by May Q. Wong
“What are panties? You know I only have two pairs of pants. I’m decently covered by this skirt . . . aren’t I?”
“Panties are worn as aie foo, underwear. You wear them under your other clothes. The girls in the city wear underwear all the time,” Ah Kange said knowingly. “As a bride you must have a pair, especially if you are marrying a Gim San law. He probably knows all about them!”
“But I can’t ask Ah Ma to spend any more money! Where would they sell such stuff around here?” Ah Thloo was starting to panic, but her practicality soon took over. “It won’t matter. By the time he finds I have no underwear, we will be married!”
“True, but wouldn’t you like to show off how modern you are?” With a smile, Ah Kange presented Ah Thloo with a small, wrapped package.
Ah Thloo was speechless when she saw the silk bloomers. Ah Kange had to help her put them on, as the wedding outfit, with its long sleeves and skirt, made it difficult for her to manoeuvre; the smooth fabric kept slipping or getting caught up. Once on, the underwear, rubbing between her thighs, made her even more self-conscious.
Ah Kange also helped Ah Thloo make up her face with dabs of rouge on her cheeks and lips. The bride’s hair was oiled, plaited, and wound into an elaborate bun on the back of her head. To complete the wedding outfit, a heavy, formal headdress, with a long fringe of red beads that covered her face, was carefully placed and pinned to her hair. The beads prevented her from seeing much of anything.
Fully dressed, she was finally presented to her parents. She kowtowed to them, bowing low to show her love and respect, and turned to bow several times in front of the family shrine. Then she bade them a final farewell as their daughter. When she returned for a visit, she would belong to another family.
Her friends started to cry again as they all made their way to the door of the house. From here, the bride was not allowed to lok aye, let her feet touch the ground. Ah Thloo was piggybacked from her house by a village woman and transferred to a lieng giew, a sedan chair, made of woven bamboo. A throng of relatives and village well-wishers crowded in front of the house and lined the streets. Preceded by professional announcers hired to let other villages know that a bride was on her way, and followed by transporters balancing her trousseau trunks and other bridal gifts on bamboo carrying-poles, Ah Thloo was borne to her future husband’s village by a four-man sedan team. A long chain of tien, copper coins, tied together with red string, hung from the sedan. Its jingling length let onlookers know that this was a bride of some worth.
This was Ah Thloo’s first long journey. Until then, she had walked everywhere, but she was being treated like an empress. That initial trip to her future home, less than twenty kilometres away, took most of the day on the meandering footpaths between the rice fields, particularly as the bridal column slowed down in each community to show off the trousseau. She should have been more afraid; she was alone, in the company of male strangers, going to an unknown destination. There was no possibility of distracting herself by gazing at the passing scenery because her headdress was firmly attached to her hair, and even if she had held apart the beaded veil, the sedan’s heavy curtains would have obstructed her view.
She was going to marry “blind” in more ways than one. Not only could she not see the road ahead of her, she knew nothing about the man she was to marry. What did he look like? Would he like her? How should she act with him? The uncertainty made her heart pound like an exploding string of firecrackers at Gwoh Nien. All she had was faith—faith that her parents, who loved her, had tried their best to find her a good husband, faith that generations of women before her had survived blind marriages, and faith that her grandmother’s wisdom, instilled in her being, would guide her to meet the challenges ahead.
Besides, it was too late to change her mind. Tied down and bolted securely on the outside, the doors of the wedding sedans were designed to prevent reluctant brides from escaping and making a run for it.
• • •
AH THLOO AND AH DANG: WEDDING DAY
Finally at her destination, Ah Thloo climbed onto the waiting back of another local village woman, to be piggybacked inside the house. There, the Moi Ngange greeted her and introduced her to Ah Dang by placing their hands together. Holding her, Ah Dang led her through the formal ceremonies that would make them husband and wife.
First Ah Dang guided Ah Thloo to the household shrine. Representing his ancestors was a photograph of his father and red ribbons with the names of his father’s forefathers written in black ink. There, the couple kowtowed together before the display. Following a Western custom, he slipped a ring on the third finger of Ah Thloo’s left hand. He also gave her a watch.
After the ancestor worship, Ah Dang led Ah Thloo to his mother. Again, the couple bowed low, showing their respect for her. The bride poured and formally served a cup of tea to Ah Tew May. By drinking the tea, she accepted Ah Thloo. She reciprocated by hanging the gold chains Ah Dang had bought around her new daughter-in-law’s neck and slipping the solid, carved jade bracelets around her wrists. The couple was now formally married and Ah Dang parted the beads of the headdress to look at his bride’s face.
Gazing up at him shyly but curiously, Ah Thloo saw for the first time the face of the man she had just married. He was very handsome, with intelligent-looking eyes and soft, full lips. He was smiling at her and his eyes shone brightly. He seemed pleased. His hands, holding the fringe open, shook a bit, and the beads jingled. He leaned into her face and gave it a quick, chaste kiss. He smiled again. This time she noticed a slight gap between his two front teeth.
