime editor, Mr. Anton Mueller, is responsible for the success of my books since Becoming Madame Mao. My first editor was Miss Julie Grau, who edited Red Azalea and who is a phenomenal publisher herself today. I still remember the first time I met Julie. She flew to Chicago from New York. I went up to her hotel room. When I knocked, a woman in her twenties opened the door. I looked past her because I assumed my editor would be an older woman with gray hair and perhaps smoking a cigarette. Julie Grau was too young and too stunningly beautiful to fit the picture.

  It took years for Anton Mueller and me to develop a strong editor-author relationship. We had our moments of cultural clashing. Anton learned to deal with my stubbornness, sensitivity, and will. He has been an excellent navigator and was the one who convinced his house to publish Becoming Madame Mao when everyone else in the business decided to let it go. Anton had no doubt that Becoming Madame Mao had the potential to become a bestseller, and he was proved right.

  A psychiatrist once told me that the reason I wrote about China was that I missed China. She convinced me that writing offered me a way to cope with my homesickness. I denied the analysis at first, but after twenty-seven years I realized that the psychiatrist was not wrong.

  I came to identify with Pearl S. Buck, the American novelist who won the Nobel Prize for her work The Good Earth. I understood Pearl’s cry “My roots in China must die!” She was suffering from being unable to let go of China, her home of forty years. Pearl Buck carried her love for China to her grave. There were only three Chinese characters, her Chinese name, carved on the stone tablet. There was nothing else. It moved me to tears when I visited her grave site at her home in Pennsylvania.

  I had no need to talk about my homesickness, because China has never left my mind. I love China with all my heart and soul, although I feel fortunate to have escaped it. I considered it part of being an American that at times I felt uprooted, disoriented, and isolated. It makes me a better writer that I might understand the suffering of a permanent sense of loss and dislocation.

  Writing about China has enabled me to stay in touch with my roots. After Becoming Madame Mao, I went on to write Wild Ginger, Empress Orchid, The Last Empress, and Pearl of China. My goal was to establish a “literary portrait gallery” featuring China’s prominent historical women from ancient to modern times.

  Although I labeled my historical novels as fiction, I take pride in being truthful. Empress Orchid was an original story about a village girl named Orchid from the poorest province in Anhui who became China’s last empress and ruled for fifty years. I avoided altering my characters too much.

  When I wrote The Last Empress, the sequel to Empress Orchid, I had a choice to make. I realized that the story line would be more attractive if I took some creative license with the characters and reinvented certain events. But I decided not to. It was important to me that my readers walk away with a solid knowledge of China. My focus was on Orchid’s struggle to hold China together during the worst time in its history. Providing entertainment should not be my only goal. I feared misleading my readers. I have encountered numerous books and articles that have misrepresented China. If I manipulated history to make a more commercial story, I would do America a disfavor.

  I couldn’t be more grateful to Anton Mueller for supporting me and standing by me. Working with him and Sandra Dijkstra have been the highlights of my life. I was aware of Anton’s pressure, but he demonstrated an unshakable commitment to and faith in me.

  When Anton left Houghton Mifflin Company and moved on to Bloomsbury Publishing, I faced a choice to either follow him or change to another editor. Sandra Dijkstra discussed with me the pros and cons as she always did. It was a critical moment in my career. I decided to follow Anton. The relationship we developed over the years was irreplaceable. I joked with Sandra Dijkstra about my reason in following Anton Mueller to his new house: “Anton is the devil I know.”

  I have no complaints about the way my books were published except one detail that has been repeated in the author’s biography. This said that I was “recruited” to play a leading role in Madame Mao’s films. This oversimplified my story and gives the wrong impression. There was no such thing as being “recruited.” China at the time was under the Maos’ dictatorship. I was a laborer hoeing cotton when Madame Mao’s Shanghai propaganda talent scouts noticed me. They had been searching for individuals who possessed the “proletarian beauty” to play a leading role in Madame Mao’s films all over China. I was never asked whether or not I wanted to go to the Shanghai Film Studio and take part in Madame Mao’s propaganda films, which were like today’s campaign ads and which ultimately were introduced to pave the way for Madame Mao to become China’s next president after her husband. I was simply given the order to follow. My will and talent was irrelevant—I was the bolt that fit the machine.

  I was so focused on plowing my literary field that I didn’t pay attention to how the reading world was changing. When I received the news that Empress Orchid had been nominated for the 2006 British Book Awards in the category of Best Read of the Year, I thought it would be just like other awards I had received, where I didn’t have to do anything. I threw the stack of colorful announcement cards tha
t came with the award notification letter into the trash bin.

