Mothers in the Motherland

What brought Daughter No. 1 back to the motherland for yet another visit was the chance to share quality time with her own mother and her in-laws on a two-week adventure. After all, she had been to most of the cities before. Daughter No. 1’s mother, (a.k.a. Blood Mother), seasoned in China travel due to numerous past trips, already had the experience of playing host to many other visiting groups in the past. However, this was Blood Mother’s first time spending an extended time with Daughter No. 1’s new family, and as a result, she felt it was her cultural responsibility to play the stereotype of Confucian parenting and prove that her Daughter could be truly deferential.

Given the weight of responsibility felt by Blood Mother, the cultural experience for everyone in the group was not limited to watching the one-child policy manifest in Chinese families cherishing their sole offspring (male and female, alike), and spoiling them with ice cream cones, laughter and shiny clothing. The group was also witness to a Chinese American Blood Mother trying to seem still in control of her daughter, who left home for 14 years, and recently decided to marry an American of mixed racial descent. The mixed marriage was met with approval--that wasn't the problem.

So picture this scene, set several miles from the Badaling (note, not recommended on weekends due to the huge crowds) section of the Great Wall. In two days, the group also tackled the Forbidden City, Summer Palace, Acrobatics Show, and a jade factory. The group of eight sits at the table, sharing their 15^th meal together thusfar on the trip. Note all meals are family style, and there is no ordering, as tour groups in China always work on a pre-set menu.

The waitress places a plate of pan-fried bread stuffed with unknown meats next to Daughter No. 1, and quickly announces the dish’s name, which no-one recognizes.

Everyone: Hmm, what is that?

Daughter No. 1 reaches her chopstick toward the dish. It is unclear if she is trying to feed herself or investigate the dish.

Blood Mother: (snappishly) You should serve your father-in-law first!

Father-in-law: (bewildered) Huh?

Blood Mother: You know, kids these days, they don’t know how to respect their elders. You should always serve your parents first! My daughter is terrible. She has forgotten everything I’ve taught her.

Daughter No. 1: Uh, yeah, I was going to do that. (begins to serve her father-in-law first and ask others on the table if they want some of the mystery bread)

Blood Mother: Yah, yah, sure. You say you know, but you didn't do!

Mother in Law: I think Daughter No. 1 is a great daughter-in-law. She’s very helpful, and kind to everyone.

Blood Mother: (shaking her head, as if the previous comment was simply a courtesy) Thank you. But, your son is really terrific.

Husband No. 1 is silent, basking in praise, not questioning its source, and hoping to avoid any criticism. This is considered traitrous behavior in the eyes of Daughter No. 1, and he will bear the brunt of her rage later.

Blood Mother: You know, I get together with all my friends, and we say that Google.com has replaced mothers! My friend’s daughter just had a baby, and would rather look up answers about parenting online or email her friends on something called listserv, than ask her own mother! Can you believe that? That’s why I say Google is your new mother. Isn’t that right?

Family Friend No. 1: (not helping) You know, my daughter-in-law is Korean, and she is really sweet! She always serves me first, and constantly asks me if I want something to drink. Wow, she is really something!

Blood Mother: Well, then, you are really lucky.

The scene continues, but Daughter No. 1 loses interest, too focused on keeping her anger beneath the surface. She wants to erupt into an eight-year old tantrum, one she probably never had, for fear of punishment or humiliation; the kind she often sees overly indulged children in the supermarket throwing when their tolerance for adult activities has worn down. She knows her in-laws see the scene as something of a farce, not quite comprehending Blood Mother’s behavior. After all, the cardinal rule for most parents, Western or otherwise, is not to criticize your children in public, especially when they are over 30, and the relationship remains voluntary. But somehow, Blood Mother, in spite of all her charm, generosity, and ability to culturally navigate a foreign country, forgot to “google” that one.

Zhang Yi Mo Takes the Stage in Lijiang

For Chinese film buffs, Zhang Yi Mo remains a household name, known as a groundbreaking filmmaker who superceded state control to reveal his vision of China to the world. Daughter No. 1 saw his early work Red Sorghum with her parents at the neighborhood independent film theater sometime in the 1990s. As Chinese landscapes swept across the screen with vivid color, panning across the expressions of his muse Gong Li, the family shared a certain pride; this was the way they imagined the motherland and its people, engaged in acts of beautiful suffering. An incredible cinematographer, Zhang always captured a story where human effort was met with cruelty and disappointment, creating an allegory for Communist China that probably eluded many outside of the country. In addition to his artistic gifts, he was prolific, and also carried the cache of also being “banned” in China, two qualities that fueled his popularity, and cemented his reputation.