Then he took her by the hand outside to the courtyard, where everyone had gathered to see the bride. The rest of the evening passed in a maelstrom of activity and noise as Ah Thloo was passed from neighbour to neighbour, to be gawked at, touched, and tested. The games began when the wedding banquet was served. Everything she did—the way she walked, how she held her chopsticks, what she ate, how she poured tea—was commented on. And everyone, except the bride, was allowed to share his or her opinion. At one point, Ah Thloo was helped out of her headdress, so the guests could have a better look at her face.
Throughout the festivities, Ah Dang was courteous and considerate. At the banquet, when traditionally the bride would eat with the women, apart from her new husband and the men, he had insisted on sitting beside her. Tea and rice wine accompanied the meal and Ah Dang had bought bottles of brandy for toasting. He picked out the best pieces from each dish with his chopsticks and placed them in her bowl. He kept her teacup filled. These were the tasks traditionally expected of a wife. He continued to hold her hand or pat her back. His constant touching made her blush and she had to remind herself that she was his wife and tried not to be startled or shrink from him. She supposed he had learned these odd manners living in Gim San.
After all the food and drink had been consumed and the wedding games played, the guests departed. All the furniture the bride had brought with her had been arranged in one corner of the small house, and the privacy screen had been placed at the foot of the bed. It would not be necessary for a while, as Ah Tew May and Ah Moydoy had moved into a neighbour’s house when Ah Dang arrived. The couple was finally left alone.
He had not talked much during the evening, but that was all right—she had not known what to say to him either. His polite manners had made her feel more at ease, and by the end of the party, she felt she could talk with him. She was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. There was one more duty to perform, but from his previous behaviour, she thought he might be willing to consent to her suggestion to postpone conjugal relations to the next day. To her great disappointment, he reacted with rage.
“I’ve waited all these months for you! I will not be denied my marital rights!”
“I thought you had consideration. You don’t care about me at all!”
“I chose you—you are mine. You will obey me!”
When she had refused to bend, he tried to break her with harsh words, ac
cusing her of being un-virginal, insulting her. This infuriated her even more. In the end, he unhooked his leather belt and used it as a strap. When she fought back, he was so surprised that he stopped. He did not hit her again, but neither did he touch her until some days had passed. She later submitted—not to his will, but to her duty.
Their wedding night was not what either of them had expected. It resulted in humiliation and pain for both of them, and their misunderstanding, miscued actions, and angry words were to colour their relationship for the rest of their lives.
Another banquet was held the next afternoon, after their visit to the photographer’s studio. Ah Thloo wore another of the new outfits her mother had bought and a few of the neighbouring women came to dress her hair. It was decorated with fresh flowers, in a style called fa haang.
Again, the neighbours ate every morsel brought out from the kitchen and drank to the last drop anything that smelled fermented until they had to resort to tea. On this occasion, Ah Thloo was allowed to speak. However, drained from the previous day’s activities and thlem tiek, with a hurting heart, from the night’s confrontation, she kept her opinions to herself. Everyone thought she was very virtuous.
One day after Ah Thloo and Ah Dang’s wedding, 1929.
UNKNOWN PHOTOGRAPHER STUDIO
On the third day, her husband accompanied Ah Thloo back to her parents’ home. There, they poured tea for her parents, and Ah Dang was acknowledged as their son-in-law. Following the tea ceremony, her parents presented Ah Thloo with their wedding gifts of gold and jade. There would never be much contact between her parents and her husband; thereafter, Ah Thloo would visit her parents on her own.
During the time Ah Dang stayed in China after the wedding, Ah Thloo used the legitimate excuse of working in the fields to avoid his company. She supposed that he had ways to keep himself occupied; she never saw him in the fields. She did not really care.
His words had hurt more than his physical abuse. Eventually, he apologized for forcing her and hitting her, but not for what he had said. When they were together now, he was gentle with her. But she could not forget his selfishness or his total disregard for her feelings in his barbed words, and her hurt prevented her from feeling any warmth toward him.
• • •
Ah Dang underwent another reinvention. Following the local custom, as a married man he was given another name. It was Libp Thlange, meaning “Establish Faith.” While his mother stubbornly refused to change what she called him, his wife henceforth addressed him as Ah Libp Thlange.
He stayed in China for seven more months. He had seen something he liked in his bride on their wedding night. She had gumption and had fought back, kicking and scratching. He admired courage. He did not tell her about his feelings, but he was intrigued enough to stay with her, for a while.
It was an awkward period for both of them. Each was stubborn. Neither knew how to bend like the willow in the wind; each wanted to be the wind. During the day, they lived separate lives. He frequented the market towns and teahouses, trying to make sense of the rumours of a stock market crash and its subsequent effects around the world. With nothing invested, he hadn’t been personally affected, but he was biding his time in China in the hopes that the economy in Canada would turn around.
He was also waiting for his wife to come to her senses. She finally did allow him his conjugal rights, but her attitude and behaviour toward him stayed cold. After half a year, he made plans to leave.
He made plans for her too. The Canadian borders were still closed to new Chinese immigrants, even to family members, so he could not take his wife with him. However, he had seen something else in her that would simplify their lives while he was in Canada. He had watched as she dealt with problems in the fields or with people in the hamlet. She worked things out. He saw her intelligence and was pleased that he had not married a “bamboo,” someone who was empty-headed. He arranged for her to attend school to learn to read and write.
