Dream Variations: A Journey Across Two Continents Read online

  Dream Variations

  A Journey Across Two Continents

  Weihua Zhang

  Copyright © 2012 Weihua Zhang

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1478203803

  ISBN-13: 9781478203803

  A POIGNANT SENSE OF TRIUMPH, SACRIFICE, AND HOMESICKNESS . . .

  Weihua Zhang takes us on her journey across two continents, 12,000 miles, and half a lifetime, as she charts what it is to be Chinese-American. She discovers that while she has made a new life for herself and her family in the States, this “sojourner daughter” is never far from her Chinese roots. Her vignettes and photographs give a poignant sense of triumph, sacrifice, and homesickness. She allows the reader to develop a real appreciation for the immigrant experience and for the many meanings of “home.”

  Mary Doll, author of Like Letters in Running Water: A Mythopoetics of Curriculum

  CANDID NARRATIVES . . .

  In Dream Variations, Weihua Zhang provides mesmerizing accounts of her experiences in two vastly different worlds. She vividly describes her tormented childhood in China amidst the tension of the deteriorating marriage of her parents and her harrowing experiences as a young girl caught in service of Mao’s tyrannical Little Red Guard. Zhang’s candid narratives provide insightful reflections of her often painful and awkward experiences as a “Chinese in America,” the difficult choice between her homeland and her adopted country, and her continuing transition and commitment to being an “American of Chinese background.”

  John Jung, author of Southern Fried Rice: Life in a Chinese Laundry in the Deep South and Sweet and Sour: Life in Chinese Family Restaurants

  A PERSONAL STORY ABOUT CHINA AND AMERICA THAT ALL AMERICANS SHOULD KNOW . . .

  The U.S. has inspired many stories of immigrants’ struggles, adaptation, and success. But we’ve heard few stories of how someone who is now a U.S. citizen grew up in China in the 1960s during the turmoil of the Cultural Revolution. Dream Variations is a personal story about China and America that all Americans should know, and Weihua Zhang tells it vividly and well.

  Peter Schmidt, Professor of English Literature, Swarthmore College

  DEDICATION

  To the loving memories of my mother,

  Yang Bing Zhuang

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted to many who believed in me, encouraged me, guided me, and supported me in the writing of this book, a quasi-memoir.

  My colleagues in the Liberal Arts department at the Savannah College of Art and Design kept wanting more stories after I shared a few at the annual Writers’ Assembly. I am grateful to two Marys: Mary Doll for gently nudging out the artist in me with the first and subsequent publications of my black and white photographs, and Mary C. Kim, for painstakingly working with me through six revisions of “Are You My Mother?”—my first published poem. Thanks also to Mark Uzmann, the photography guru who sparked my interest in photography; to James Lough and Jonathan Rabb, two colleagues in SCAD’s Writing department, for whose class assignments some of these pieces were first written; and to Beth Concepción, then editor of SCAD’s newspaper, The Campus Chronicle, who, as early as 2001, recognized my writing potential by publishing my very first assignment: “Book Traces Sapelo Culture,” a book review of God, Dr. Buzzard, and the Bolito Man: A Saltwater Geechee Talks About Life on Sapelo Island, written by Cornelia Walker Bailey with Christena Bledsoe. A special thanks to John Valentine, a Zen master in his own right, who read the entire manuscript and offered invaluable comments.

  Peter Schmidt and the late Kathryn L. Morgan, two of my mentors at Swarthmore College, eased my early transition to American culture and academia. Their steadfast friendship tided me over many challenges. John Jung, another mentor, exerted his influence through his book, Southern Fried Rice: Life in a Chinese Laundry in the Deep South. One day, I hope to thank him in person.

  I am grateful to Savannah’s Chinese community. They opened their hearts and family albums, shared personal stories of struggles and successes, and paved the way for me, a recent immigrant, to claim a cultural heritage and personal triumph. Cal Lei, a dear friend, enhanced the book’s appeal tremendously with his dynamic cover design.

