Chinese Voices

I just finished reading Unbound Voices by Judy Yung. The book tells the stories of first and second-generation Chinese women living in San Francisco’s Chinatown between 1850 and 1945. What makes this book so riveting is: Each woman tells her story in her own words. I was very moved by how each one expressed herself.

If the woman speaks in English, Judy transcribes exactly what she says and the way she says it. She doesn’t correct for language, sentence structure or word choice. If a woman spoke in Chinese, Judy translated her words the same way.

This is from an interview Judy had with her mother in the 1980s. It was conducted in Chinese: “When I became pregnant with your third sister, I said no matter what, I was not going to have the baby in Menlo Park. It was a matter of life and death. I told your father, even if you don’t want to go to San Francisco, I am leaving. There were two Chinese women obstetricians in the city and I was determined to have my next child in a hospital.”

Judy is second generation Chinese. She grew up in San Francisco’s Chinatown in the 1950s and went to an American public school each day and afterwards to the Chinese school. In Chinese school she learned the Chinese language and history and read Chinese classics. This was very helpful to her when she interviewed the women for this book. She was quickly able to establish rapport and trust because she spoke the language and knew the culture. The women trusted her to tell their stories.

The book begins, around 1850, with women telling how they came to Gold Mountain (the Chinese name for America). Some came with their husbands, others followed them later and some were left to live their lives out in China while their husbands remained in America and remarried. The latter were called Gold Mountain Widows.

This is from an interview Judy conducted in China with Kwong King You, a retired doctor, age 75, in 1982. She was a “sau saang gwa” (Gold Mountain widow). She hadn’t seen Ah Fook, her husband and the father of her children, in 40 years. She’d heard that he’d remarried in America and wanted to see him one last time.

“When he first left, I was very upset and wanted revenge, at least until I reached the age of forty-five. My colleagues kept telling me not to be stupid. If he remarried, I should remarry. I used to cry tears from my eyes down to my toes. It’s been such a hard life…There’s always hope that he might change his mind and come home…My hope is that he will someday return. I will always welcome him back. My mind would be put to rest if I could just see him one more time.”

Judy’s interviews cover the period from 1850 to 1945. I was intrigued by the way she conducted them. For the most part, she went to the women’s homes or the homes of one of their descendants, chatted, asked them all the same questions from a list and let them talk. It was only after the interview was finished that she asked them to sign a consent form. This was so they would have enough time to get to know her and decide if they were willing to let her tell their story.

At whatever time the women came to the Gold Mountain, it was very difficult. Congress had passed a number of laws, especially the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, to keep them out. Once their ship docked in San Francisco harbor, they were taken to Angel Island and interrogated for a few days, weeks or more. Their answers had to match exactly the answers their husbands gave when they were interviewed. Otherwise the women would be sent back to China on the next ship.

To make sure their answers did match (i.e. the number of houses in the village or where the room they slept in after they were first married was located in the house, etc.), each husband prepared a coaching book for his wife. She was supposed to study it on the voyage over and then destroy it.

In the second half of the nineteenth century, many of the women were tricked. Instead of being married when they arrived in San Francisco, they were sold into prostitution. A number died, some were able to buy their freedom and Methodist and Presbyterian women rescued others.

The Methodists established the Methodist Mission Home in 1871 and the Presbyterians established the Presbyterian Mission Home in 1874. Both places gave the women a place to stay, taught them English and helped them find a Christian husband or job, other than prostitution, to support themselves.

More and more women arrived in Chinatown. They made homes for their families, worked and participated in community life. Because of them, life was better for their daughters. The daughters went to American public schools. Some even went to college. Because of this they were able to get good jobs outside of Chinatown that paid more. The terrible discrimination of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries gave way to the tolerance and friendships you see today.

No longer are the Chinese forced to live in Chinatown. They can and do live all over San Francisco, in every neighborhood: Downtown, in the Marina, Pacific Heights, out by the ocean and in many other neighborhoods.

My mother, who is not Chinese, was able to stay in her house, out by the ocean, for many years longer than she ordinarily would have, because her good friend, Virginia, a Chinese American, lived across the street. Virginia is about ten years younger than Mom and at that time was still able to drive. Virginia and Mom used to do their grocery shopping together every Thursday morning and then go out to lunch. Where? Why to a neighborhood Chinese restaurant of course.