  Lauryann retrieved the letters and cards from the trash. She told me that my book was listed side by side with Harry Potter. And there was also a dinner invitation.

  “Are you going to England to attend the award ceremony, Mom?” Lauryann asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “You know I have motion sickness. I don’t enjoy flying.”

  “Well, Mom, you are going this time.”

  “Why?”

  “You are going to be with J.K. Rowling.”

  “Who is J.K. Rowling?”

  “The Harry Potter author.”

  “Why would I bother her?”

  “Because I want you to get her autograph for me.”

  I heard my name announced, followed by music. Looking up, I saw the cover for Empress Orchid projected on the giant screen. Next came a film clip that a British TV crew had shot a few weeks before. There were scenes set in my home, followed by a few in San Francisco with the Golden Gate Bridge behind me, and then some at the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park. With their lens aimed at me, the camera crew ran in for a final close-up. The rest of the guests at the table turned toward me, including J.K. Rowling.

  I thought, This is the moment! Ask for the autograph! Before I could open my mouth, J.K. Rowling nodded at the screen and asked, “Is that lovely girl your daughter?”

  It was the image of Lauryann dressed up as the young Orchid. The producer thought it would be a good idea to have a “visual aid,” and Lauryann was available that day. She was glad to help. The crew dressed her up and walked her around the Japanese Tea Garden carrying a pink Chinese umbrella. She was a natural princess.

  “Yes, that’s my daughter, Lauryann. And … she is the one who asked me to ask you … if she could have your autograph.”

  “Of course!” J.K. Rowling took the card I handed her and signed it.

  I let out a breath and thought, Mission accomplished!

  I returned home and handed the autograph to Lauryann. She read it out loud in a British accent, “It was soooo wonderful to meet with your Mum! J.K. Rowling.”

  Instantly I felt that I had never risen so high in my daughter’s estimation.

  I returned to China in the summer of 2010. Lloyd and Lauryann joined me. “We are going to explore my motherland for Lloyd’s ilookChina.net blog!” I announced. Since launching his blog, Lloyd has had several hundred thousand visitors. He wanted to spend more time learning about China. This time he planned to visit the southwestern part of the country and see the great Yangtze River and the Three Gorges. I wanted to vacation, relax, and celebrate. I had been to many places in China while working on film crews over twenty years earlier, but misery and despair was all that I remembered. I wanted to count my blessings by revisiting those places.

  In the meantime, following the Chinese tradition, I came to “return” Lauryann to her Grandpa Old Frank and Grandma Nai Nai, Qigu’s parents. It was to say that “I have completed my job as a daughter-in-law.” Lauryann’s acceptance to Stanford University had already made the old folks smile in their dreams. Grandpa Frank remarked that Lauryann had brought glory to the great Jiang ancestors. Americanized as I was, I still felt that I was in touch with my Chinese self. To be a decent daughter-in-law was important to me. I sought my parents-in-law’s approval, and I was pleased that I was able to bring great joy to them.

  After Qigu and I divorced, my in-laws forbade me from visiting them. They feared the neighbors gossiping. They preferred that I not go near the property when dropping off Lauryann. It took two years, after Qigu was happily remarried, until I was permitted to come to the house after dark. Although awkward, I understood their feelings. For the sake of Lauryann, we tried to get along.

  Over the years I earned my parents-in-law’s respect and trust. They finally lifted the ban. They not only told the neighbors that I was their adopted daughter but also welcomed me to visit their house anytime, day or night. I had achieved their affection by being an obedient daughter-in-law. The truth was: I couldn’t have cared less what they thought of me. The motivation for my “good behavior” was that I believed that Lauryann had the right to know her grandparents. I was grateful for their love and affection—Lauryann had become everything to them.

  Just as Old Frank Jiang was getting ready to receive us, he suffered a heart attack. It was lucky that he was in a taxi. The driver took him right into the local hospital. Lauryann was beside him when Old Frank opened his eyes. He was in tears when Lauryann kissed and hugged him. Canceling all of our plans, we spent the next ten days at Old Frank’s bedside.

  Old Frank said to me, “Lloyd is here to travel and learn about China. He must be bored and feel that he’s wasting his time!”

  “Are you, honey? Bored? Wasting your time?” I asked Lloyd.

  “Quite the opposite!” Lloyd replied. “I feel that I have been given a great opportunity to learn about Chinese people and the importance of family. I am proud of Lauryann because she seems to know the real value of life.”

