by Jamie Ford
Willow is less a figment and more of an amalgam; a beautiful golem animated by the pain, suffering, and sacrifices of others—from my own mother, who had a tumultuous life of joy and abandonment; my Chinese grandmother, who was an alpha female at a time when most women were unwilling to pay the price for that kind of independence; and even a nod to famed actress Anna May Wong, who found success in Hollywood but could never find amour.
William’s story, on the other hand, is not so unique. His began as an exploration of familial relationships during the Great Depression when thousands of children were consigned to places like Seattle’s Sacred Heart Orphanage. These “orphans” (among them, the author Wallace Stegner) were left behind by destitute parents who promised to return. Sometimes they did. But some promises are harder to keep than others.
Yet amid this ramshackle, tar-paper, threadbare landscape was a literal light in the dark—the fledgling film industry, which hadn’t yet coalesced in Hollywoodland.
So at a time when escape entertainment was redefining itself on a monthly basis, when pianolas were outselling pianos, when radios were outselling them both, silent films were becoming the unwanted orphans of talkies. And film studios were popping up everywhere, in places like Minnesota, Idaho, and even Tacoma, Washington, where the long-forgotten H. C. Weaver built the third-largest film stage in the U.S. and produced three movies, which are now lost.
William and Willow’s tale is also a reflection of an early Chinatown, where minority mothers were not allowed in “white” hospitals. The late Ruby Chow, one of Seattle’s famous activists and restaurateurs (who once hired a skinny college kid named Bruce Lee), was born with the help of a midwife on a Seattle fish dock.
These are the things we don’t remember, but there are also things we wish we could forget, like Seattle’s Wah Mee Club, where in 1983 fourteen people were gunned down, thirteen losing their lives. The Wah Mee Massacre devastated families and decimated the Chinatown economy. Yet, this iconic place was once a cultural hub, where on a rainy night a handsome young blackjack dealer met a coat-check girl with a perfect smile. They later exchanged vows and eventually celebrated sixty years of marriage. I should know—I’m their grandson.
But encircling this story is the fact that this novel is fiction. And while I, by accident or with deliberate intent, have played God with dates, geography, and personages, this is still a story infused with generations of hope and tribulation. The characters of William, Willow, and Charlotte are made up but hopefully you’ll find that my intentions are true.
This book is for my mother, whom I used to call every Sunday night.
Acknowledgments
I find myself in karmic receivership for the aid and comfort received from the following, for helping me tell this story, in ways seen and unseen:
SO I’M BLOWING good-night kisses to Julie Ziegler, Kari Dasher, Andrew Wahl, and the staff and volunteers at Humanities Washington for inviting me to read something new at Bedtime Stories, their annual fund-raiser. Little did we know that those twelve hastily scribbled pages I read that night would turn into the book you’re now holding.
I’m offering a rousing standing ovation to the staff of Seattle’s Wing Luke Museum for your acceptance and encouragement, and for allowing me to put on those cool white gloves and step into the basement archives. I felt like Howard Carter breaching the doorway to King Tut’s treasure room, candle in one hand, chisel in the other. But instead of gold statuary I laid eyes upon dozens of silver cases and trunks, filled with costumes and scripts that once belonged to the Cantonese opera star Ping Chow.
A wide-eyed wave, as I press my nose to the window of the Museum of History & Industry (MOHAI). I’m the kid. You’re the candy store.
A shout-out to the Tacoma Public Library (as much as one can shout in the library), whose collection of photographs by art director Lance Gaston are the only tangible records of the films: Hearts & Fists, The Eyes of the Totem, and Heart of the Yukon. These silent films have vanished, along with the hopes and dreams of the long-forgotten H. C. Weaver Studios.
An aperitif to the late Bill Cumming, one of the Northwest’s best painters and most charming raconteurs, who also happened to be one of my favorite instructors back when I was a know-nothing art student. Bill’s memoir, Sketchbook, was the next best thing to a time machine.
A salute to the Pacific Northwest Labor and Civil Rights Projects based at the University of Washington and directed by Professor James Gregory. (Go Huskies!)
And a front-row ticket to the enigmatic J. Willis Sayre, who passed away in 1963 after dedicating his life to chronicling Seattle’s theatrical history. His collection of photographs, theater programs, and related ephemera is nothing short of astounding, also obsessive.
Plus lifetime achievement awards for the immortals Anna May Wong, Sessue Hayakawa, and Lincoln Perry: brave minority actors who paved the way for the next generation, only to be marginalized and often ridiculed for their labors.
