by Lisa See
“Mom,” Gilbert said, “I have to take the bull by the horns.”
And he did! Just like that! So then he went to Fong See. What did she expect, that the old man would say no? Fong See said, “I am not unaware of gossip on the block. You and my daughter have been going together a long time. I have known your family a long time. Send your mother and I will speak to her.” That visit—between Mrs. Leong and old See-bok—had set in motion the formal engagement and the protracted negotiation for the bride-price.
She let her eyes run down the list of characters she had written. If there was to be a wedding, all traditions would be properly carried out. Eastern Bakery, on Grant Street up in San Francisco, made the best bride cakes in this country, some filled with meat, some with lotus seeds or black bean paste. She ordered an extra two dozen of the lotus-seed dessert, since their name, lin ji, sounded like “continuously having children.” The man who had taken her order had promised that some of the cakes would be baked in a carved mold with the character for “long life” on some and “double happiness” on others. Perhaps ten basket trays of those altogether, along with the roast pig and the money gift to Fong See, would be enough for the bride-price.
She went into the kitchen and checked with one of the chefs as he prepared the bat ho lin ji, the traditional dessert made from lily petals whose characters meant “everything will be united with these two people.” The high-altitude tortoises would be here soon. The order for shark’s fin had also been placed. In a corner of the kitchen, a large tub held dozens of black eels that slithered and slipped, setting the water in constant turmoil. Mrs. Leong nodded her head in resignation. These would make many good-luck dishes for the wedding banquet.
The wedding between Florence Luscinda See and Gilbert Lester Leong took place at two o’clock on the afternoon of July 2, 1942, in the side chapel of the Methodist Church on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena. Since the bride and groom were both Chinese in the eyes of the state, they could be married in California, making Sissee the only member of her family to be married in the United States. The ceremony owed much to Mrs. Findlay, who had introduced western-style weddings—what the Chinese called men ming or “enlightened” weddings—to Chinatown. Yet the idea that a bride’s family would have total control over a wedding was contrary to Chinese thinking. Sissee and Gilbert’s wedding fell somewhere between a four-to-seven-day Chinese wedding—replete with sedan chairs, phoenix crowns, and banquets—and a western-style wedding with a white-gowned bride, church service, reception, and honeymoon.
According to Chinese tradition, the bride cakes, the whole roast pig, and a whole roast chicken for good measure—all wrapped in gold and red paper—were sent to Fong See. He, in turn, had the pig carved, wrapped in more red paper, and delivered to friends and relatives around Chinatown. Instead of the wedding with four or five hundred people that some in Chinatown expected, only forty guests—almost all of them family, with the exception of Anna May Wong—were invited to the church. It was wartime, after all. Sissee wore a white satin gown—stiff and flared—for the ceremony.
Afterwards, the wedding party drove to the Leong mansion on Ivadel, and swept in through the vast and airy entry for a luncheon reception for over one hundred. Sissee changed into a traditional red brocaded Chinese wedding robe and began circulating among the guests. On the bride’s side were fourteen Sees and eight Fongs. Yun’s family made up another twenty-four guests. The rest of Sissee’s guests were friends: Ticie’s cohorts—Mrs. Morgan, Mr. White, and six from Wing’s family down in Long Beach; waiters and waitresses from Dragon’s Den—Esther, Loy, and Juanita; and pals Tyrus and Ruth, Wally, Helen, Kay, and Pink. The Leong family accounted for just four guests since Elmer was already overseas, but they invited twenty-five Wongs, twenty-five Laus, the widow Chan and her daughters, and other friends.
The luncheon, the banquet at Soochow for the friends and relatives of the groom’s family, and the banquet the following night for the friends (mostly Caucasian) and relatives of the bride’s family gave each person time to reflect. As could be expected, the meeting between Mrs. Leong and Ticie was strained. The two women had little in common. Mrs. Leong tended to gravitate toward her own guests, while Ticie preferred to keep to herself.