A few months ago, the New York Times published an article about the Chinese state film industry’s appropriation of formerly “blacklisted” artists like Zhang, and funding of huge projects, with the hopes of securing an Oscar, along the lines of Ang Lee’s Crouching Tiger, and also presenting itself a competitor in the global arts market. The Times captured the opinions of critics who felt Zhang had sold out in the process. As he is positioned to be the artistic director of the 2008 Beijing Olympics opening ceremony, an event that would bring his work to the mainstream and beyond, somehow it was implied that Zhang could only be appreciated in obscurity. For many Chinese, it appeared that he had returned to the motherland to carry out important work.

Given this debate, Daughter No. 1 was very excited to see Zhang's work again in his production of Impressions of Lijiang, one of two of his productions staged outdoors in China over the past four years. Impressions promised to be a spectacle, set against the majestic Jade Dragon Snow Mountain (Yu Long Xue) featuring a cast 600 actors from 10 different "dark skinned" minority groups of Yunnan Province. The audience was seated in the pouring rain, each given a head-to-toe poncho and a little cushion. In the tradition of Greek theater, the audience waited with anticipation in the open air, facing the immense set: towering cliff of red earth, book-ended by two flat-screen televisions for subtitles.

Although the plot was nonexistent, and the choreography repetitive, the production was still awe-inspiring, a visual feast created by Zhang and his assistant artistic directors, Wang Chaoge and Fan Yue. The cast moved in waves across the set, chanting, marching, riding, and fighting. There were no starring roles, and everyone performed as a part of the corps. In effect, with 600 people moving in synchronicity and with that level of passion, they became a landscape onto themselves. The show even had horses! They galloped across the highest platform on the stage, representing an important trade route of thousands of miles of high altitude trails (dubbed the 2nd Silk Road) connecting Lijiang to Tibet’s interior. Through the whole performance, the rain fell, soaking the cast. From the union perspective, the entire production was a breach of code. After all, how much could any of these actors be paid? From the cynic’s perspective, the production presented a saccharine and dishonest version of Chinese multiculturalism, where ethnic minorities practiced their religions and cultures with freedom and happiness, all the while being absorbed into a greater whole of nationhood.


Impressions' conclusion was most fascinating. The entire cast stood out on the stage, facing the audience. Performers shouted their place of heritage and ethnic group, and declared that they deserved recognition and respect. In a chorus, the audience spontaneously offered their affirmation. Then everyone was led into a sort of yogic Sun Salutation, as it was explained, the Mountain was a site of great spiritual significance for the Naxi people. Suddenly Daughter No. 1 found herself among hundreds of people all obediently engaged in an act of calisthenics, hope and worship. Wasn't group qigong banned, she wondered. After all, the leader of the contraversial FalunGong (also known for impressive staged works) was in exile in America.


The desire on the part of the audience to make a spiritual connection, believe in something greater, and identify with the existence of marginalized people affected Daughter No. 1 on a visceral level, and she was moved. She loved the theater and had never been engaged in such an explicit act of transgression. The division between art, religion, politics and community were indistinguishable. Was this the sacred or the profane? She could not tell. As they exited, the audience followed a tunnel of straw and lights up a hill, where they were able to meet the cast and offer their own wishes for the future to an unnamed superior being by casting paper into a boiling cauldron. Impressions was state theater at its best, and it seemed, in its given moment, unmatched by anything else in the world. According to china.org.cn, the production has grossed over 12.5 million (US), and with daily productions, that number will obviously multiply until its closing. Madame Mao would be proud.

Day and Night in Kunming

When Daughter No. 1 first arrived in Yunnan Province’s capital city Kunming, she felt a mix of relief and fear. After all, her first time in China was 1991, a study abroad in Beijing, and her recent return was met with an unfamiliar sanitized, glass and steel, Olympic-ready version of the capital city (more later). Therefore, Kunming was worth a short stay, as a stopover to other landmarks like Shi Lin (stone forest) (two hour drive away through the old Burma Road) and the perfectly preserved Ming Streets of LiJiang city (a 45 minute flight away). It was also worth a stop in Kunming to see how parts of modern Chinese used to look like 20 years ago, left to develop at an inconsistent pace: amid one or two nice hotels, there were dilapidated and dirty but functional high rises rimmed with generous balconies stacked with personal belongings, people squatting and hanging out on sidewalks, rays of saliva surprising foreign pedestrians in the ancient rituals of public spitting, and vendors setting up crockpots and grills along dusty and crowded roads to feed a moveable clientele. A black and shallow canal wound along the highway, a reflection of unregulated dumping, the tour guide said, always ready to save face: “a shame on the city.” Daughter No. 1 noted these details not to look down Kunming’s residents, or comment on the governments’ mismanagement of public works, but instead to again show her nostalgia for the past.