In the cities, integrated schools had been established for years, but the rural areas were still combating illiteracy in the general population. On farms, women were valued more for their labour than for their brains. Few families could afford to send their boys to be educated, let alone girls.
In every market town, professional letter writers would read the correspondence sent from foreign lands and compose the responses. Because of their education, they would also “interpret” the amount of money sent in a bank draft and “help” the recipient cash the cheque. The client had to trust in their honesty.
Ah Dang had worked too hard for his money to be cheated by dishonest letter writers, and Ah Thloo’s education would prevent that from happening, but she would need every bit of gumption to stay in school; he knew his mother would not approve of his plan.
He told Ah Thloo what he had done for her in the way of schooling just before he departed for Guangzhou. She was then left behind to live with her mother-in-law and sister-in-law in their one-room house.
You are going to your home. You must be respectful. You must be careful. Do not disobey your husband. Thus to look upon compliance as the correct course is the rule for women.
—Hsia, The Fair Sex in China
SIX
Four Years, Four Months, Four Days
AH THLOO: CHINA, 1930–1934
During the years the couple was apart, Ah Thloo had a lot of time to relive their wedding night and the subsequent events. Had she married the right man? It was easy to dwell on the past, easy to stay hurt and rub old wounds until they were raw. It was hard to understand another person, especially when you didn’t know anything about him. How do you build a life with a stranger who is living continents away? Still, she recognized that her life had changed, much for the better, because of her marriage.
What about their relationship; how had it happened? She had been afraid when she first met him. She knew only that he lived in Gim San and was older than she was by nine years. Then his hands lifted the heavy wedding veil from her face, and there he was! His smile was shy, but the warmth in his eyes suggested he was genuinely happy to meet her. But he was so different that first night—the memories from her wedding night still made her angry. She still could not refer to him by name without being reminded of that pain and disappointment. All she could hope for was that he would live up to the meaning of his new name, Libp Thlange, Establish Faith.
But what were her choices? Ah Thloo recalled conversations she had had with Ah Ngange a long time ago. They were initiated shortly after her third elder sister had married but before Ah Thloo had moved into the nui oak.
“Ah Ngange, why do girls have to leave home after they get married? I don’t want to leave you or the family. How will I be able to take care of you?”
“Ah Nui, you are my favourite foot bather! But someday you will want a family and a life of your own.”
Ah Thloo knew she was Ah Ngange’s only foot bather, but it had pleased her to hear the love in the old woman’s voice.
“You must remember what I tell you, even if you don’t understand it now. A woman’s purpose is to create and nurture a ga hieng, a family and a home. This requires a special kind of kien lake, strength, to help her protect what she has created. It comes from deep within. It shows itself during times of greatest foo, bitter suffering. It can carry a woman through the loneliness of separation, mistreatment by a husband, the pain of childbirth, even the death of a loved one.”
“But Ah Ngange, how would I build those strengths?”
“Ah Nui, you already have them!” her grandmother said. “In here, here, and here.” Her work-hardened hands gently touched Ah Thloo’s head, heart, and belly.
“How?”
With a hand on each side of Ah Thloo’s head, Ah Ngange explained. “You are liak, intelligent. Some people, still too old-fashioned, say intelligence is not required in a girl. But don’t you believe it! Girls have to be smart to survive. You are curious, you learn quickly, and you know how to apply your knowledge. All
these qualities will help make your life better. Stay true to yourself—never deny your intelligence.”
Moving her right hand to press Ah Thloo’s chest, Ah Ngange continued, “You have shown courage and compassion. You know right from wrong. You help others in need. You have the courage to put your beliefs into motion and to protect the ones you love. From time to time, you may witness things, unjust acts that will anger you. But if you react with anger, you may choose the wrong path. Let your anger pass before you do anything. Always act from compassion and you will never go astray.”
Finally, with her right hand on the girl’s belly and her left hand directly behind, on her back, Ah Ngange made a prediction. In traditional Chinese medicine, this location on the body is a person’s thlem goyne, heart-liver, meaning her core. “You have a great capacity for love. Your love will sustain you, give you greater courage in times of need, and will be returned a thousandfold.”
At the time, Ah Thloo hadn’t understood everything Ah Ngange said, but she had kept the words close to her, trusting in her grandmother’s wisdom.
Shortly before Ah Dang left, he surprised her by insisting she learn to read and write. He had found a school in the neighbouring village of Nga Yieow and had paid the teacher to take her on as a student. He had also talked to his mother, who would get help in the fields so Ah Thloo would be free to attend classes and study.
At first, Ah Thloo was angry—he had done it again, arranged her life without consulting her! Then she remembered Ah Ngange’s words and let her anger pass; it was clear that Ah Ngange was reaching out to guide her. She considered what he had just offered. An education. A chance to use the intelligence Ah Ngange had recognized. Perhaps this man valued intelligence in a woman. That attitude alone raised him up in her eyes more than anything he had said or done after that fateful night, and helped to mitigate the hurt. Perhaps, she dared to think, he can see me as an equal.