by May Q. Wong
“Of all our children, Ah Thloo has been the best worker,” Ah Thloo had overheard her mother remark to her father. “I just don’t know how I will manage without her.”
“I know, but we can’t afford to keep her at home much longer,” Ah Poy Lim said. “In the last few years, with warlords and bandits roaming the country, everyone is afraid to build. Aiya, it has been so difficult!”
Ah Poy Lim had found it harder and harder to get paying work, but when Dr. Sun had taken back the reins of government in 1923, he was optimistic that increased unity would soon lead to peace and prosperity. However, Dr. Sun’s untimely death and the subsequent riots in the cities in 1925 had added more uncertainty. Ah Poy Lim was not sure what he thought about General Jiang, the new leader of the Kuomintang Nationalist government. Now a civil war was being waged. He was thankful that the fighting was taking place far north of Guangdong, but the war was not helping the economy. Railways were destroyed and roads were blocked, preventing the safe passage of materials and goods to and from the countryside. Building materials became scarce and prices soared. The political events eventually took their toll on the local economy and on Ah Poy Lim’s family; no one could afford to build houses. To help make ends meet, Ah Poy Lim worked the land, and whenever the battlefields shifted farther north and conditions in the south improved, he would return to construction.
For Ah Thloo, marriage became inevitable, and it meant marriage to a stranger. Few women looked forward to marriage—she was no exception. The concept of marriage for love was becoming fashionable in the big cities but was only a rumour in the countryside, where families still practised arranged marriages. What possible happiness could a woman gain from being shackled to a man whom she had never met and ordered about by his mother for the rest of her life? No wonder the girls called it maange foon, blind marriage.
However, there were no real alternatives. Ah Thloo was practical and obedient; she trusted her parents to find her a good husband. In addition, she was fond of children and wanted her own to love. She was a natural with them; all the neighbours’ children wanted to be close to her.
But men—Ah Thloo had no understanding of them. She did not know how to communicate with them. Her closest relationships with men up to that time had been with her father and older brother. She supposed the relationship between her parents was optimal: they were always cordial to each other, and she never heard her father berate or beat her mother, even during bad times. When they were home, her brother and his wife appeared to have a similarly benign relationship.
While none of them had any interactions with boys or men, the girls in the nui oak still talked about sex. Anyone not blind would have seen the animals around them mating and giving birth, and those who had lived in small homes couldn’t help but overhear intimate sounds between their parents in the night. Some of the girls had even helped their mothers during the birth of younger siblings, so they knew how and where babies came from. It all made for titillating conversations while the girls bent to their needlework, mending, and washing during the evening hours.
Now, Ah Thloo brought her father a small porcelain cup of fresh, hot tea, once he had settled in his straight-backed chair to review the new photograph. Resting on his lap was a large piece of folded brown paper. He had also invited his wife and younger son to join him in the hiang, common room. He sipped loudly on his tea, letting the air cool the scalding liquid to a drinkable temperature, while his family gathered and sat down. Ah Thloo served them too, before pouring herself a cup and sitting down beside her father.
Left to right: Jiang Tew Thloo, mother Jiang Loo Shee, father Jiang Poy Lim, younger brother Jiang Ngien Choo, 1929.
UNKNOWN PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO, CHINA
With a practised hand used to rolling out architectural drawings, he delicately withdrew the photograph from the folder and with a flourish placed it on the table in front of his daughter. This was the most important record of her young life and it was going to determine her future. “See how beautiful you look!” he said with uncharacteristic emotion.
Recognizing his gesture of generosity and his affection for her, she looked up at him, saying simply, “Thank you, Ah Yea.” Staring at her image, she thought with dismay: I don’t recognize myself at all! This girl looks so scared!
• • •
AH DANG
“This one,” said Ah Dang decisively, holding the photograph of a girl and her family. “Yes, this is the girl I want.”
After an appropriate mourning period for his father, Ah Dang completed the selection process for his bride, and his marriage initiated another reinvention of himself.