She wanted to say to the group, see, this is the China I remember, and then corrected herself, remembering how her former Chinese language teacher scolded her when she complained about the modernity of China in 1992. The Teacher, a former Red Guard who regretted her actions, but retained some aspects of the philosophy, said, “You Americans always want to think of China as stuck in antiquity. However, you do not recognize that China is a developing country that will quickly catch up to the rest of the world. Why must we live in old cities? You go to China to see the past, but the people want to be in the future.” With that voice carving out her conscience, Daughter No. 1 tsk’ed away at the gloomy sight of a city groaning against its adjustment. Perhaps in another 6 months, all this would be gone, and replaced with something new, and obviously, better.


Although it is much father west, Kunming and all other Chinese cities must follow Beijing time, so it stayed light out there much later than in the eastern cities. Electricity seemed limited, and after shops closed, whole buildings fell to darkness, a sight not usually seen in security-conscious downtown areas of America, which boast excessive energy use, and yet are emptied of people after evening rush hour. In contrast, even late at night, the streets of Kunming were alive with humanity; with many places open for food, and people lingering outside, embracing and socializing. Although she does not feel her safety at risk, Daughter No. 1 senses that something else exists beneath the surface. She notices an unusually high number of saunas and spas in the area, two in her own hotel, as a matter of fact. They are advertised with huge neon signs and names based in symbolic fruits and colors of China: golden lotuses, dragonfruit, jade drops, among others. Although her hotel is part of a larger, highly esteemed chain of establishments devoted to business travelers, there are little flourishes in the room that offer hints of additional options. In the room she finds a condom and another foil sealed package of squishy substance encased in a plastic box labeled “For Purchase Only,” and a pink bilingual brochure educating the hotel guests on risks of AIDs and HIV. So many mixed messages! Daughter No. 1 half expects that she will receive the nightly phone call from a soliciting woman. It used to be the case in past trips, that in spite of her gender, a female would call nightly, asking in a slight Chinese drawl if the guest needed company. But the phone remained silent. No, China is not exactly Thailand, but it wasn’t a far cry either. Male visitors always know the option exists for paid favors and companionship, and for some, that knowledge is reassuring. Daughter No. 1 wondered what a Chinese prostitute looks like. Were they blatantly sexual in their presentation, or did they merely try to blend in, aware that their customers would have their own means of recognition, know the password. In the hotel lobby, she eyed pairs of women walking through the lobby and gaggles of businessmen laughing together, seemingly relieved to be with those of their gender. It was nearly midnight, and the two genders never seemed to mix. She wondered how these transactions really took place, and at what frequency. Why wasn’t it more blatant? Only advertising and innuendo; little more observed. In spite of her voyeuristic need to learn more about these participants in the underground economy, the city disappointed her, and like others, presented Daughter No. 1 with a “face” that betrayed nothing.

On Being a Minority: Yunnan Province

(picture of a Xi minority woman dressed up in native garb to intrigue tourists)
On this family vacation, I, Daughter No. 1, had the chance to visit Yunnan province in the Southwest, a favorite destination among Chinese tourists, partially for areas of great natural beauty, and also because it is the home of at least 21 Chinese minority (min zu ren) groups. I was not well-versed in the nuances of ethnic and racial categories in the Middle Kingdom, and subsequently, had my first introduction in Kunming, the polluted and slightly desperate capital city of this exotic province. Upon my arrival, the tour guide "Justin," a youngish, slight, Chinese man, told us that instead of calling the working people fu ren, a term that could mean "miss, sir, or man,", we should call men ah hei ge, which literally means, my black brother, and the women ah shi ma, which did not seem to mean more than my mama. At first I was horrified, and then tried to suspend my cynicism. Hey wait, what exactly was "black" to the Chinese? I saw a group of South Asian people in the airport, wondering if they resided in Yunnan Province. Were these the black brothers and sisters Justin spoke of? I realized that the answer was no when the group happily boarded a plane to Bangladesh.

As the bus navigated through Kunming's congested roads, Justin informed us that minority people in Yunnan were darker, and had other distinguishing features that marked them as different from the majority group, the Han. According to Justin, being darker was a good thing, it meant those darker people did manual labor, and thus, were hard-working. Although Chinese people usually preferred light skin (as demonstrated by the many dainty women walking around with plastic parasols on bright summer days), in this region, pale people were considered "lazy." Justin said, in true Chinese humility, "since I am Han, you must know I am lazy." He won laughter from the group for his tremendous act of self-deprecation, and at the same time, distinguished himself from his minority brothers and sisters as a member of the dominant group.

