September 26, 1969
Dear Mom,
Boy! It sure was good to talk to you on the telephone even though I didn’t say anything too profound. Two phones in the apartment, wowee-zowee! Don’t you think you are becoming a little extravagant like Mrs. McClintock? Today is Friday and for once in a long time I am really sitting at home—no date tonight! Although I do have one for Sunday. He’s taking me to Sunday dinner. So never fear, dear MOTHER, I DO get plenty to eat. In fact, I think I better stop eating desserts! Well, the main purpose of this letter is to present you with a look at my financial situation. Say, I’m not doing so bad at typing, am I?
Expenses:
plane fare _________________ $19.95
student i.d. ________________ $ 3.00
dorm fee __________________ $ 2.00
mail box __________________ $ 1.20
books ____________________ $13.74
notebooks _________________ $ 1.54
church ___________________ $ .25
coke _____________________ $ .15
beanie hat ________________ $ 2.00
pens, stamps _______________ $ .60
panty hose ________________ $ 1.33
p.e. clothes ________________ $ 1.20
miscellaneous ______________ $ .80
p.e. shoes _________________ $ 4.99
p.e. socks _________________ $ 1.00
curtains, rods ______________ $ 5.17
misc. ____________________ $ .80
concert ___________________ $ 1.00
rush fee __________________ $ 2.00
bedspread _________________ $ 6.00
game ____________________ $ 1.00
misc. ____________________ $ 1.00
c.o.d. packages _____________ $ 7.70
calc., che., phys., books _________ $ 4.75
food, misc. ________________ $ 1.00
There it is! I think I had a hundred-forty dollars to begin and I have about $55 left. It scares me how fast the money actually goes. No, I just added it and that’s $53.17 left. Plus if I join a sorority I must pay at once $25 a semester. The misc. items I have listed mean little things like food, cookies, thread, stamps, phone calls, etc.
Actually I think if you exclude all the things I had to buy and just count the stuff like food, stamps, panty hose, entertainment (game, concert), then I have only spent $6.68 for these four weeks. That’s not too bad, but I could eliminate it! It’s that sorority fee that will get me down! This college was made for rich kids! Not poor little Chinese girls who spend their senior year in Switzerland and who must graduate a year early because her poor mommy can’t afford another crazy year of a daughter in high school! Only kidding of course!
I think I can save money on food, and entertainment if I go on a date every week. That way I get pizzas, Cokes, dances, etc …
I went on to detail how I might be able to get a refund on some of the books if I dated somebody in a fraternity who would then be willing to give me his freshman textbooks. The letter focused only on frugality and the kind of bargain-hunting tips she would have appreciated. That must have been the safe topic between us. I had omitted cigarettes as part of “miscellaneous.” In those days, they cost twenty-five cents a pack and thus they were easily absorbed into those $1.00 miscellaneous expenses. In any case, my mother had probably guessed that some of my purchases included cigarettes. I openly smoked in front of her, and that is because she and I had both started smoking when we lived in Switzerland. I don’t recall her warning me about any dangers once I started college. At one time, she would tell me inexhaustible stories about what a bad man might do to me—take away my innocence, make me pregnant, imprison me, make me insane and suicidal. But now there were no warnings about sex or about the importance of saving my virginity for my wedding night. In fact, she openly guessed I had lost my virginity to my German boyfriend in Switzerland, which was not the case, but I found it strange that she was not upset in thinking that I had. She also did not warn me about drugs. She knew I had already smoked hashish in Switzerland, and, in fact, she felt somewhat guilty that her attempts to have my boyfriend arrested for drugs had led to my arrest as well. Perhaps she no longer worried about any of those perils because my list of expenses showed I had become a mature and responsible young woman. Perhaps so many bad things had already happened to our family that these other concerns had become inconsequential.