Why You Should (Shamelessly Self-) Promote Yourself

I believe in shameless self-promotion and so should you.

I don’t mean just with your writing but with all aspects of your life.  You need to be passionate.  Who else is going to get excited about you and your work if you aren’t?

I have never taken off work on my birthday, and I never will.  It’s a waste of a good opportunity.  When someone asks that standard “How are you doing today?” question, I reply, “I’m doing great; today’s my birthday.”  I always get a smile and some variation of “Oh, I didn’t know.  Happy Birthday!”  It’s a bonus when that comment is followed by a “Let me treat you to lunch/coffee/spa day/paid week off” offer.

FullSizeRenderbuttonsI’m all about free stuff.  My husband and I celebrate every fifth wedding anniversary in Walt Disney World.  The resort staff knows we’re there for our special occasion–they know because we told them–so they give us large, cheerful Happy Anniversary buttons that we wear.  Because these days being married more than nine weeks can be an accomplishment, I tell everyone we meet “It’s our ##-year wedding anniversary.”  Compliments feel good. We get numerous congratulations, free drinks, special appetizers and special treats.  On our 2013 trip, a gift shop cast member took our buttons and surprised us with free personalization of our names and “10th anniversary” artfully crafted in gold calligraphy.  Those buttons were the most complimented, commented and coveted aspect of our trip.

The point is no one knows to celebrate you if you don’t share that information.  By telling people, you are celebrating you yourself.  Others will follow your lead and celebrate.

No one would have done anything if we weren’t bold.  Being bold is not egotistical or vain.  It is being proud of your accomplishments, whether they are personal or professional.

Think about the kids you know, yours or others.  Would you be hesitant to share the fact that one of them made first trumpet in the band?  Would you be embarrassed to brag that he or she won the science fair?  Would you volunteer that information?  If you don’t hold that back, then why would you hesitant to share your writing success?

To increase your success, you must promote your work.  Promoting can be as simple as telling people, “I am a writer.”  With every book I publish–three to date, all available through kindle on Amazon–I send an email out to my family, friends and acquaintances stating, “I published a book, (Title).  Go to (this link), please buy my book, and then leave me a review at (this link).  Thank you.”

When you ask, you may be surprised by what you will get.  With emails like that, I received reviews of Lessons from Dad: a Letter to You and a 4-star rating of my first fiction book, Jimmy the Burglar.  My most successful project publication to date is my first short story, Mom, Star Trek and Las Vegas: a Grand adventure with 10 reviews, two first place state awards and one third place National award. Give them a read yourself, and let me know what you think.

In order for people to know you’re a writer, you must tell them.  By promoting yourself, you are holding yourself accountable to others, thus motivating you to set goals and deadlines.  It also encourages you to write when you feel uninspired or stuck.  Will this generate sales?  Maybe and maybe not.  If sales are a part of your goals, then exposure is what you need.

Doing self-promotion can be intimidating.  I’m outgoing,–I get that spirit from my Dad–so it’s not as scary for me.  This does not mean I am not tentative. What if no one likes my writing?  If no one knows I exist, I’ll never know. And I want to know.

I promote myself on a variety of social media sites: Instagram, Twitter, Pinterest and, reluctantly, Facebook.  The more people who see me, the more I am noticed.  Those two statements are different.

Am I that important to merit or deserve all this media attention?  Yes I am.  I’m a talented wordsmith with three books, two columns staff for Michigan Scrapbooker Magazine and one award-winning blog.  However, some people may think these are modest successes and therefore, I’m not worth all this fuss.  I’m simply pretending to be more than I am.

But I’ll never be more than I am without believing I am.  You need that fierce approach to your writing.

If you’re not proud of your work and share your pride, why should anyone else be excited?  I won’t be.

Be strong.  Be fierce.  Be shameless.  Be successful.

