“And when the sky is clear,” Snow Flower added, “which tells us that the universe is calm and ready.”
“And we and our husbands are happy, which will let the arrow fly to its target. Under these circumstances, Aunt says, even the most deadly of insects will come out to mate.”
“I know what needs to occur”—Snow Flower sighed again—“but these things are hard to align at one time.”
“But we must try.”
And so, on our first visit to the Temple of Gupo after our marriages, Snow Flower and I made offerings and prayed that these things would come to pass. However, despite following the rules, we didn’t become pregnant. You think it’s easy to get pregnant after doing bed business only a handful of times a year? Sometimes my husband was so eager that his essence did not go inside.
During our second visit to the temple after becoming wives, our prayers were deeper and our offerings greater. Then, as was our custom, Snow Flower and I visited the taro man for our special chicken lunch followed by our favorite dessert. As much as we both loved that dish, neither of us ate with enjoyment. We compared notes and tried to come up with new tactics to become pregnant.
Over the following months, I did my best to please my mother-in-law when I visited the Lu household. In my natal home, I tried to be as congenial as possible. But no matter where I was, people were beginning to give me looks that I read as admonishments for my lack of fertility. Then, a couple of months later, Madame Wang delivered a letter from Snow Flower. I waited until the matchmaker left before unfolding the paper. In nu shu, Snow Flower had written:
I am pregnant. I am sick to my stomach every day. My mother tells me this means the baby is happy in my body. I hope it is a boy. I want this to happen to you.
I couldn’t believe that Snow Flower had beaten me. I was the one with the higher status. I should have gotten pregnant first. So deep was my humiliation that I didn’t tell Mama or Aunt the good news. I knew how they would react. Mama would criticize me, while Aunt would be too joyous on Snow Flower’s behalf.
The next time I visited my husband and we did bed business, I wrapped my legs around his and held him on top of me with my arms until he was done. I held him for so long that he fell asleep limp inside of me. I lay awake for a long time, breathing calmly, thinking of the full moon outside and listening for any rustling in the bamboo beside our window. In the morning, he had rolled away from me and was sleeping on his side. By now I knew what had to be done. I reached under the quilt and placed my hand around his member until it was hard. When I was certain he was about to open his eyes, I withdrew my hand and closed my own eyes. I let him do his business again, and when he rose and dressed to begin his day I stayed very still. We heard his mother in the kitchen, beginning the tasks that I should have done already. My husband looked at me once, sending a loud message: If I didn’t get up soon and begin my chores, there would be serious consequences. He didn’t yell at me or hit me as some husbands might, but he left the room without saying goodbye. I heard the low murmurs of his and his mother’s voices a few moments later. No one came for me. When I finally rose, dressed, and went into the kitchen, my mother-in-law smiled happily, while Yonggang and the other girls exchanged knowing glances.
Two weeks later, back in my own bed in my natal home, I woke up feeling as though fox spirits were shaking the house. I made it to the half-filled chamber pot and threw up. Aunt came into the room, knelt down beside me, and wiped away the dampness on my face with the back of her hand. “Now you really will be leaving us,” she said, and for the first time in a very long while the great cave of her mouth spread into a wide grin.
That afternoon I sat down with my ink and brush and composed a letter to Snow Flower. “When we see each other this year at the Temple of Gupo,” I wrote, “we will both be as round as the moon.”
MAMA, AS YOU
can imagine, was as strict with me during those months as she had been during my footbinding. It was her way, I think, to consider only the bad things that could happen. “Don’t climb hills,” she chastised me, as though I had ever been allowed to do that. “Don’t cross a narrow bridge, stand on one foot, watch an eclipse, or bathe in hot water.” I was never in danger of doing any of those things, but the food restrictions were a different matter. In our county we are proud of our spicy food, but I was not permitted to eat anything seasoned with garlic, chilies, or pepper, which could delay the delivery of my placenta. I was not allowed to eat any part of a lamb, which could cause my baby to be born sickly, or eat fish with scales, since this would cause a difficult labor. I was denied anything too salty, too bitter, too sweet, too sour, or too pungent, so I couldn’t eat fermented black beans, bitter melon, almond curd, hot and sour soup, or anything remotely flavored. I was permitted bland soups, sautéed vegetables with rice, and tea. I accepted these limitations, knowing that my worth was based entirely on the child growing inside of me.