Then there are the books that were helpful along the way and which I eventually need to return to the public library: Stephen O’Connor’s Orphan Trains, Eric L. Flom’s Silent Film Stars on the Stages of Seattle, Hye Seung Chung’s Hollywood Asian, Nell Shipman’s The Silent Screen & My Talking Heart, Mel Watkins’s Stepin Fetchit: The Life and Times of Lincoln Perry, Graham Russell Gao Hodges’s Anna May Wong: From Laundryman’s Daughter to Hollywood Legend, and Gypsy Rose Lee’s The G-String Murders (yes, it’s actually called that).
And of course there needs to be a moment in the spotlight for my überagent, Kristin Nelson. I was once told that if you’re a nice guy you need a jerk for an agent, and if you’re a jerk you need a nice agent to clean up your messes. Kristin is the exception to that rule. Or, maybe I’m a jerk and don’t realize it …
To my team at Ballantine: Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Jennifer Hershey, Theresa Zoro, Kristin Fassler, Quinne Rogers, Susan Corcoran, Scott Shannon, Matt Schwartz, Toby Ernst, Jayme (nice name) Boucher, Kelle Ruden, and last but not least my amazing publicist, Lisa Barnes, who makes me seem smarter, look taller, appear handsomer and more charming than I actually am. One of these days I’ll come and serenade you all with the karaoke version of “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I’ll pass out earplugs and Asahi. You’ll love it … when I stop singing …
And to my saintly editor, Jane von Mehren, who believed in Willow and William from the start and strove valiantly at times to save me from myself. Jane, we did it.
But as always, the person I owe the most is my wife, Leesha, my partner in this never-ending pas de deux, for allowing me to spend extended periods of time in a place that we have learned to affectionately call Storyland. And with that in mind, I have to nod my appreciation to my intrepid teens for understanding that when Dad is in Storyland, they need to ask someone else for a ride to the mall, to volleyball practice, to drum lessons, to the Emergency Room … (103° is not a fever, right?)
Questions and Topics for Discussion
1. William’s life at Sacred Heart is, he feels, a hard one. Do you agree? In the long run, do the caregivers at Sacred Heart do more to help or harm their young wards?
2. The orphans at Sacred Heart share a collective “birthday,” one for boys and one for girls. What would it be like to celebrate such an event? Would it feel less special without a focus on the individual, or even more joyful to share it with a community?
3. On May 4, 1931, the first bookmobile hit the streets of Seattle, where it did indeed visit the historical Sacred Heart Orphanage (as well as Boeing Field). Why do you think there was such a need to bring the library to its patrons, rather than allowing those patrons to visit the library as they chose?
4. What qualities does Liu Song share with her mother? How are their lives similar or different?
5. Does Liu Song’s mother represent strength, weakness, or a little of both? Do you think she knew she was a second wife?
6. Why doesn’t Liu Song study Cantonese Opera instead of pursuing a career in film and stage?
7. What do you think happened to Mr. Butterfield after the loss of his music store? Personally and professionally, how would he react to Liu Song’s newfound fame as Willow?
8. Imagine that you are Liu Song and pregnant under her circumstances. What would you do? Who might you tell? And would you keep the baby?
9. The novel explores the subject of abandonment, whether by willful desertion or by circumstance. What forms does such abandonment take among contemporary families?
10. In the time period the novel is set, economic and social classes were clearly defined, and while change was desired by some, it was feared by others. Do you think the time we live in today is more just and fair, or are we in fact worse off?”
11. The social worker Mrs. Peterson represents an outside authority at a time when mothers had fewer rights to their children than fathers. When did that begin to change and why?
12. During the early years of the silent-film era, studios and production companies could be found in most states. So why had much of the film industry congregated in Hollywood a decade later?
13. What factors contributed to the eventual demise of the grand movie palaces of the 1920s and ’30s?
14. Willow always knew where her son was, so why didn’t she come back sooner, especially as she gained success?
15. Why does Willow die in all of her films?
16. How do you think Charlotte’s death impacted Sister Briganti?
17. In the end, Willow comes back for William. What do you think happened to them after the novel’s conclusion? What happened to her career?
18. Overall, do you think the story is one of hope and promise or suffering and sacrifice?
BY JAMIE FORD
Songs of Willow Frost
Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAMIE FORD is the great-grandson of Nevada mining pioneer Min Chung, who emigrated in 1865 from Kaiping, China, to San Francisco, where he adopted the Western name Ford, thus confusing countless generations. Ford is an award-winning short-story writer alumnus of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers and a survivor of Orson Scott Card’s Literary Boot Camp. Having grown up near Seattle’s Chinatown, he now lives in Montana with his wife and children.
www.jamieford.com
Jamie Ford is available for select readings and lectures. To inquire about a possible appearance, please contact the Random House Speakers Bureau at 212-572-2013 or [email protected].
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