When I turned to the next letter, I realized I had started reading them out of order. The typed letter with the list of expenditures had been the third. The first was this:
August 29, 1969
Dear Mom,
Aren’t you heartsick with pure grief now that I’ve gone to college? I’ve been so upset lately and I really don’t know why. I really didn’t want everything to be so bad when I left. What I’m saying is that I’m sorry I was so crazy and stupid those few days. Even while I was getting mad, I knew I was wrong but I was so mad that I couldn’t admit it. You know how it is with me, don’t you?
I was really getting unsure about college and really scared because I felt so unprepared and it seemed no one understood. Well, everything is fine now. I got to Portland after a very scenic flight (saw Mt. Shasta & Crater Lake) and it was only 9:20 …
So I had been right. This was evidence of the relationship I remembered most clearly, an emotional seesaw of fights followed by declarations of love, and what would be a constant theme: that when we were not at battle, we each understood the other deeply. We understood the parts of ourselves that were similar, the feelings that mounted out of control. The remainder of that first letter concerned my roommate and the delightful amount of junk she had brought with her: a turntable, popcorn maker, hot plate, radio, alarm clock, matching towels and bedspread, and tons of clothes. Her closet was overflowing. In contrast, I had a few dresses, but not even a pair of jeans or sneakers. I remember thinking that I was like that girl in the movie Daddy Long Legs, a French orphan who winds up at a posh American college, thanks to an anonymous American benefactor. Like me, she arrives with not much more than the clothes on her back. Unlike me, within fifteen minutes of feeling sorry for herself, trunks of clothes arrive—designer dresses, ball gowns, and even a tennis costume, sent by her unknown benefactor. I would receive over time C.O.D. boxes containing things I requested—my winter dresses, my father’s typewriter, and photos of the family when there were five of us.
I now wonder why my mother did not help me to pack, nor why she had not accompanied me to college, like most parents. I had not been emotionally or psychologically prepared to be a college student. I was only seventeen. She did not even go to the airport with me. A family friend dropped me off. I stood alone at the reservations counter and paid for a one-way ticket to Portland, Oregon. I had with me only one suitcase. I looked out the window on the airplane as we flew over the peaks of mountains, and I had no one to exclaim how beautiful they were. When I landed, I was hungry. I went to a phone booth and put a dime in the telephone slot to call a cousin who said he would pick me up. I heard only a busy signal for the next hour and I was becoming hungrier by the minute. My mother had paid for part of my tuition. But for the rest of my tuition and expenses, I depended on a student loan, a scholarship, my father’s $50 a month survivor’s benefits and my earnings from two part-time jobs. Most of the students did not work. When the girls in my dorm talked about going home for Thanksgiving, I realized that my mother and I had not discussed what I would do. It seemed unlikely, however, that I would pay for a round-trip flight simply to have Thanksgiving dinner at home. That would have been awfully extravagant.
Now that I think about this more, I know why my mother did not help me pack. In July, when we came back to the United States, she found herself in an empty rented apartment, not a home with a permanent address. There were no menus in foreign languages to decipher, no road signs to towns with umlauts or accents aigu or grave in their names. In Europe, everything had been an adventure, and it had contained no surprise past memories. Everything
we did there had been first-time experiences. We had been nomads, open to whatever came our way. Europe was cheap, and with the U.S. dollar’s favorable exchange rate, we could stay in hotels that cost two dollars a night and not feel we had to penny pinch. When the three of us returned to California, she found that friends and family had adjusted to our loss. She was staggered by grief all over again. She was paralyzed by uncertainty. The past was all around her. The future could not be seen.
1968: Aboard the SS Rotterdam. John, Daisy, and me, posing as sophisticates.
I picture her with tears in her eyes and her face bunched with agony. I see her surveying the nearly empty apartment, then throwing her hands up and asking the same question. What will I do? It made my brother and me anxious when she could not stop. I imagine I finally told her we could not take it anymore and that I was glad I was going to college. That’s why she did not get on the airplane with me, why she did not count the number of socks, shoes, pants, skirts, dresses, blouses, and sweaters I needed.
I imagine she read my letter and cried. My letter of apology was accepted and she made plans to visit me soon. But then she called up, upset and incoherent. And I, the seventeen-year-old, tried to sound mature as I stood up for her just as my father had. Instead, my style of writing comes across as the voice of a perky stranger, a teenage therapist who had already learned to mirror back whatever my mother was feeling to curb her suicidal urges.