  I am most thankful to Paula S. Wallace, President of the Savannah College of Art and Design, for her continued support. The three Presidential Fellowships for Faculty Development she awarded me in the past ten years have enabled me to explore my imaginations: a photography exhibition “Take Root and Blossom: Chinese Immigrants in Savannah (1880s-1990s)—a Photographic Journey” (Spring 2003); the planning and research phase of the book (Winter 2006); and the course release time for the completion of the manuscript (Spring 2012).

  Last, but not least, my uttermost gratitude to my daughter Feifei: you are the story of my life. And to my husband Qiwei: you have surrounded me with your beautiful artwork so I can indulge myself in dreaming the dreams of our lives in China and America, and my continued journey across two continents.

  A Note to the Reader

  The eighteen pieces collected here represent my selected writings done in the new millennium (with the exception of "Who Should Teach African American Literature?", which was written in 1999). Together, they reflect musings on my life, my journey from China to the United States of America, and my discovery of a self—cultural, personal, and artistic.

  In these literary and scholarly writings, I have tried to take a retrospective look at my experiences as student, teacher, daughter, mother, immigrant, and citizen, in both China and the United States. Though most of the pieces are informed by my own experiences, they are not intended to be read as my autobiography—which will be written in due time. The book is organized thematically rather than chronologically. I have included a total of forty-four photographs, selected mainly from my own photographic work and old family albums, intending to provide a visual context.

  3

  Part I: Innocence Lost

  I remember those long periods of “silent wars” between Mama and Father. I recall that chilly October morning when I followed Mama to People’s Square. The Cultural Revolution turned me, a shy, timid girl, into Mao’s Little Red Guard. The icy rice stalks made my fingertips bleed.

  Mama in her early twenties

  Mama’s Hair

  “Tell me more about Grandma,” my daughter Feifei pleaded with me, her face tilted upward, her tearful eyes trying to hook mine. Her voice was not sad, though, but full of longing, which surprised me. It was April, 1996. Feifei had just turned 10 in March. I tried gently to break the news to her that Grandma had died of a massive heart attack on January 6, more than three months ago.

  Not knowing where to start, I bent down and hugged Feifei tightly, letting the hot tears roll down my cheeks, which dropped on her straight, thick, black hair. “Grandma had hair just like yours,” I said to Feifei between sobs, attempting to hold off my own tears. Nevertheless, thinking of Mama’s hair brought a faint smile to my face.

  For as long as I can remember, I have always loved Mama’s lustrous black hair. I remember seeing a picture of her in the family album. Her long hair was braided into two thick pigtails and tied with thin ribbons at both ends. In that picture, she was very young, probably in her early twenties, and breathtakingly beautiful. She had big black eyes with double lids; her refined, elegant face anchored by a straight nose; her sensual lips were full and firm. When I was in first grade, I had pigtails too, though mine were not thick like Mama’s, and much shorter; they barely reached my narrow shoulders. Many a morning, Mama would stand behind me braiding my hair while I sat on a stool eating breakfast of rice porridge and pickled vegetables. Some morn
ings, Mama tied my hair with red or pink ribbons, my two favorite colors; on other days, she put bright clips on my hair. With her tender loving touch, Mama made me feel as if I were the prettiest girl in my class.

  Mama, aunt, and second brother (1956)

  When I was still a little girl, Mama seemed magical to me. She would hum to herself while doing chores, her thick black hair dangling loosely behind her back. Her magical voice, chirpy like a lark, soothing like a balm, enchanting like a dream, would often take me to a faraway land. When Feifei was just a baby, Mama used to sing her the same lullaby she sang to me:

  The wind has stopped blowing,

  the trees are no longer swaying,

  the birds have ceased their chattering;

  my little darling,

  close your eyes tightly,

  and start dreaming.

  Mama possessed a pair of magical hands too. She could peel an apple with a pocketknife in the blink of an eye. We kids jostled one another to get in position to catch the long spiral peel before it fell to the floor. We pulled it long-ways and sideways, as if we were playing an accordion. And those paper-cuts Mama did! A line of little girls holding hands; dogs; butterflies; fish; roses—you name it and she could pull it off right in front of your unblinking eyes.