My husband and in-laws were delighted, of course, and they began to prepare for my arrival. My baby was due at the end of the seventh lunar month. I would visit the annual festival at the Temple of Gupo to pray for a son and then travel on to Tongkou. My in-laws agreed to this pilgrimage—they would do everything they could to ensure a male heir—on condition that I spend the night at an inn and not overtax myself. My husband’s family sent a palanquin to pick me up. I stood outside my family’s threshold and accepted everyone’s tears and embraces; then I got in the palanquin and was carried away, knowing I would return again and again in coming years for the Catching Cool Breezes, Ghost, Birds, and Tasting festivals, as well as any celebrations that might happen in my natal family. This was not a final goodbye, just a temporary farewell, as it had been for Elder Sister.
By this time, Snow Flower, who was further along in her pregnancy than I, already lived in Jintian, so I picked her up. Her stomach was so big, I couldn’t believe her new family was allowing her to travel at all, even if it was to pray for a son. We were funny, standing in the dirt, trying to hug each other with our big bellies between us, laughing the whole while. She was more beautiful than in all the years I had known her, and true happiness seemed to pulsate from her.
Snow Flower talked during the entire trip to the temple, speaking of how her body felt, how she loved the baby inside her, and how kind everyone had been to her since she’d moved into her husband’s home. She clutched a piece of white jade that hung around her neck to help give the baby’s skin the clear pale color of the stone, instead of the ruddy complexion of her husband. I also wore white jade, but unlike Snow Flower, I hoped it would protect my child not from my husband’s skin tone but from my own, which, even though I spent my days inside, was naturally darker than the creamy white of my laotong’s.
In years past we’d quickly visited the temple, bowing and putting our heads to the floor as we made supplications to the goddess. Now we walked in proudly, sticking out our round baby bellies, glancing at the other mothers-to-be to see who was larger, who carried high and who carried low, yet always mindful that our minds and tongues should carry only noble and benevolent thoughts so these attributes would be passed on to our sons.
We made our way to the altar, where perhaps a hundred pairs of infant shoes were lined up. Both of us had written poems on fans as offerings to the goddess. Mine spoke of the blessings of a son, how he would carry on the Lu line and cherish his ancestors. I ended with, Goddess, your goodness graces us. So many come to you to beg for sons, but I hope you will hear my plea. Please grant my desire. That had seemed appropriate when I had written it, but now I imagined what Snow Flower had done with her fan. It had to be filled with lovely words and memorable decorations. I prayed that the goddess would not be too swayed by Snow Flower’s offering. “Please hear me, please hear me, please hear me,” I chanted under my breath.
Together Snow Flower and I laid our fans on the altar with our right hands, while with our left hands we each snatched a pair of the baby shoes from the altar and hid them in our sleeves. We
then left the temple quickly, hoping not to be caught. In Yongming County, all women who want a healthy child steal outright—but with the pretense of covertness—a pair of shoes from the goddess’s altar. Why? As you know, in our dialect the word for shoe sounds the same as the word for child. When our babies are born we return a pair of shoes to the altar—which explains the supply that we stole from—and make offerings as thanks.
We stepped back outside into the beautiful day and made our way to the thread kiosk. As we had for twelve years, we searched for colors that we felt would capture the ideas for the designs we had in our minds. Snow Flower held out a selection of greens for me to examine. Here were greens bright as spring, dry as withered grass, earthy as leaves at the end of summer, vibrant as moss after a rain, dull as that moment before the yellows and reds of fall begin to set in.
“Tomorrow,” Snow Flower said, “let’s stop by the river on our way home. We’ll sit and watch the clouds drift by overhead, listen to the water wash the stones, and embroider and sing together. In this way our sons will be born with elegant and refined tastes.”