September 17, 1969
Dearest Mom,
Please don’t feel bad because you can’t come up. At least I’m not mad at you! (we Tans stick together, no matter how far apart we are!!) Of course, I’m sad that you can’t come up—that’s expected (I think you would be disappointed if I wasn’t). But I understand completely why you can’t come up. You didn’t get to tell me too much why, but even so I can understand and know that you can’t come up. You didn’t get to tell me too much why, but even so I can understand and know that you can’t. If you’d like to look at it another way: If you had come up this week-end, I would have been swamped with homework and tests in calculus and chemistry anyway—and now I can study this week-end, O.K.?
Anyway, you’re welcome to come anytime you want. The dorms are spacious to accommodate one petite Chinese mother in Failing Room 23 anyway, anytime. There are many people who want to meet you. I’ve told them all about you and it’s always fun to have a mom in the dorm if you don’t mind girls running in and out in their pyjamas! …
Tell me why you sounded so upset on the phone. I don’t see why X should be mad. This trip to Linfield for him is just for fun whereas you have so many other problems to cope with. Maybe they think you can’t make big decisions, but I’d like to see them try without a father or older son to decide how to start a second life. I’d like to see them make snap decisions about where to live and at the same time decide your future and children’s too. (I’m not making much sense but I’m really mad at them for not understanding.) But even as husband and wife it would be super hard to even try to change your life, and when you’re alone it’s almost impossible … They don’t know how to make big decisions in my opinion, and you’ve made quite a few almost impossible ones—in just one year. I’m willing to let you change your mind a hundred times just as long as you come up with the right one at the end—and you’ve done fine so far! You’re great in my opinion!
By not coming up to Linfield this weekend you are looking after your responsibility towards John and his future and home. That’s a lot more important than delivering me some clothes. I know you’d be so much more relieved to settle down first and start on a new future. I have mine pretty well taken care of here at Linfield.
I have so much to say on this matter but I’m really keyed up inside with anger at them. Don’t let them upset you. Maybe get mad at them but their opinions are not worthy to get upset over. They’re so up-tight about getting things set into a stupid routine so fast that the best decision doesn’t seem to matter to them … I believe in making decisions—sure—but if one solution doesn’t work—find another to replace it. If I decided early in life to become a nurse and found I hated it after a month—why stick with it? Not that I’ll be one but that’s America’s privilege—freedom to your own pursuit of happiness—and by this you make decisions that suit you—and no one else! Of course we do this as a family and I only wish I could be there with you and John to stick up for whatever you decide.
Mom—please promise me you’ll always decide what you want and think is best and not listen to unhelpful advice from certain people. You’re Mom—who can decide for the Tan family and no one else should interfere or make you anything you don’t want to be.
Maybe I sound spiteful and maybe I’m not right about everything I’ve said so far but right now, I’m mad, and I think they are more harmful than helpful. They have proved they are only good in undermining your intelligence. They underestimate your abilities and are confusing you into thinking you should be dependent on them.
Just know I’m campaigning for you and everything you do. If you’re right or wrong, it’s what you and we wanted. If we’re happy but foolish in other people’s minds, let them worry about that, and not us.
Let’s have a future of happiness and not regrets by listening to others. Do whatever you want with your money, Mom. It’s your money, your prerogative and your mind. And if the money’s gone in a couple of years, I will take care of you. I promise, Mom, if you promise to believe me—I will support you right or wrong and rich or poor. Your doctor daughter (hopefully, a doctor) will support you and not send you to a rest home. I never told you because I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but one reason (one very important reason) I want to be successful is so that we won’t have to worry about our family. If at the time I have the money, I’ll see that John gets through college and that you are not frantically counting your pennies. But with your mind, I’m sure you can be a success. We are never sure of the future, but if we can be sure of ourselves that’s important enough.