Ah Dang was with his mother and the Moi Ngange, a woman well known in the market town. He and his mother had visited her a few days earlier and had negotiated and agreed on a price for her bride-seeking services. At their first meeting, she had asked him some questions about himself. They did not focus on his interests, hobbies, or personal preferences for a mate: those facets of his personality were superfluous, unworthy of a flea’s consideration. The most significant information about him was his lineage and the specific date and time of his birth.
“I was born on October 11, 1902.”
“Ah, you are a Water Tiger,” the Moi Ngange said. “Those born under that birth sign are known for being sensitive, candid, and strong!”
“Quick tempered and obstinate too,” Ah Dang’s mother muttered under her breath, just loudly enough for him to hear. He pretended to ignore her barb, but his face started to colour.
As to the exact hour of his birth, he had to make up a time to give the Matchmaker. Not being superstitious, he didn’t much care about its accuracy in defining his personality traits; he was a self-made man.
The next most important information the Moi Ngange required was his genealogy. He told her about his adoptive father’s ancestors, never even considering his birth father’s family line; it had not been relevant for a long time.
“Please accept my condolences on the passing of your illustrious husband,” said the Moi Ngange, looking sincerely at Ah Tew May and then at Ah Dang. “And father.” Of course the Moi Ngange had known of Ah Wong Gay Sieng’s sterling reputation, his success in Gim San, his return to China, and his death eight years earlier.
Ah Dang saw her appraising look and guessed she was considering his worth. He looked modern and prosperous enough in his Western-style suit and leather shoes, and in fact, he had done well in Canada. He had stayed in British Columbia after landing in Vancouver in late 1921, and by the middle of the decade, the province was enjoying an economic boom. Roads were built to deliver services to remote communities. Provincial laws had forbidden the Chinese to work directly on projects involving Crown lands, but Ah Dang had used the new roads to cross the province and find work. Mostly, he cooked at various work camps during the summer and returned to Vancouver’s Chinatown to work in restaurants, in whatever position he could get, in the winter. For a time, he lived in the pretty Kootenay town of Salmo. It was a supply centre for mining and logging and was the recreational hub for the region’s workers. On his days off, he fished for wild salmon in the Columbia River.
He had few vices; remembering his birth father’s gambling and opium smoking, Ah Dang was to forever shun those illusory, hope-draining habits. Instead, he saved most of his earnings. Like his adoptive father, he had decided to make Canada his country, but he intended to leave his mark in China too. In the meantime, he had lived a bachelor’s life, free and unattached—until now.
He had to admit that he had felt the loneliness of being a young, vigorous, single man. He had watched as the old-timers took Aboriginal women as wives. The Indians, as they were called then, appeared to be more accepting of Chinese men than white society, even the women in the brothels. But not all the white prostitutes could afford to turn business away. The comfort he bought from them was only physical and transient, and he wanted something more; perhaps a wife would fill the aching gap in his life.
Armed wit
h the information he had given her, the Matchmaker had calculated his horoscope to help her select potential compatible candidates from her group of eligible girls. She dealt only with girls from respectable, merchant-class families in the district and selected a handful for Ah Dang’s and his mother’s consideration. For each candidate, she had a photograph and a written note, listing the girl’s genealogy, vital statistics, and horoscope.
The Moi Ngange had only started telling them about the girls she had chosen and was about to launch into an enthusiastic endorsement of the third young woman in her file when Ah Dang made his comment. With the first two, the Moi Ngange had handed the photograph to his mother. She responded by making a discreet remark and handing the photo to her son. He would make the final decision.
Stealing another look at the third photograph in his hand, his mother murmured, “This one is a beautiful girl.”
“She is more than beautiful. She has an inner beauty too. I can see her goodness. She is the one for me.”