At first Justin had me believe that Chinese people had a completely different idea of blackness which did not include Westernized prejudices against people of African descent, and instead was based in typical Middle Kingdom superiority. While both were offensive, the latter was more unfamiliar to me as a American, and worthy of exploration. However, only a few minutes later, he described what we would be doing the next day, following the itinerary with what he believed was a joke: "Now ah hei ge and ah shi ma, remember to bring lots of sun block and a hat, or else you will look like a Negro person." Yes, according to the group's cultural interpreter, you can revere the noble, hard-working, dark skinned Asian person living under Chinese rule, but try to avoid being associated with being a Black American, at any cost! At times I have tried not to apply what many have called my college paradigms of race to conversations with people from other cultural groups, but Justin's comment confirmed to me that racism transcended national and ethnic boundaries.
I called out from the back of the bus, wondering if one could ever really call themselves racially pure.
"Hey Justin," I said, "Are you full Han?"
Pause. "No," he replied quickly. "My mother is from the Xi minority group and my father is Han, so that makes me Han."
And within the first thirty minutes of arriving to Yunnan Province, I didn't learn much about what it means to be a minority in China...I learned just a little about what it means to be Chinese.

Memories of a Former British Colony

Hong Kong is Daughter No. 1's true motherland, and appropriately, the group's first stop in China. Hard for her to believe that Hong Kong has now been absorbed into the larger whole of the da lu, otherwise known as the mainland. During her childhood, when fellow American citizens asked her, "Where is your family from?" Daughter No. 1 would always specify, "Hong Kong, not China;" her response, a result of years of brainwashing. To her family, this little British colony had a different identity and culture from the motherland. Probably superior and unique at the same time. Her own grandparents had passed on a sense of fear and distrust toward Chinese Communism, vowing never to never "go back," and securing Canadian citizenship in the early 1980s. What did Popo fear more, being persecuted years after 1947 for Nationalist ties, or using a squat hole in Guangzhou? Sometimes it was hard to tell. And with all that history, Daughter No. 1 comes back to Hong Kong, to find that little has changed, ten years after the "handover." The city echoes with the hum of post-capitalism...skyscrapers are erected and torn down again, the harbor hums with movement, and wealthy tai tais continue to wind their way up the Peak in chauffered German sedans.

Although it is the vestiges of British colonial order, rampant commerce, wild nightlife and high fashion that usually impresses the typical tourist, Daughter No. 1 remembers Hong Kong as a place of beautiful ordinariness. Her grandparents's home was in Mid Levels, a humble flat along Caine Road, an area now glamorized by the fact that the large escalators take people up and down the different cliffs and contains the spilloff of the Lang Kwai Fang bar district. She remembers going with her grandmother to the wet market, choosing a live chicken, and minutes later, having it returned to them in a plastic bag, ready to be made into a dish, steamed Hainan style with its own peppery scallion dressing. Or having fresh milk delivered to their doorstep, in glass bottles, and going to the bakery to select perfectly square loaves of white bread. The routine was to come home and make little tea sandwiches with a thin smear of peanut butter. Her Grandmother would meticulously trim the edges of the bread before serving, and it was like eating a perfect white greeting card. Daughter No. 1 remembers riding the double decker bus with her mother to the beauty salon; labor was so cheap that she could afford to go several times during one trip. She would sit in the salon chair, an 8 year old anticipating the curly hair that would emerge after each chemical treatment, hoping each time it would transform her into Alyssa Milano of television's Who's the Boss. After she cried with disappointment after each visit, her mother would try to console her with lunch at the nearest restaurant, and there, Daughter No. 1 would be able to hone her palate with the finest dim sum made by Hong Kong's highly trained and trend-setting chefs.

On this trip Daughter No. 1 finds herself on a small tour bus with her new family and other travelers, climbing the mountain to Repulse Bay. Although the view is breathtaking, and lunch is near, she reserves a distant appreciation for the moment. She knows that being here is just a nod to the past, and that things will never be the same again.

The Other Joy Luck Club

A young couple from Brooklyn travel with their in-laws (both sets), an aesthetician from the Upper East Side, and a Presbyterian minister and his wife. Over eleven days, they will speed through cities of the post-modern PRC. In this country of contradictions, dynamic change, and a grand narrative spanning ten thousand years, is there anything left to discover? Will they find traces of a homeland? Stay posted for adventures and the neurotic exchanges that take them through Hong Kong, Beijing, Shanghai, Hangzhou and Yunnan Province.