Open Mouth and Insert Foot

Before I dedicated my mornings to writing, I woke to Live! with Regis and Kelly. Legendary showman Regis Philbin routinely bantered with his energetic, down-to-earth co-host, Kelly Ripa. The pair spent weekday mornings sharing the details of their ordinary moments and extraordinary lifestyles. They rehashed what they did the night before, described where they ate and which Broadway show they had seen, and revealed how they handled common family concerns. Additionally, they offered sports commentaries and kept viewers abreast of the latest breaking news. In as much as Seinfeld was plugged as “a show about nothing,” I considered Live! with Regis and Kelly to be a show about anything. I was impressed with the hosts’ ability to simply talk to one another while multitudes of people tuned-in to hear their dialogue. For years I was entertained as I watched the pair interview guests and converse with ease over just about any topic that came to mind. They had a talent that I admired and a skill that I never mastered.

Speaking in front of even a small audience of friends has repeatedly proven to be against my better judgment. I’ve learned through wobbly knees, rapid heartbeats, trembling hands and a quavering voice that I’m among those suffering from a fear of public speaking. Luxuriously, I dodge the podium as much as possible. Unfortunately, there are some casual, unavoidable social settings, which make me uncomfortable too. I’m afraid that I may say something that doesn’t make sense or that could be taken in a way I don’t intend.

My worst fears were realized during a recent visit to my husband’s workplace. Of all people, he knows that my thoughts may evolve into untrustworthy utterances. He’s witnessed them, unscreened and with just enough whimsy to embarrass me, leaping from my mouth. Yet despite his understanding of my quirky nature, he bravely took me around to say hello to some of his co-workers.

First, I asked one woman if she had been to lunch yet. Under normal circumstances, that would have been an innocent question. My husband and I were, after all, on our own way out to eat. It was the topic on my mind. But before I could take the question back, I remembered that my husband had rescheduled a business lunch meeting, with this woman and another co-worker, so that he could take me out that day instead. Ugh! I received an awkward stare and flat response from the woman that, no, she hadn’t been to lunch. At which point, I probably should have invited her to go with us, but I wasn’t picking up on any warm and loving vibrations. Redirect: “So, are you ready for the holidays…?”

Moving on, slowly behind my husband, I resisted the urge to drop to all fours, tuck my tail between my legs, and bolt for home. Instead, I followed his direction and was led to meet and greet more people. I gained a little confidence when someone I knew joined us on our quest to minimally disrupt the diligent as we paraded throughout the building. I should have anticipated, however, that the sense of safety provided by larger numbers couldn’t protect against self-inflicted torture.

We found friendly and familiar Andy sitting inside his office. He’d worked with my husband for years, but I hadn’t had many opportunities to interact with him. Spying family photos on a ledge, I walked towards them to have a better look at Andy’s young children. An adorable girl about the age of five was clearly his daughter. She looked so much like him. My brain processed what I knew of Andy and came to rest on the fact that he had both birth and adopted children. Before I could form a more constructive statement, I heard myself blurt, “Oh, she’s so cute! Is she your daughter?”

I swear there was no inflection on “your,” and I think I could have recovered from that question. But my husband, being no help whatsoever, was already laughing and interjected, “Does she look like the postman? Or did that picture come with the frame?” Ugh! I rambled on and hoped no one could hear me through all the noise being made. “I mean, is she from your own loins…?” Awkward joined now by archaic. Darn those Bible studies!

Can’t we go to lunch yet? I wondered. More frantically, I inwardly pleaded, Beam me up Scotty! A moment later, I was ahead of my husband and fleeing to the safety of the elevator. We were getting closer and closer to the exit. I was nearly free from faux pas. Then I heard him quite seriously ask, “So, do you want to go say hi to my boss before we leave?”

Dancing on Stilts

The paradigm shift was like a blast to the heart of me, peeling back the shadows that have long lingered, filtering in the sun and enlightening my mind. It hasn’t happened at the best time. The shift starts to move, its future on stilts. A small man with dollar signs for eyes looks up at me poised to run the sharp and wicked teeth of a saw across my newly born legs. I don’t know which way I’m going but I know I want to get there.