  As I grew older, however, I started noticing that Mama’s songs and magic could go missing for days and even weeks. Those were “silent war” days when Mama and Father stopped speaking to one another, when fear hung heavily in the air of our apartment home. I dreaded these days and had resigned myself to their intermittent occurrences. All I could do was to wait for the heaviness to dissipate, and for Mama’s singing to return.

  My parents in the late 1940s

  Until one day I was stupefied with a shocking revelation: what if Mama’s singing would never return? I was only nine at the time. My parents were at “silent war” again. It was an overcast October day. We were living in Changchun then, the capital city of Jilin Province, located in northeastern China. That chilly morning, I followed Mama to the People’s Square, a public plaza nearby, a five-minute walk from our apartment. Oblivious to the people who gathered at the square to practice Tai Chi, or the ones who hurried to get to their jobs, Mama sat on one of the wooden benches in the square. Her face blank and pensive, her motionless eyes looked at nothing in particular. I sat next to her timidly. I knew when not to disturb her. But I was scared, scared to death. For some reason, my young mind was obsessed with the fear that Mama was going to kill herself. If I were to leave her then and there, I would come back finding her gone. Gone forever.

  With sister (left) at People’s Square (1974)

  On that chilly October morning many years ago, we sat there, mother and daughter, for maybe an hour. Mama did not utter a single word. She kept looking in front of her, at nothing and nobody in particular, her shoulder-length, jet-black hair tucked neatly behind her ears. I sat close to her, but made sure that my body did not touch hers. Now and then I would cast anxious glances at her, but dared not make any eye contact. What if I saw tears in her eyes? Would I be able to hold mine? Just as she did, I remained silent the whole time. Fear and sadness filled my heart as I waited for her to acknowledge my presence. I found it hard to breathe and tried in vain to shake off this heaviness sitting on my chest. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Mama said in a barely audible voice, “Go on to school. Don’t worry about me.”

  It was much later—I was already in college—when I finally was able to piece together the cause of Mama’s unhappiness, her strained relationship with Father, her emotional demands on her children, and her entangled fate with China’s history.

  My parents were married in 1948, shortly after the liberation of northeastern China, or Manchuria, a former Japanese occupied territory. Their union was not out of the ordinary. Mama was a young assistant at the District government’s office and 17 at the time. Father was 28, a seasoned revolutionary. At 17, he had run away from home to join the Red Army, shortly after Japan began its full-scale invasion of China on July 7, 1937. Father pledged not to return home until he had killed every single Japanese soldier. The Sino-Japanese War lasted eight years. Father proved to be a brave soldier and later a shrewd commander in the army. He had seen battles big and small, close to a hundred in total.

  After the war, Father left the army and assumed the Chief of Public Security position (sort of the combination of police chief and sheriff in the U.S.) in Hailin District, where Mama lived with her parents and three younger siblings. That was how their lives’ paths intersected. Father must have been smitten by Mama’s youth, beauty, and brains. He followed her to her parents’ house, trying to woo her. When he was too busy to go, he sent his bodyguard to accompany her home and do the talking for him. He even asked his superior to put in a good word on his behalf. Mama acquiesced after a year, succumbing to the pressure. “I didn’t want your Grandpa to lose his job,” she later told me. “My friend Ping, her father lost his job when she declined to marry this older army officer.”

  In September 1948, my parents were reassigned to Liaoyuan Coal Mining Company, thus starting their life-long careers in the coal industry. In time, my siblings and I were born. First came Sister in 1949, then Big Brother in 1953, followed by Second Brother in 1955, and I came in 1957 to bring up the rear. By then, my parents had been transferred again, this time to Beipiao Coal Mining Bureau, where I was born. I’d like to think that in our unique ways, each of us had brightened our parents’ lives. Yet deep in my heart, I am saddened and troubled by an unspoken fact, a coincidence perhaps, that my birth in 1957 signaled the beginning of Mama’s long suffering. Of course, no one ever hinted at that. It is just my gut feeling.

