China Dolls

Speaking English means

so I was ignorant about all things Chinese except Chinese rice wine, which my mom made and sold out our back door on Friday and Saturday nights to the men in Plain City—a place as dry as chalk even after Prohibition ended.

shrugged. I’d never seen a Japanese. I’d never seen a Chinese either other than my mother, my father, and my own reflection in the mirror—and Anna May Wong, Toy and Wing, and a couple of Orientals playing maids and butlers on the silver screen, but those weren’t in real life—so how could I be certain of the difference between a Japanese and a Chinese? I only knew my mother’s thin cheeks and chapped hands and my father’s weathered face and wiry arms.

He may have beat me at home, but he liked to boast to others about how many ribbons and apple-pie prizes I’d won. He’d pushed me to be an “all-American girl,” which meant that he let me go to the Rialto to watch musicals to inspire me to practice even harder.

Will they be done on time?” a man’s voice asked very close to my ear.
I jumped, spiraling into the terror I experienced around my dad. I swung around to find a young Occidental man about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and sandy-colored hair. He put up his hands in surrender.
“I’m sorry I scared you.” His mouth spread into a contrite smile as I met his deep blue eyes. He looked older than I—maybe around twenty. He extended his hand. “My name’s Joe.”
“I’m Grace.” No last names. I liked that.
“I’m looking for a job as a rolling-chair boy.” He didn’t bother to explain what that was. “But the real reason I’m here is that I love planes, and I love to fly.”

adylike for me to eat on the street. Mama and Baba always say I have to guard my reputation like a piece of jade. Otherwise”—how did I get going on this path?—“who will marry me?” I managed to finish.

Grace frowned. Her ignorance of even the most basic Chinese words amazed me. I whispered, “He’s talking about Occidentals—white ghosts.”

Oriental club?”
I’ve heard this accusation—or is it criticism?—from my sons and my grandchildren too, and I answer Annie the same way I answer them. “Oriental, that’s what we were called back then. And whites were called Occidentals.” I leave out that in my head I still say Oriental and Occidental. I’m stubborn and set in my ways, and I think, What’s the big deal? Why do these young people make such a fuss about this? It’s not like saying Jap—like Helen and Joe always said—or colored or something even worse. Or is it?
Annie peppers me with more questions. “Did you know you were perpetuating Asian stereotypes? How could you dance at a place called the China Doll or even tolerate being called a China doll?”
That smarts, and I glance at Tommy. I want to ask, “Have you not taught this girl any manners?” In response to my unspoken question, he says, “Annie’s doing research on the Forbidden City and the different clubs where you all performed.” He gestures to the others in the room. “She wants to capture this history before it’s lost.”
My eyes drift back to Annie. “We aren’t that old.”
“Things happen. People die,” Annie replies, and it seems pretty callous, given that the reason for today’s reunion is to help raise money for her ailing grandfather. “What you did was extraordinary for your time. Don’t you want there to be a record? Will you let me interview you? Wouldn’t you like to share your stories?”
Hell, no! Instead, I ask, “Is your grandmother here?”
“Not yet. She’s flying in from Miami.”

She reaches into her bag, pulls out a pen and a notebook, and rattles off a string of questions. “When did you first know you wanted to dance? What was your first break? When did you meet my grandmother? How did you feel being billed as an Oriental performer, dancing in an Ori

They even love Ruby, who, by now, is accepted as being more “Chinese” than most Chinese.