SAM IS BEYOND thrilled. He may have once told me he didn’t care if he had a son, but he’s a man, and, for all his words, he’s needed and wanted a son very badly. Joy hops up and down with excitement. Yen-yen weeps, but my age concerns her. Father Louie, wanting to behave as a patriarch should, tries to capture his emotions in his clenched fists, but he can’t stop beaming. Vern stands by me, a kind but small protector. I don’t know if my posture is taller and straighter because I’m happy or if Vern is just shy around me, but he seems shorter and thicker—as though his spine is collapsing and his chest broadening. He should have grown out of the slouch of his teen years by now, but I often notice that he will lean over and put his hands on his thighs as though propping himself up from fatigue or boredom.
On Sunday the uncles come for dinner to celebrate. Our family—like so many in Chinatown—is growing. The Chinese population in Los Angeles has more than doubled since we first arrived. This isn’t because the Exclusion Act was overturned. We thought that was going to be wonderful when it happened, but only 105 Chinese a year are allowed to enter the country under the new quota. As always, people find ways to get around the law. Uncle Fred brought in his wife under the War Brides Act. Mariko’s a pretty girl, quiet, and Japanese, but we don’t hold it against her. (The war is over and she’s part of our family now, so what else can we do?) Other men have brought in wives through other acts, and when you have men and women together, you’re going to get children. Mariko had two babies one right after the other. We love Eleanor and Bess, even though they’re half-and-half, even though we don’t see them as much as we’d like. Fred and Mariko don’t live in Chinatown. They took advantage of the G.I. Bill to buy a house in Silver Lake, not far from downtown.
The men wear sleeveless undershirts and drink bottles of beer. Yen-yen—in loose black trousers, a black cotton jacket, and a really fine jade necklace—dotes on Joy and Mariko’s daughters. May swishes through the main room in a full-skirted American-style dress of polished cotton belted at the waist. Father Louie snaps his fingers, and we sit down to eat. My family use their chopsticks to snap up the best morsels to drop in my bowl. Everyone has advice. And surprisingly, everyone agrees that we should look for a house in which to raise the Louie grandson. And May was right. Father not only volunteers to help but says he’ll match us dollar for dollar as long as his name’s on the title too.
“Married people are starting to live away from their in-laws,” he says. “It will look strange if you don’t have your own home.” (Because after ten years he’s no longer afraid we’ll run away. We’re his true family now, just as he and Yen-yen are ours.)
“This apartment—too much bad air,” Yen-yen says. “The boy will need a place to play outside, not in an alley.” (Which had been fine for Joy.)
“I hope there’s room for a pony,” Joy says. (She isn’t getting a pony, no matter how much she wants to be a cowgirl.)
“With the war over, everything’s changed,” chimes in Uncle Wilburt, for once wholly optimistic. “You can go to the Bimini Pool to swim. You can sit wherever you want at the movie show. You could even marry a lo fan if you wanted to.”
“But who’d want to?” Uncle Charley asks. (So many laws have changed, but that doesn’t mean attitudes—Oriental or Occidental—have changed with them.)
Joy reaches her chopsticks across the table, looking for a piece of pork. Her grandmother smacks her hand. “Only take food from the dish directly in front of you!” Joy’s hand retreats, but Sam dips his chopsticks into the pork dish and fills his daughter’s bowl. He’s a man—soon to be the father of a precious grandson—and Yen-yen won’t correct his manners, but later she’ll give Joy a talking-to about being virtuous, graceful, courteous, polite, and obedient, which means, among other things, learning to sew and embroider, take care of the house, and use her chopsticks properly. All this from a woman who barely knows these things herself.
“So many doors have opened,” Uncle Fred says. He came back from the war with a box full of medals. His English, which had been pretty good to begin with, improved in the service, but he still speaks Sze Yup with us. We thought he’d return to China City and the Golden Dragon Café to work, but no. “Look at me. The government is helping me with my college tuition and housing.” He raises his beer. “Thank you, Uncle Sam, for helping me become a dentist!” He takes a swig, then adds, “The Supreme Court says we can live wherever we want. So where do you want to live?”
Sam runs a hand through his hair and then scratches the back of his neck. “Wherever they’ll accept us. If they don’t want us, I don’t want to live there.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Uncle Fred says. “The lo fan are more open to us now. A lot of guys were in the service. They met and fought with people who looked like us. You’ll be welcome wherever you go.”