  “She is a sensible girl,” Old Frank agreed. “Divorce is difficult in China. It breaks down the entire family and hurts the child. It’s a battle, a war, the terrible kind that brings out the worst in everybody. I am no fool. In the past, Lauryann insisted on meeting Qigu at my home. She wanted me to see that she has a good relationship with my son, her father. You and Anchee did a good job raising her, and I really appreciated it …”

  This was how the dialogue started between Lloyd and Old Frank—between the former US Marine and Vietnam vet and current American blogger and a Chinese man who was also a sixty-year member of the Chinese Communist Party. By accident, Lloyd stumbled into a gold mine—he was able to get answers to all of the questions he had for his blog on China. From Mao to Chiang Kai-shek, from the Cultural Revolution to the Dalai Lama and the Falun Gong—whether it was a religion or a cult—from the Communist proletarian dictatorship to the transformation of a democratic Party, Old Frank made sure I translated his words exactly and correctly.

  “My vote counts although I am only an ordinary member of the Party,” Old Frank said. “You must know that during the Cultural Revolution the people who suffered the most, and who lost everything, were the members of the Communist Party. Today there are eighty million of us. Mao defied the Party. Mao didn’t represent the Party. The Party has learned its lesson. It has since abolished policies that would lead to corruption and dictatorship. The high-ranking serving members of the Party are subjected to an annual audit. They are required to provide financial statements, to be subjected to independent and transparent investigation and discipline. The members of the People’s Congress are limited to two five-year-terms. Mandatory retirement in China is fifty-five for women and sixty for men. Since the late 1990s, a semiofficial mandatory retirement age of sixty-eight has applied to all Politburo members. No exception. This way the Cultural Revolution will never happen again.”

  Old Frank refused to take a break. He was breathless, but he was enjoying himself.

  “Don’t you resent the fact that your houses in Hangzhou and on Mogan Mountain were confiscated by Mao and never returned to you?” Lloyd asked.

  Old Frank laid back on his pillow and paused for a while before he replied. “I have made peace with myself. There is a price in everything. I knew before I joined the Communist Party that my path would be bumpy. My head was tied on my belt, so to speak. I didn’t fight to seek pleasure, I fought for the poor. I feel blessed to have survived. So what if the mansions my father built were gone? I still have my faith. I still voice my opinion. I will keep doing so as long as I live. Nai Nai, my wife, Lauryann’s grandmother, is one of the great numbers of victims of the Cultural Revolution. She was denounced and imprisoned. She had a nervous breakdown. Her mind is still trapped at that meeting where she was denounced. She is spinning in the whirlpool of terrible memories.”

  “It’s PTSD,” Lloyd said, and asked me to translate.

  Old Fran
k grew impatient and interrupted me. “Anyway, if you ask whether or not I regret ever joining the Communist Party, my answer is no. I am an idealist till I die.”

  I was tired of translating, but the two men wouldn’t quit. I asked Lauryann to take over, but her Chinese was not sophisticated enough. Finally a doctor came. He told Old Frank that it was time to stop talking for the sake of his heart. Turning toward Lloyd, the doctor asked, “Who is this foreigner?”

  Without a beat, Old Frank replied, “He’s my son-in-law!”

  “I love our conversation!” Lloyd said, as we bade good-bye to Old Frank.

  “To be continued!” Old Frank waved, smiling.

  I invited my father to live with me after my mother died. I knew it would be a challenge for Lloyd. Americans were not used to the idea of three generations living under one roof. “If you love me, you will put up with my old man,” I said.

  Before my father arrived, Lloyd replaced the old window in his room with a Milgard double-paned glass window and bought a digital flat-screen TV. After my old man moved in, Lloyd sprayed his room daily with air freshener. He also collected my father’s bed covers, sheets, pillowcases, and clothes to wash, and made his bed for him. My father asked me if Lloyd wanted him to leave, because in Chinese tradition that’s how you get rid of a guest. “More tea?” meant “Get out of my house!” in old China. I had to slow Lloyd down.

  My real reason for inviting my father to come to America was to give him a set of teeth. He hadn’t been able to eat solid food for years. Dr. Ronald Barbanell, my dentist, located in Downey, California, examined my father. He let me know my options. I was glad that my father’s jawbones were strong enough to hold the implants. Afterward, I sat down with Dr. Barbanell. I let him know my ambition to restore a full set of teeth for my father. I asked him if he could make the price for implants affordable for me and he did. For that I was grateful because I knew Dr. Barbanell was the best I could find in America. He had performed a successful full-mouth periodontal surgery on me three years before and saved my teeth. I told Dr. Barbanell that I must not let my father learn the true cost, “or he will refuse to come.” Dr. Barbanell said that he understood.