I kissed her cheek. Away from Snow Flower I sometimes let my mind ramble into dark places, but now I loved her as I always had. Oh, how I had missed my laotong.
Our visit to the Temple of Gupo would not have been complete without lunch at the taro stand. Old Man Zuo grinned toothlessly when he saw us with our baby bellies. He made a special meal for us, taking care that he followed all the dietary requirements for our condition. We savored every bite. Then he brought our favorite dish, the deep-fried taro coated in caramelized sugar. Snow Flower and I were like two girls in our giddiness, rather than two married ladies about to give birth.
That night in the inn after we had slipped into our nightclothes, Snow Flower and I lay in bed facing each other. This would be our last night of togetherness before we became mothers. We had learned so many lessons about what we should or shouldn’t do and how these things would affect our unborn children. If my son could respond to hearing profane language or the touch of white jade against my skin, then certainly he had to feel my love for Snow Flower in his little body too.
Snow Flower put her hands on my stomach. I did the same to hers. I had grown accustomed to the way my baby kicked and pushed against my skin from the inside, especially at night. Now I felt Snow Flower’s baby moving inside her against my hands. We were in that moment as close as two women could be.
“I am happy we are together,” she said, then let a finger trace a spot where my baby was reaching out an elbow or a knee to her.
“I’m happy too.”
“I feel your son. He’s strong. Just like his mother.”
Her words made me feel proud and full of life. Her finger stopped, and once again she held my belly in her warm hands.
“I’ll love him as much as I love you,” she said. Then, as she had since the time she was a little girl, she trailed one hand up to my cheek and let it rest there until we both fell asleep.
I would turn twenty in a couple of weeks, my baby would come soon, and my real life was about to begin.
Sons
Lily,
I write to you as a mother.
My baby was born yesterday.
A boy with black hair.
He is long and thin.
My childbearing pollution days are not over.
For one hundred days my husband and I will sleep apart.
I think of you in your upstairs room.
I await word of your baby.
Let it be born alive.
I pray for the Goddess to protect you from any problems.
I long to see you and know you are well.
Please come to the one-month celebration.
You will see what I wrote about my son on our fan.
Snow Flower
I WAS HAPPY THAT SNOW FLOWER’S SON WAS BORN HEALTHY
and hoped he would remain so, because life in our county is very fragile. We women hope to have five children who reach adulthood. For that to happen, we must get pregnant every one or two years. Many of those babies die through miscarriages, at childbirth, or from illnesses. Girls—so susceptible to weakness from poor food and neglect—never outgrow their vulnerability. We either die young—from footbinding as my sister died, in giving birth, or from too much work with too little nourishment—or we outlive those we love. Baby boys, so precious, can die just as easily, their bodies too young to have taken root, their souls too tempting for spirits from the afterworld. Then, as men, they are at risk from infection from cuts, food poisoning, problems in the fields or on roads, or hearts that can’t stand the stress of watching over an entire household. This is why there are so many widows. But no matter what, the first five years of life are insubstantial for boys and girls.
I worried not only for Snow Flower’s son but for the baby I carried as well. It was hard to be afraid and have no one to encourage or comfort me. When I was still in my natal home, my mother had been too busy enforcing oppressive traditions and customs to offer me any practical advice, while my aunt, who had lost several unborn children, tried to avoid me completely so that her bad luck would not touch me. Now that I was in my husband’s home, I had no one. My in-laws and my husband had concern for the baby’s well-being, of course, but none of them seemed troubled that I might die delivering their heir.
Snow Flower’s letter felt like a good omen. If childbirth had gone easily for her, surely my baby and I would survive it too. It gave me strength to know that even though we were in new lives, our love for each other had not diminished. If anything, it was stronger as we embarked on our rice-and-salt days. Through our letters we would share our ordeals and triumphs, but as with everything else we needed to follow certain rules. As married women who had fallen into our husbands’ homes, we had to abandon our girlish ways. We wrote stock letters, with accepted formats and formalized words. In part, this was because we were foreigners in our husbands’ homes, busy learning the ways of new families. In part, it was because we did not know who might read our letters.