Later that night, after everyone goes home and Joy has been tucked into her permanent sleeping place on the couch in the main room, Sam and I talk more about the baby and a possible move.
“With our own place, we could do what we want,” Sam says in Sze Yup. Then he adds in English, “In privacy.” No single word in Chinese conveys the concept of privacy, but we love the idea of it. “And all wives want to be away from their mothers-in-law.”
I don’t suffer under Yen-yen’s thumb, but the thought of moving out of Chinatown and giving Joy and our baby new opportunities brightens my heart. But we aren’t like Fred. We can’t use the G.I. Bill to buy a house. No bank will give just any Chinese a loan, and we don’t trust American banks because we don’t want to owe money to Americans. But Sam and I have been saving, hiding our money in his sock and in the lining of the hat I wore out of China. If we keep our desires modest, then we might just be able to buy something.
But it isn’t as easy as Uncle Fred said. I look in Crenshaw, where I’m told we can buy only south of Jefferson. I try Culver City, where the real estate agent won’t even show me property. I find a house I like in Lake-wood, but the neighbors sign a petition saying they don’t want Chinese to move in. I go to Pacific Palisades, but the land covenants still say that houses can’t be sold to someone of Ethiopian or Mongolian descent. I hear every excuse: “We don’t rent to Orientals.” “We won’t sell to Orientals.” “As Orientals, you won’t like that house.” And the old standby: “On the phone we thought you were Italian.”
Uncle Fred—who was in the war and earned his bravery—encourages us not to give up, but Sam and I are not the kind to holler and cry that we’ve been robbed, beaten, or discriminated against. The only way we can hope to buy a house outside Chinatown is to find a seller so desperate he doesn’t mind offending his neighbors, but by now I’m nervous about moving at all. Or maybe I’m not nervous; maybe I’m feeling homesick in advance. After Shanghai, how can I lose what we’ve built for ourselves in Chinatown?
I WORK HARD to grow my baby the Chinese way. I have the worries of every expectant mother, but I also know that my baby’s home environment was once invaded and nearly destroyed. I go to the herbalist, who looks at my tongue, listens to the many pulses in my wrist, and prescribes An Tai Yin—Peaceful Fetus Formula. He also gives me Shou Tai Wan— Fetus Longevity Pills. I don’t shake hands with strangers, because Mama once told a neighbor woman this would cause her baby to be born with six fingers. When May buys a camphor chest for me to store the clothes I’m making for the baby, I remember Mama’s beliefs and refuse to accept it, because it resembles a casket. I begin to question my dreams, recalling what Mama said about them: if you dream of shoes, then bad luck is coming; if you dream of losing teeth, then someone in the family will die; and if you dream of shit, then big trouble is about to arrive. Every morning I rub my belly, happy that my dreams have been free from these bad omens.
During the New Year festivities I visit an astrologer, who tells me my son will be born in the Year of the Ox, just like his father. “Your son will have the purest of hearts. He will be filled with innocence and faith. He will be strong and never whimper or complain.” Every day, when the tourists leave China City, I go to the Temple of Kwan Yin to make offerings to assure that the baby will be safe and well. As a beautiful girl in Shanghai, I looked down on those mothers who went to the temples in the Old Chinese City, but now that I’m older I understand that my baby’s health is more important than girlish ideas of modernity.
On the other hand, I’m not stupid. No matter what, I’ll be an American mother, so I go to an American doctor too. I still don’t like that Western doctors dress in white and paint their offices white—the color of death—but I accept these things because I’ll do anything for my baby. Anything means having the doctor examine me. The only men who have been in that area are my husband, the doctors who repaired me in Hangchow, and the men who raped me. I’m not happy to have this man feeling around and looking in there. And I really don’t like what he says: “Mrs. Louie, you will be lucky to carry this baby to term.”
