"From Beyond The Lotus Pavilion" and other crappy memoirs of a generic Asian American female writer

By Maybelline Chang

The Chinese have a popular saying: "jiao yian xian you." Sometimes this is translated as "salt and pepper calamari," but I prefer the more provincial rendering: "every peony is blessed with ten thousand secret fragrances." After Chiang-Kai Shek's disgraced Nationalist army fled the mainland and established martial law in Taiwan, this phrase took on special meaning among those families, including my own, that were forced to suffer under the Kuomintang's iron fist. Even now, writing these words here in the safety of my American apartment, I feel the force of that ancient Chinese idiom echoing through our empty house on Xiamen Street, and a shiver runs down my spine, a shiver that is caused by the ghosts of my ancestors, and also by my rheumatoid arthritis. "Maybelline-ah," my mother used to admonish, brushing her beautiful ebony hair with a red velvet-backed brush. "Jiao yian xian you." Do not forget the ten thousand secret fragrances that reside within you.

*****

Fleeing the horrors of war, my family decided to board an unwieldy freighter under cover of night and embark for kam san -- "Gold Mountain" -- the fabled city of San Francisco where the streets were rumored to be paved with gold. However, in their haste to depart undetected, they were forced to leave behind some of their most treasured possessions, including: jade bracelets, gold ingots, expensive ivory hair ornaments, priceless family heirlooms, grandfather's beloved transistor radio, adorable bedroom furniture sets, several valuable babies, and a grand piano.

My mother is now very different from the beautiful young woman in the old black and white photos on our mantel. "Maybelline-ah," she sighs from her favorite rocking chair. "Why you no decide to marry a Chinese man? Why you marry this black hei gui tou and have these salt and pepper children?"

Darnell tries to be supportive. Last summer we took a trip to Taiwan, where my relatives gossiped about him in disapproving Chinese and he bore it all with the gentle patience of a saint. Together we wandered the streets of Dongxia beilu, exclaiming over the savory crullers, oyster pancakes, and other exotic foods being hawked on every street corner. It was at times like these that I would pause to reflect on the ironies and idiosyncrasies of fate, destiny, chance, and fortune. This was also a good time to wonder about issues of identity -- for although I look Chinese, I did not feel connected to the people of strange land. This is such a profound point that I cannot help but think about it some more.

THE END