• • •
AH THLOO
With the Moi Ngange as a go-between, the respective parents had agreed on the bride’s dowry and the reciprocal lai gim, bride price. The dowry would include the items Ah Thloo had made as part of her trousseau. Her parents also bought the furnishings for the couple’s bedchamber, including a woven bamboo bed with a headboard, a dressing table with a mirror and bench, a clothes cabinet, a wooden wash stand with a porcelain bowl and pitcher, and an intricately carved folding privacy screen. These would all be delivered to Ah Thloo’s mother-in-law’s house just prior to the wedding, ready for use on the wedding night. These items constituted her inheritance. As Ah Thloo would be moving to her husband’s parents’ home, it was expected that the furniture for the remainder of the house would already be there.
In addition, as a sign of betrothal, Ah Thloo’s family would provide mounds of dim sum made by their village neighbours. There would be deep-fried gai longe—a crunchy pouch made from sticky rice flour with a savoury stuffing; delicately sweetened, steamed fat gaw—an egg-based cake; and chewy, steamed choot tae—a soft pouch made from sticky rice flour with a sugar filling. The dim sum were carefully layered between clean banana leaves, placed in woven baskets, and delivered to the groom’s home by hired men travelling on foot.
The lai gim agreed to by Ah Dang included a large sum of cash; tins of fragrant teas; baskets of fresh fruits; an assortment of dried foods including mushrooms, shrimp, sea cucumber, and shark fins; several whole roasted pigs; and large baskets of live chickens, ducks, and geese. Some of the money would be used to buy gold jewellery, including thick necklaces, jade earrings, rings, and bracelets for the bride. All the gifts symbolized prosperity and fertility in different ways. His mother also bought stacks of special cakes, stuffed with lotus seeds and imprinted with the character for “double happiness,” to be distributed to friends and relatives of both families to announce the couple’s engagement.
The Moi Ngange had calculated that the earliest and most auspicious day for a match between Ah Dang and Ah Thloo was the eighteenth day of the twelfth month of the lunar calendar, so they had less than three months and the preparations were frantic.
Ah Thloo spent the two nights before her wedding day with her friends from the nui oak in her parents’ house. During this time, called nat gok, the girls told stories they’d heard—or made up—about other people’s wedding nights, and they practised some of the silly games the groom’s relatives and friends were expected to play on Ah Thloo and her husband. The games had been initiated long ago as a way to frighten off evil spirits in the bridal chamber by making it noisy and crowded. The activities, such as making the couple peel and eat a single lychee fruit between them, with their hands tied behind their backs, were meant to make the partners interact physically and often involved opportunities to kiss and grope. For newlyweds, whose culture frowned on public displays of intimacy, the games were excruciating and humiliating. While both the bride and groom were targeted, the bride especially was expected to stay quiet and cooperative throughout.
Practising the games naturally led to talk about the wedding night. Traditionally, a piece of white cloth was placed on the bed and a bloody stain was displayed to the bride’s in-laws on the following morning to prove she had been a virgin. A raucous discussion ensued when Ah Kange whispered conspiratorially, “In the city, no one bothers to do that anymore because the wedding couple gets so drunk, everyone stays virginal until the next night!”
The girls also sang songs lamenting the lot of women and the forced separation of a daughter from her family. The songs cursed the people who made this happen, including the Moi Ngange, the parents, and the future in-laws. Themes ranged from “My Parents Have Sold Me to Strangers Who Love [to Beat] Me” to “My Husband Is a [something uncomplimentary].” A favourite one was “My Mother Has a Black Heart”:
Radish white skin, black heart
Skin is tight
My mother has black heart
Frightening black lips.
The girls shouted the words of this last song and wagged accusing fingers at Ah Thloo’s mother, who pretended to cower in fright. Ah Shee herself had sung the same songs before her own wedding, so she did not take the accusations personally. In their perverse way, these activities were all part of a ritual for good luck in the coming marriage.
The songs were sung with gusto, accompanied by tears of sorrow. Ah Thloo would be sadly missed by her girlhood friends, and none of them knew if or when they would see her again. It all depended on whether her husband and in-laws would allow her to come home for visits, but then, some of the other girls would be married off too.