Ticie wandered alone through this house that would now—according to Chinese custom—be her daughter’s home. Years ago, the opulence and size of the Leongs’ house would have appealed to her. She hesitated at the grand staircase, then passed through the living room with its huge fireplace and wood paneling to the dining room, where the gifts—jewelry, coins, silk, and embroidered fabrics—were laid out. Finding a quiet corner in the library, she sat alone to let the excitement of the day drain away. She was happy, relieved, tired. Ticie knew that, if nothing else, her daughter would be taken care of. Stella observed all of this with a keen eye. In the car, driving over, Stella had been overwhelmed by the sense that now that Sissee was married, Ticie wouldn’t live much longer.
The children—of which there were many, between Uncle’s numerous children and grandchildren, and Fong See’s ever-expanding family—ran through the house, were chastised, giggled and ran some more. They oohed and aahed over the gifts—admiring some and groaning over others. Settling for a moment, Uncle’s children—both young and old—traded stories about Mrs. Leong. The older ones remembered her as kind and patient. “She was a precious thing to our family,” recalled one. But the younger children couldn’t find a nice thing to say, for in twenty years of teaching, Mrs. Leong’s patience and energy had worn thin. Where she had once used the bamboo end of a Chinese feather duster to rap on the table to get the children’s attention, she now sometimes tied two or three together to make an impression on a young wrist or open palm.
“If we missed a word of our lesson, she made us hold out our hand and she whacked us.”
“And Mom and Dad didn’t believe us.”
“I was bad,” said Gim, one of Yun’s younger sons. “I didn’t memorize my lessons. When Mrs. Leong fell asleep, I made fun and played games.”
“Then she hit you on the arm so hard that it swelled for several days.”
“And Mom finally decided we wouldn’t have to go back!”
The bride flitted from person to person, bashfully accepting compliments, blushing at the sometimes bawdy comments about the coming wedding night. On this day Sissee appeared as she had been and would be throughout her life—subservient. She was beautiful, kind, knowledgeable about Asian art and the restaurant business. But more than anything else, Sissee was a good Chinese daughter who followed the Confucian ideals of womanhood: As a small girl, she followed the rules of her father; as an adult, she obeyed her brothers and served as her mother’s companion; as a married woman, she was prepared to bend to her husband’s will and adhere to the customs of his family.
As Sissee talked to her guests, she consciously ignored the gift display, because when she glanced that way she saw only her father’s dowry presents. She had grown up surrounded by beautiful things, and while she may not have known an authentic Ming from a fake at first glance, she did have an eye for quality. When she looked at the pair of carved wooden chairs her father had sent over, she noticed that they were late nineteenth century—respectable pieces, but not great. When she looked at the full service of Canton ware—with its bread baskets and demitasse cups—she saw only “export curio.” When the china had arrived, she’d examined it carefully, comparing one piece to another in the store. Regarding two plates side by side, she saw the primitive quality of the painting, the brash color of the paste, and the thickness of her china.
The Canton ware brought bitterness to her heart. Her father had given her a “nice” dinnerware set, but she saw only the negatives. All she could think was that he’d gone into his store and selected a few meaningless things. But she was a realist. She knew she was lucky to have gotten anything at all. After this party, the china would be packed up in its original eight crates and never used.
After the gift
-showing party, everyone got back into their cars to drive to Soochow for the first banquet given by the groom’s family. Many of the guests drove the short distance along L.A.’s recently completed first freeway. In Fong Yun’s car, pandemonium reigned. The small children played in the back. Gary, Uncle’s youngest son, opened the door and fell out. The family pulled over, picked up the boy, and drove to the French Hospital—almost the last remnant of Frenchtown—in Chinatown. Doctors refused to see the boy.
“We don’t have an emergency room,” the woman in admitting said. Yun suspected that the hospital staff didn’t want to treat a Chinese. In retrospect, it may have been that the family didn’t have insurance. Either way, the family got back into the car—with sisters weeping, a mother wailing, and Gary feeling increasingly the worse for wear—and drove to County General, where Stella had been taken years before for her diphtheria. When Sissee and Gilbert heard what had happened, their hearts sank. This was the worst possible omen. The boy turned out to be fine, however, and—as is the prerogative of newlyweds—Sissee and Gilbert’s spirits once again soared.