A step forward and I’m racing to catch up momentum carrying me, my balance precarious. I stop, hop and readjust. The stilts are very uncomfortable. I try again when a fork in the road appears before me. Which path do I take? There’s the black one. It’s poured and rolled to perfection, the double yellow line telling me not to cross, to stay on course, my destination is directly ahead. I see a sign adjacent to the road written in gold telling of untold riches dead ahead. The other road is uneven, made of dirt, rocks and clay, the dust a cloudy mass, making the road barely visible. I inch forward and test the road with a single stilt. I watch it disappear and pull back quickly, stumble, and nearly fall.

A sudden breeze brushes my skin and it carries a familiar young whisper. Should I turn back? No. But I answer, sending my voice on the same wind. A sense of calm turns the voice away and I look back to the path. The way is clear. There are large gaping holes and no lines of sight to help me on my way, no signs telling me what might wait for me ahead. These boarders meander to mysterious pockets of forest calling me, small voices daring, beckoning me to enter. What lay in the hidden knolls, waiting for discovery? My heart tells me to go.

Hugging one stilt, fortifying my choice I look ahead before I move. From this height, what I see on the craggy path makes me smile. Letters large and small paint a picture of wild passion. Structures thin and wide made from the trees, burst above the canopy dotting the landscape opening wide the sounds like a hurricane. However, each comes with trappings and danger, my mind spinning with the flux of images, the barrage of letters making my mind spin and my fingers twitch. Are they trying to tell me something? My breath hitches and my heart races but I look further ahead trying to see where it all ends. The images change to ones of hope and love. I reach for them, want to grab hold, and never let go, their light embrace a wish in my heart, each a start helping build something beautiful and lasting.

Then I look down and see the small man. He smiles and I shiver, his small flat and pointy teeth seeming huge as if I were seeing them through a magnified glass. He taunts me. He knows my weaknesses.

“Leave me alone!” I yell, stumble, and right myself quickly, the wake and power of my words causing a ripple in the vast line of trees.

The little man laughs. I make my way to the dirt road.

The little man claws at my stilts with one hand, banging the terrible saw on my tall wooden legs. I wobble and tip back. Bending at the waste, my momentum carries me toward the road. I hold on tight afraid I’ll meet the ground.

If I fall, will I be able to get up again? To find the end of this journey where I can start a new one, it is a chance I have to take.

I, jump, and lift my legs dancing out of his reach trying to flee, kicking him away. In a flash of light, he is below me again banging and banging and banging, laughing. He forces me one way when I’m leaning, reaching for another. I kick him off again and run, gripping tight to the handles of the stilts praying I won’t fall and I’ll find my way.

When the uneven road connects with the burden attached to my feet, I sigh with the reprieve. I am careful. My balance strengthens. My confidence grows. The dirt road is mine and the little man is far behind, but I still feel him watching. My eyes look to the road ahead. My dreams are there. I don’t care that it is laden with potholes and dust storms. I will dance around the ruts and cover my eyes through the storms until I get to the destination that awaits me.

Organizing Your Work

inspiration

“Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.” – John Steinbeck

What should you do with the dozens of writing ideas you have acquired from reading blogs and books on writing? If you’re a typical writer, you keep notebooks, 3 X 5 cards, envelopes, napkins, and even sticky notes handy to jot down any ideas as they come to you.

Learning to handle those ideas isn’t easy. There may be apps that will help you stay organized, but I’m a pen-and-paper person. So an app suggestion would fall on my deaf ears – for now anyway. I’ve learned to handle my numerous notebooks and random pieces of paper in a more organized fashion using folders. For example I maintain separate folders for:

  1. Each of my short stories
  2. Character, business, and place names
  3. Descriptions of interesting locales, occupations, and hobbies
  4. How to write mysteries articles
  5. How to write romance articles
  6. How to develop characters information
  7. Plot ideas, titles, and dialogues
  8. And each of the novels I’m working on

In the past I simply dumped any writing not relevant to what I was working on at that time. Never again. I no longer dump ideas, which may not work in one story but could be used in a future manuscript. One phrase from my “Titles” folder with an idea from my “Romance” folder combined to create the beginning of the romance manuscript that I started some time ago. It’s still a work-in-progress. Of course, this story has its own folder.

What suggestions do you have for organizing your writing?