This is a very terrible letter for me to write but I hope you realize that I’m about as mad as I have ever been. You’re my mom and I won’t have anyone insinuate anything against you. Our family is such a different situation—will anyone ever understand? I wish I could say this to you in person; it would make more sense.
I really am fine except that I miss you and John terribly, terribly. Please write and let me know the situation.
Lots and lots of love,
Amy
I remember now a cultlike sense that our family was one against the world. No one had experienced what we had been through. They did not know our pain, our insecurity, and our distrust of homilies that “things will work out for the best.” Although I fought often with my mother, my little brother and I would not tolerate anyone else criticizing her. We knew how lost she was. We knew how much she cried and wailed and appealed to God and her dead mother to bring her son and husband back. We knew how often she thought about suicide. To judge by the letter I wrote, I am guessing that family and friends had become exasperated with her inability to decide what to do with her life. She would ask people for their advice and then she would dismiss it, reciting her fears like Hail Marys counted out on rosary beads. I’m sure they believed that by pushing her to make decisions, they were being helpful. Perhaps someone suggested she not do anything foolish, like move to Taiwan, or open a restaurant. Maybe she believed that they were implying she was stupid. I understood the frustration that friends and family might have felt, because I had the same reaction. I watched her spin in her emotional eddies, as she called to be saved but then refused to be helped. And yet throughout the years, beginning with that first year in college, she and I both knew I would defend her if anyone had demeaned her. I not only understood her, but I also became her. I was as infuriated as she was. When she felt exposed and disparaged, my brother and I closed in and became closer, unified.
Just recently someone who had known my mother in Shanghai criticized her in a letter. She insinu
ated that my mother could be cruel and selfish. She cited examples. I was shocked and horrified that my mother had done these things. I apologized to the woman for having suffered from my mother’s actions. I even admitted my mother had wounded me as well, but I did not think my mother was intentionally cruel. She had been mentally ill. My defense of my mother led the woman to relate more details, not only about my mother’s cruelty, but also about her immorality for leaving her husband, a pilot, a national hero. It was in all the gossip columns, she said. Everyone was talking about her, saying she belonged in jail. She had brought disgrace on the family who had adopted her after her mother killed herself. That family helped her, the woman said, even though they were not blood-related. She was an orphan, not a true daughter. And what did she do? She brought shame on them. She was a disgrace.
This woman had recited all the things my mother had already told me, in tears of fury. They were the reasons why she often wanted to kill herself. People looked down on her mother for becoming a concubine, when she should have remained a chaste widow. My mother inherited that shame and she was always reminded she was an orphan, not blood-related. She felt she did not belong to anyone and would always be tainted and never good enough. It was true that she had left her husband, the pilot. How could she stay? He brought other women into the marriage bed. He held a gun to her head when she would not sleep with him. He raped young girls. He gambled away most of their money. He brought home gonorrhea. And he was not a hero. He was a coward who turned his plane around in the face of fire. The other pilots died. He lived. For having left him, my mother was a disgrace. I was furious at myself for having apologized to a woman who hated my mother. How could I have doubted my mother’s integrity and morals? I understood her. I had her character.
I returned to the file with my mother’s letters and pulled out one written in 1980, after Lou and I had apparently tried to “draw the line” on what my mother could expect us to do. I suspect this had to do with my mother’s obsession with a family house in Shanghai that belonged to her. Or it could have been the issue having to do with her birth year. It had been recorded as 1917 instead of 1916. The one-year discrepancy wasn’t a problem until she realized it meant she had to work a year longer before she could retire. We were charged with changing it, a process that took much time. Whenever we saw her, she would go into the same laments over the mistake in her birth year. Whatever it was, we had probably spoken too tersely, and then the conversation spun out of control, and she had continued to vent when she reached home by writing the letter below. It starts with a reasonable but wounded tone. The handwriting is controlled, but soon enough, she mentions a wish to die. Then comes anger. By the second page, the written words lose their shape and disintegrate as she goes into the past, to a moment when my brother Peter was lying in a coma, at which point she is pulling out pain in fistfuls during a free fall into depression.