On this first night, Ed Leong supervised Soochow’s kitchen with facility and dispatch. As soon as the guests were seated, a crew of waiters brought out steaming bowls of shark’s-fin soup. Murmurs of approval swept through the room as the guests realized the lavishness of the feast about to be set before them. Like many brides, Sissee didn’t have time to enjoy the banquet prepared in her honor. She circulated from table to table, pouring tea into little cups set on a tray. As she passed it around, each guest took a cup and replaced it with lai see—the traditional good-luck paper money.
“May every corner of the universe extend its blessing,” said a well-wisher.
“Red eggs for next year!” another called out.
“Nine months and two minutes!” quipped another, to good-natured laughs.
The next morning, Sissee woke up in Gilbert’s bedroom in the house on Ivadel. She dressed in a flowered dress and brushed out her hair. She was no longer an old maid, but as she looked in the mirror, she saw that she wasn’t a young bride either. A few strands of gray already streaked her hair.
Downstairs, the Leongs waited. Sissee wouldn’t be able to make the traditional visit to the ancestral temple where a new daughter-in-law customarily pays respects to her husband’s ancestors. Sissee couldn’t stand before the wall of the temple in the village of Sun Wei, where the names of every Leong going back as far as memory were recorded, and recite, “I, Florence Leong, have come to join your family.” Instead, Sissee, like other young wives in other Chinatowns across the country, would perform the simpler and more easily accomplished tea-pouring ceremony.
Mrs. Leong stared sternly at Sissee, causing her to blush. Still, she didn’t falter in her actions. She boiled water, poured a little into a teapot, and swished it around to warm the ceramic. She measured the tea leaves out into the palm of her hand the way her mother, who had learned so many years ago from the single men who worked in the back of the shop in Sacramento, had taught her. After placing the leaves in the pot, Sissee poured the water over them and waited silently for them to steep. Keeping her eyes downcast, she poured the tea into each of her new family members’ cups—her father- and mother-in-law first, then her brother-in-law, and finally into Gilbert’s sister’s glass. Sissee felt a sudden rush of anxiety; she so wanted to do this right. As each cup was poured and presented, her in-laws, in turn, gave her a gift of lai see or a piece of jewelry.
Leong Jeung, Gilbert’s father, observed the proceedings with openness in his eyes and heart. He was a simple, pleasant, thrifty man. Although people enjoyed his personal warmth and kindness, most were unaware of the good things he had quietly done. During the Depression he had written checks to the Kong Chow Association and the church so that many would be helped. He never sought recognition for his good deeds. In the Leong family, he was regarded as weak, for he didn’t seem to strive for the high ideals of his wife. But he knew this for what it was: he was a country man who spoke with a country dialect; his wife was a city girl with a city dialect. Anyone could see that she had come from a good family with class. For that reason he had chosen to stay in the background.
As he watched his daughter-in-law pour his tea, he allowed himself the thought that perhaps this alliance would work. He looked across the table at his wife. He knew he would hear plenty about the girl’s shortcomings in the months ahead, but for now his wife seemed satisfied. If this Sissee could perform the rest of her duties as well as the tea-pouring, then perhaps his son hadn’t made such a bad choice after all.
Soon after their marriage, Sissee accompanied Gilbert first to Arizona, then to Tennessee, where he was stationed. Within weeks of Sissee’s departure, Ticie took to her bed. She sent for an herbalist and drank healing teas. Nothing helped. She asked everyone in the family not to let Sissee know. “Let her be happy,” Ticie said. “I want Sissee to enjoy her honeymoon and get to know Gilbert.” When Ticie got sicker, she moved in with Ray and Leona.
This time gave Ticie a chance to see how much Ray had separated himself from the rest of the family in the way he lived. His elegant house nestled in Nichols Canyon, and was shaded by eucalyptus trees. She stayed in the Japanese-style teahouse by the pool. In the evenings, when he came home from the factory, he would come and visit her. With his highball in hand, he would sit in a chair, gazing out at the twinkling lights of the canyon, and talk. Frequently his thoughts drifted to his father. “I can’t forgive Pa,” Ray would say.