  We kids on New Year’s Day 1960

  The year 1957 saw Chairman Mao launch the Anti-Rightist Movement. As if to mark my grand entry into the world, Mao chose the month of July for the launch. The Anti-Rightist Movement served as a countermovement against the Hundred Flowers Campaign, endorsed by Mao himself, just a year prior. The Double-Hundred Campaign—“Let a hundred flowers bloom; let a hundred schools of thought contend”—called for pluralism of artistic expressions and public critiques of the government. When hundreds of thousands of letters and suggestions poured in, offering candid criticism of the central government, Mao sensed a public dissatisfaction and potential threat to the new republic, and to his reign. He pulled the plug. The Anti-Rightist Movement targeted particularly those outspoken critics of the central government. In a short two-year period, some 550,000 people were affected nationwide, with close to 90% of them intellectuals. Among the charges: anti-Communist Party sentiments, opposition to the socialist system, counter-revolutionary views and activities, subversion, advocating capitalist ideology, and instigating social unrest. Their punishments: demotion, dismissal, forced labor camps, imprisonment, torture, and even death. In September of that year, Mama was removed from her position as Director of Education. Her offence: displaying “Pro-Rightist inclination.” I was just two months old.

  One could only imagine the shock and anger I later felt when I found out the truth of Mama’s 1957 downfall. She had actually taken the political fall for Father. A couple of Father’s fellow managers had become very disgruntled with him, the no-nonsense guy, who led by examples, not words; who upheld integrity and frowned at corruption. They could do nothing to Father, a decorated veteran and highly capable manager of the company. They plotted against Mama, the young, beautiful, ass-kicking Director of Education, who was full of herself and consulted no one for personnel decisions in her own department. Mama was only twenty-six then, passionate about life, adored by her children, admired by her friends, and revered by her colleagues. Sadly, her life, her career, and her happiness were put on hold. Though Mama never told me so, I suspected that her strained relationship with Father was caused largely by this tragic turn of fate. Perhaps in her heart, she blamed Father for having failed to come to her defense, to prove his love with action; or perhaps she saw his inaction as
a betrayal. In fairness to Father, it was not clear whether he could have saved Mama. But it was his inaction that did him in.

  I was barely one year old when the entire country was mobilized to answer Chairman Mao’s call for modernization. The Great Leap Forward in 1958-59, aimed at overtaking Great Britain and the United States, proved too giant a leap. It backfired and shattered the country’s fragile economic foundations. Then the three-year Great Famine followed in 1959-1961. Millions of people were displaced from their homes. The death toll is staggering no matter which figure you choose to use: 15 million by the Chinese government’s estimate or 30-45 million according to studies done by western scholars.

  My family survived the Great Famine with minimal sufferings, thanks largely to Father’s leadership position at work and his past distinguished service in the Chinese Liberation Army. Faced with a scarcity of food and daily necessities such as rice, flour, meat, cooking oil, sugar, matches, clothing items, and the like, Father’s special monthly rations kept our stomachs full. Almost full. Mama was the distributor-in-chief. She would divide rice porridge, steamed buns, and the occasional treats that Father brought home from his business trips—candies, cookies, sometimes fresh fruit—into four roughly equal portions. Being the youngest child, I always got to pick first. Unlike Kong Rong (153-208 A.D.), the renowned literary scholar in the late East Han Dynasty (25-220 A.D.), who, at the age of four, chose to pick the smallest pear on the plate and saved the bigger ones for his older siblings, I always went for the largest portions. I would follow Mama’s hand back and forth when she ladled rice porridge into our bowls, making sure I got the same amount as my older sister and two brothers did. I’d hide the leftovers somewhere in the house and nibble on them later. I was not ready to share the rice porridge, the treats, or Mama, especially Mama, with my siblings. It meant nothing to me that Kong Rong went down in Chinese history as the model of a courteous child. For this four-year-old, going down in history as a courteous child was the least concern on her mind.