The caption beneath the illustrated melee declared: “It all started when Miss Cheng won the crown in a big popularity contest, whereupon the adherents of that radiant siren, Miss Wu, got mad—and the war was on!”
Grace sat down on the sofa to read the rest of the article. The passions stirred by Miss Wu’s singing and dancing were said to have inspired Chinese military officials to ignore their duties and thus allow Manchuria to be invaded by Japan. (That’s ridiculous, Grace thought.) This was followed by a threatening letter written in human blood (How could they have known it was human?) demanding that Miss Wu leave China. But the author of the article was most amazed by the idea that China, perceived as a rural backwater by most of America, had a film industry at all. (Grace rolled her eyes.) And then, in the last column, the article took an unexpected twist.
“You have no doubt heard that heroes and heroines in Chinese pictures do not kiss, as there is no such thing as a kiss in Chinese behavior.” The author explained, rather slyly, that instead of kissing, Chinese women “make love with their hands” by kissing with their fingertips instead of their lips.
Grace flushed. The sensationalism—the tasteless lingering on the alluring qualities of Chinese girls—the bizarre idea that Chinese people don’t kiss! Thank goodness she hadn’t mentioned this story to Joseph Hu. She shuddered with embarrassment and quickly went to bury the Sunday Magazine beneath the other newspapers on the console.
She tiptoed upstairs to her room, irrationally worried that one of her dorm-mates would see her and know by looking at her face that she’d been reading that lurid article. And yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was true that she had never seen Chinese lovers kiss each other, but Chinese lovers would never kiss in public! She tried to dash the queer thought from her mind, but the feeling wouldn’t go away: a sick twist in her stomach, sour as vinegar, as she contemplated Americans’ prurient interest in things that should be private. What must Joseph Hu think of this country, she wondered.
She sat down at her desk to look over her notes—she had an entire chapter to review before she went to Sunday night dinner with the other girls on her floor—but she couldn’t focus. Instead she thought about Joseph and his quiet self-assurance. He would never throw himself at an actress, Chinese or otherwise. There was a dignity about him that she hadn’t seen in the Chinese American men who had paid attention to her.
Chinese American men were more desperate, of course, because there were so many more of them than Chinese American women due to the immigration restrictions. Grace had already had plenty of overeager suitors, and she knew she was a catch, although she’d never admit it. But a man like Joseph Hu was not limited to the small number of Chinese women in America. There was no shortage of women in China, and he was more of a catch than she was.
She saw again the modern Chinese hospital she had imagined earlier, but this time she also imagined Dr. Joseph Hu presiding over the spotless ward in his white doctor’s coat, stethoscope draped around his neck. And beside him, wearing her starched nurse’s uniform and taking notes on a clipboard, was Grace herself. An unfamiliar emotion swelled inside her at this image, a strangely sharp pang for a place she had never visited, for a people she resembled but did not know. As she stared blankly down at her textbook, she thought that perhaps it was patriotism, but not for America. For China.
PART II
I Enjoy Being a Girl
October–November 1954
10
Lily, have you seen the pamphlet about working at the education department?” Shirley asked.
Lily was flipping through the job brochures in the filing cabinet in the back of Miss Weiland’s classroom, hunting for something to write her career report about. Slipped almost slyly into a stack of brochures about government jobs was a pamphlet that offered “100 Things You Should Know About Communism in the U.S.A.”
“No,” Lily said as Shirley leaned against the filing cabinet. “I have this one about becoming an accountant.” She hid the booklet about Communism behind it and showed it to Shirley. “Do you want it?”
“Who wants to be an accountant?” Shirley grumbled.
“It’s good for math majors,” Lily said, taking the two booklets back to her desk. She glanced at Kath over in the next row, but Kath had her head down taking notes from a different job manual. Lily silently slid the Communism pamphlet beneath her notebook, and opened the accounting one over it.
When Shirley returned to her seat a few minutes later, she dropped her chosen pamphlet on her desk and then swiveled around to face Lily. “Guess what happened?” she whispered.
Lily looked up. “What?”
“Louisa Ramirez is moving to San Jose and has to drop out of dance committee. She was supposed to be in charge of refreshments.” Shirley sounded personally affronted.
“I’m sure you can manage without her. Maybe someone else can take over her duties.”
“Someone’s going to have to, obviously, but the dance is in less than two weeks. We’re going to have a hard time finding someone.”
Will was sitting in front of Shirley, and Lily saw him turn his head slightly, as if he were listening. She still hadn’t talked to him about the dance. “Well, I could do it,” Lily said impulsively.
Shirley was surprised. “You?”
If Lily were on the dance committee, she had a good excuse for not going as Will’s date. “You’re always asking me to join the committee. I can fill in for Louisa.”
Shirley’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure? We have a lot of work to do in the next two weeks.”
“Do you want me to help or not?”
“Girls, this isn’t the time for socializing,” Miss Weiland said, coming down the aisle toward them. “Get back to work, please.”
Shirley gave Lily a meaningful look before turning around in her chair. “Sorry, Miss Weiland,” Shirley said.
“Sorry,” Lily echoed. She picked up her pencil and began to take notes on accounting.
* * *