Sam understands the dangers, and he quietly goes to each family member to warn them. Immediately, Yen-yen refuses to let me cook, wash dishes, or iron clothes. Father orders me to stay in the apartment, put my feet up, sleep. And my sister? She takes more responsibility for Joy, walking her to American school and Chinese school. I don’t know quite how to explain this. My sister and I have fought over Joy for many years. May gives her niece beautiful clothes bought in department stores—a sky blue party dress in dotted swiss, another with exquisite smocking, and a blouse with ruffles—while I sew practical clothes for my daughter—-jumpers made with two pieces of felt, Chinese jackets with raglan sleeves made with cotton bought from the remnant bin, and smocks made from seersucker (what we call atomic fabric, because it never wrinkles). May buys Joy patent leather shoes, while I insist on saddle shoes. May is fun, while I’m the maker of rules. I understand why my sister wants to be the perfect auntie; we both do. But right now I don’t worry about that, and I let Joy drift away from me and into her auntie’s arms, believing I’ll never have to compete with May for my son’s love.
Perhaps realizing she’s stealing Joy from me, my sister gives me Vern. “He’ll be with you all the time,” she says, “to make sure nothing bad happens. He can take care of simple things, like getting you tea. And if there’s an emergency—and there won’t be—he can come and get one of us.”
Anyone would think May’s offer would please Sam, but he doesn’t like the idea one bit. Is Sam jealous? How can he be? Vern is a grown man, but as we spend our days together, he seems to shrink while my belly grows. Still, Sam won’t let Vern sit next to me at dinner or any other meal. As a family we accept this, because Sam is going to be a father.
We spend a lot of time talking about names. This isn’t like when May and I named Joy. Father Louie will have the honor and duty of naming his grandson, but that doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t have an opinion or try to sway him.
“You should name the baby Gary for Gary Cooper,” my sister says.
“I like my name. Vernon.”
We smile and say that’s a nice idea, but no one wants to name a baby after a person so defective that if he’d been born in China he would have been left outside to die.
“I like Kit for Kit Carson or Annie for Annie Oakley.” This of course comes from my cowgirl daughter.
“Let’s name him after one of the ships that brought the Chinese to California—Roosevelt, Coolidge, Lincoln, or Hoover,” Sam says.
Joy giggles. “Oh, Dad, those are presidents, not boats!”
Joy often makes fun of her father for his poor understanding of English and American ways. At the very least, this should hurt his feelings. At the most, he should punish her for being unfilial. But he’s so happy about his coming son that he pays no attention to his daughter’s tart tongue. I tell myself I have to stop this trait in our girl. Otherwise she’ll end up like May and me when we were young: rude to our parents and flagrantly disobedient.
Some of our neighbors also give suggestions: One named a son after the doctor who delivered the baby. Another named a daughter after a nurse who’d been particularly kind. The names of midwives, teachers, and missionaries fill cribs throughout Chinatown. I remember how Miss Gordon saved Joy’s life, so I suggest the name Gordon. Gordon Louie sounds like a smart, successful, non-Chinese man.
When my fifth month comes, Uncle Charley announces that he’s returning to his home village as a Gold Mountain man, saying, “The war’s over and the Japanese are gone from China. I’ve saved enough and I can live well there.” We host a banquet, we shake his hand, and we drive him to the port. It seems that for every wife who arrives in Chinatown, another man goes home. Those who’ve always seen themselves as sojourners are now finding their happy endings. But not once does Father Louie, who always said he wanted to return to Wah Hong Village, bring up the idea of closing the Golden enterprises and taking us back to China. Why would he retire to his home village when at last he’s going to get his grandson, who will be an American citizen by birth, venerate his grandfather when he goes to the afterworld, and learn to hit baseballs, play the violin, and become a doctor?
At the beginning of my sixth month, I receive a piece of mail with stamps from China. I eagerly rip open the envelope and find a letter from Betsy. I can’t believe she’s alive. She survived her time in the Japanese camp by the Lunghua Pagoda, but her husband didn’t. “My parents want me to join them in Washington to regain my health,” she writes, “but I was born in Shanghai. It’s my home. How can I leave it? Don’t I owe it to the city of my birth to help with the rebuilding efforts? I’ve been working with orphans …”
Her letter reminds me that there’s one person I would like to hear from or about. Even after all these years, Z.G. still comes into my mind. I put a hand on my belly—which protrudes like a steamed bun—feel the baby move inside me, and visit my artist and Shanghai in my mind. I’m not lovesick or homesick. I’m just pregnant and sentimental, because my past is simply that—past. My home is here with this family I’ve built from the scraps of tragedy. My hospital bag is packed and sitting by the door to our room. In my purse I carry fifty dollars in an envelope to pay for the delivery. Once the baby’s born, he’ll come home to a place where everyone loves him.