The girls laughed at the absurdity of arranged marriages, in defiance of their future mothers-in-law, and at the foolish behaviours of men. They took turns irreverently reciting ancient Confucian quotations about the characteristics of the “perfect woman.” They reminisced, retold favourite stories about their times together, and laughed till they cried. Ah Thloo tucked away the memory of those two nights, to be opened and relived in precious segments during her future exile as a wife.
Before dawn on the day of the wedding, the girls helped Ah Thloo bathe and dress. As part of her wedding present, Ah Kange had given her friend a bar of sandalwood soap and had lent a tin bath from her home for this special occasion. Ah Ma had a neighbour draw clean water from the communal well, brought home in buckets carefully balanced on a bamboo carrying-pole, and poured into several large cauldrons to be heated over the coal fire. It took several trips to fill the container even halfway.
Squatting in the tub in her parents’ bedroom, Ah Thloo had her first bath. She was helped by Ah Kange to be thoroughly scrubbed and massaged from scalp to toes; the rough cloth foamed with suds from the fragrant soap. The water had been infused with the skin of pomelos to ward off evil spirits. Brown ropes of law nai, old skin caked with dirt, floated in the water and formed a sticky ring around the tub. Ah Thloo’s skin tingled from being newly exposed and the oils from the grapefruit rinds made her feel smooth and soft. Her long tresses were soaped until they squeaked.
“You have to smell beautiful for your husband—a Gim San law would expect it!” her friend said with a sly chuckle. She told the group of unbelieving girls that people in Gim San had tubs in which a whole body could be immersed in running hot water, and that the water was used only for bathing and nothing else!
Few people in rural China could afford to bathe: most just used a cold, damp cloth to wipe here and there. On occasion, they might immerse themselves, fully clothed, in the communal pond that served as a wash area for clothes as well as a watering hole for any of the village animals. The villagers might not emerge from the pond much cleaner, but perhaps they were a bit refreshed. All the water used on the wedding day would be skimmed, used to wash clothes, and finally to water the vegetable garden.
Ah Thloo was being very spoiled; even the rinse water was heated. Poured from a large, blackened kettle, the lukewarm liqu
id provided her with another new experience. Ah Kange almost dropped the kettle on her feet, doubling over in laughter at the way Ah Thloo sputtered and spat as the water streamed over her hair and face.
“Are you trying to drown me?” Ah Thloo shouted, finally joining in the laughter in spite of herself. “I’m not a cat!” For the rest of her life, she would never get used to holding her breath while water was poured on her head. She used the shower on her body but insisted on washing her hair by bending forward at the sink.
Rubbed dry after this pre-nuptial bath, Ah Thloo was ready to be dressed. Ah Ma had bought her a new red wedding outfit consisting of a full, floor-length skirt and a loose-fitting embroidered jacket. It had a traditional high collar, long, wide sleeves, and a side opening fastened with handmade frogs. Like everything else about this marriage, the outfit had not been chosen by Ah Thloo and she had not been asked for her opinion.
But it was the first piece of new clothing she had ever owned! If it had been made of the roughest cotton, and not silk, she would still have thought it beautiful. As each piece was put on, her calloused, work-worn hands caught on the smooth fabric but she couldn’t stop touching it. She felt very sophisticated, just as she had at the photographer’s studio. Her mother had also bought her a new pair of trousers and two new tops. The pieces would have to last for the three-day wedding celebration. Ah Thloo hugged her mother for the gift of clothes.
Of course it was Ah Kange who noticed. Everyone else was quite pleased with how beautiful Ah Thloo looked in the outfit, but she was missing a vital piece of clothing no one else had even thought about.
“What kind of panties will you be wearing under the skirt?” Ah Kange asked, after Ah Thloo’s mother had left the room. No one wore bras—if one’s breasts were large, one just bound them in place with a strip of cloth.