Our words had to be circumspect. We could not write anything too negative about our circumstances. This was tricky, since the very form of a married woman’s letter needed to include the usual complaints—that we were pathetic, powerless, worked to the bone, homesick, and sad. We were supposed to speak directly about our feelings without appearing ungrateful, no-account, or unfilial. Any daughter-in-law who lets the real truth of her life become public brings shame to both her natal and husband’s families, which, as you know, is why I have waited until they were all dead to write my story.
At first I was lucky, because I didn’t have anything bad to report. When I became betrothed, I’d learned that my husband’s uncle was a jinshi, the highest level of imperial scholar. The saying I had heard as a girl—“If one person becomes an official, then all of his family’s dogs and cats go to heaven”—now became clear. Uncle Lu lived in the capital and left the care of his holdings to Master Lu, my father-in-law, who was out most days before dawn, walking the land, speaking with farmers about crops, supervising irrigation projects, and meeting with other elders in Tongkou. All accounts and responsibility for what happened on the land rested on his shoulders. Uncle Lu spent the money with no concern for how it arrived in his coffers. He had done so well that his two youngest brothers lived in their own nearby houses—though not as fine as this one. They often visited with their families for dinner, while their wives called almost daily to our upstairs women’s chamber. In other words, everyone in Uncle Lu’s family—the dogs and cats, all the way down to the five big-footed servant girls who shared a room off the kitchen—benefited from his position.
Uncle Lu was the ultimate master, but I secured my place by being the first daughter-in-law and then by giving my husband his first son. As soon as my baby was born and the midwife put him in my arms, I was so blissful that I forgot the pain of childbirth and so relieved that I didn’t worry about all the bad things that could still happen to hi
m. Everyone in the household was happy and their gratitude came to me in many forms. My mother-in-law made me special soup with liquor, ginger, and peanuts to help my milk come in and my womb shrink. My father-in-law sent through his concubines blue brocaded silk so that I might make his grandson a jacket. My husband sat and talked to me.
For these reasons I have told the young women who have married into the Lu family, and the others I eventually reached through my teaching of nu shu, that they should hurry to have a baby boy. Sons are the foundation of a woman’s self. They give a woman her identity, as well as dignity, protection, and economic value. They create the link between her husband and his ancestors. This is the one accomplishment a man cannot achieve without the aid of his wife. Only she can guarantee the perpetuation of the family line, which, in turn, is the ultimate duty of every son. This is the supreme way he completes his filial duty, while sons are a woman’s crowning glory. I had done all this and I was ecstatic.
Snow Flower,
My son is here beside me.
My childbearing pollution days are not over.
My husband visits in the morning.
His face is happy.
My son has eyes that stare at me in question.
I can’t wait to see you at the one-month party.
Please use your best words to put my son on our fan.
Tell me of your new family.
I don’t see my husband very often. Do you?
I look out the lattice window to yours.
You are always singing in my heart.
I think of you every day.
Lily
Why do they call these rice-and-salt days? Because they are composed of common chores: embroidery, weaving, sewing, mending, making shoes, cooking meals, washing the dishes, cleaning the house, washing the clothes, keeping the brazier going, and being ready at night to do bed business with a man you still do not know well. They are also days filled with the anxiety and drudgery of being a young mother with your first baby. Why does it cry? Is it hungry? Is it getting enough milk? Will it ever sleep? Does it sleep too much? And what of fevers, rashes, bug bites, too much heat, too much cold, colic, not to mention all the illnesses that sweep through the county taking babies each year, despite the best efforts of herbal doctors, offerings on family altars, and the tears of mothers? Quite apart from the baby who suckles at your breast, you have to worry on a deeper level about the true responsibility of womanhood: to have more sons and ensure the next generation and generations after that. But during the first few weeks of my son’s life I had another concern, which had nothing to do with my daughter-in-law, wife, or mother duties.