Ticie would think back to when Ray was a boy and chafed at having to sell jade rings door to door, make sewing baskets, or put furniture together. He’d eventually grown out of that dissatisfaction to enjoy his father’s money during the late teens and early twenties. But the discovery that Suie had married Ngon Hung had rekindled Ray’s ambivalence toward his father. In all these years it hadn’t dissipated.
“If I can forgive him, why can’t you?” Ticie asked.
“After what he put us through? After what he did to you? Ma, I just can’t. I never will.”
“Maybe when I’m gone you’ll be able to make amends. You never know. One day you may need his help.”
But Ray shook his head. “I’ll never take anything from him.”
And even as Ticie recognized that Ray, of all the children, was the most like his father, she also knew there was nothing she could say to change his feelings.
At the beginning of December 1942, six months after the wedding between Sissee and Gilbert, Ticie went home to Maplewood. In mid-December, Eddy and Stella took Ticie to Mount Sano Hospital. Over the next two weeks, Ticie refused to see any of her grandchildren, not even Richard. On January 4, 1943, Ticie died of a cerebral hemorrhage owing to advanced arteriosclerosis and hypertension. She was sixty-six years old.
When Sissee came back from Memphis for the funeral, she was beside herself with grief. “How could I have not known?” Sissee wept. “Why couldn’t we have had more time together? I wanted to be able to take care of her.” She would not be mollified or consoled.
It is a measure of how devastated by Ticie’s death were all of her children and grandchildren that none of them remember much about the funeral except that it was held in the Little Church of the Flowers at Forest Lawn in Glendale. Stella doesn’t remember going to the funeral at all, though other people say that she was definitely there. Pollyanne, Ray’s daughter, remembers spending most of the service in the bathroom with Stella, trying to comfort Sissee. Chuen, Fong See’s eldest son from the marriage to Ngon Hung, knows that his father and older sister, Jong Oy, went to the funeral, but when they came home the service wasn’t discussed, perhaps out of deference to Ngon Hung.
Soon after the funeral, Sissee went through her mother’s address book and wrote notes to those who hadn’t attended the funeral. By return mail, the family received a letter of condolence from an Aunt May Pruett of Eureka, California. Was she Ticie’s aunt? Was she the children’s aunt? Was she the wife of one of Ticie
’s mean-spirited brothers? Now that Ticie was gone, the children would never know the answer, but just reading the letter gave them insight into what she had fled from all those years ago. “You can all be comforted by the thought that she is not dead but sleepeth as Jesus says in the Bible,” Aunt May wrote. “You will see her and know her again. There is no Death, for God is our life.” They puzzled over this missive and decided not to write back.
The general vagueness about Ticie’s death crosses over into a vagueness about the rest of 1943. What is certain is that Milton was finally completely in charge of the F. Suie One Company. He had also met a young woman, Irene “Sunny” Rockwell, a white woman who had rented a little studio behind the F. Suie One Company. Ming said that the two of them were making T’ang horses to sell until he could get authentic pieces from China. Gossips in Chinatown had another idea: Ming and Sunny were making something all right, and it wasn’t T’ang horses!
Ray and Bennie were entrenched in the See Manufacturing Company. Sissee, newly married and living with Gilbert in the south, was no’ longer active in Dragon’s Den. Which left Eddy—who now had his December-seventh beard, a goatee that he began growing the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and maintained until his death—to deal with Dragon’s Den alone. Stella has said that Dragon’s Den closed because Sissee was “gone” and “somebody died.” Eddy liked to say that he decided to close Dragon’s Den when he asked a cook to mop the floor and the man refused outright, knowing full well that with the war on, the Chinese were finally getting decent jobs “out there.” Whatever the reason, Dragon’s Den closed in 1943, and Eddy went to work at See Manufacturing as an employee to get a deferment. Although Eddy and Dragon’s Den had carried the entire See family through the Depression, he was no longer contributing to the family pot, a fact that was not lost on his brothers.