My Name is Elizabeth

By Sabrina Hao

May 2017

Hao

“The Silver Cup”

The chaos outside was beautiful. It was predictably unpredictable like a perfectly

orchestrated play or a dynamic work of art. People were dashing about, the sounds of

music, shouting, and honking in the air, yet there was an ineffable symmetry to it all, an

odd stillness.

I sat with my face pressed up to the car window, the sun warm against my pale

skin as I looked out, taking it all in. Even though we were only separated by a single

pane of glass, the living, breathing beast that was Shanghai felt distant to me. Horse-

drawn carriages rolled by with ladies in delicately embroidered dresses, men laughed on

the side of the road with cigars poking out between their lips, people hawked their wares,

and the pedicabs and trolley cars and bicycles added to the flurry of activity.

My stomach was full, and I reclined back in my seat, smoothing out the fabric of

my dress and fiddling with the matching bow in my hair. The dressmaker had only made

it yesterday, and I adored it. I loved the way that the skirt filled with air when I spun

around in it, making me believe for just a second that my feet might lift off the ground.

Oh, how I wanted to fly. I wanted to travel to new places, see the world exactly as I

wanted, exactly how I wanted.

Liu Mei, my sixth and youngest sister, sat beside me asleep, her pudgy face so

peaceful and her perfect black curls spilling onto her light blue jumper. Si Mei, fourth

sister, was on the other side of her staring out the window, probably contemplating

something just as she always was. She was our unconventional, free-spirited intellectual

and always had her nose in a book or her hands in something she shouldn’t.

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We were coming back from dim sum with the Leungs—a four-hour affair that

consisted of business talk for the men, lady-like chatter for the women, and lots of tea and

small plates of food. Thinking about the elegant dishes of guotie, fried dumplings,

zongzi, sticky rice, jijiao, chicken feet, and xiaolongbao, soup dumplings, made my

mouth water. But going to dim sum wasn’t about the food, it was about the experience—

dressing up in one’s finest, relaxing, and chatting with old friends. The food wasn’t the

center of the event, it was merely what kept the party going.

We did this almost every Sunday with a different family, but I loved the Leungs

the most. They had no children, and we had far too many, so it was the perfect

combination. Mr. Leung was my father’s business partner and always had a smile that

would make your insides warm and a hearty laugh that was one of my most favorite

sounds in the world. He would joke with us, bringing us gifts and candies, saying that

they weren’t just to make our tongues sweeter but our hearts sweeter as well. Mrs. Leung

was a beautiful woman, and her elegance was in the simple things—the wisp of hair that

strayed from her bun, caressing her face, the delicate placement of one hand over the

other as she perched herself on the edge of a chair, the oh-so-slight covering of her red

lips when she laughed. She was what I aspired to be.

However, something about today was different. The candies Mr. Leung handed

us were not accompanied by any clever jokes or pinched cheeks or magic tricks. The

adults sat at one side of the table and the children at the other. As usual, the seven of us

were expected to entertain ourselves quietly, for we were supposed to be seen, not heard.

If people in the restaurant were to stare, it would be because there were seven handsome,

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well-dressed, well-behaved children sitting up straight at the table. No raucousness, no

noise. In essence, we were to be perfect.

Because I was older now, I sat near the adults, quietly filling their cups with

chrysanthemum tea, flipping the lid of the teapot upside down to signal to the waiters that

we ran out of hot water, and serving them food in order to show respect. I enjoyed this

task because it meant that I got to be closer to the real conversation. That was, of course,

the point of going to dim sum. My eyes stayed averted, by my ears were always listening

and ready to overhear any juicy gossip that may come up.

That day, my father was away on business in Hong Kong, so it was just Mr.

Leung and the wives.

“Did you near about that new bakery that opened up on the other side of town?”

“Yes—I went with my sister, and it was fantastic. It’s right near the new building

they’re constructing on the Bund.”

“I heard when it’s finished it’ll be the tallest building in Shanghai.”

“They are opening a restaurant on the first level—we have to go the minute it

opens!”

My attention waned as the conversation shifted to the parties they went to last

weekend, how splendid so-in-so’s house was, the new coat maker on Fuzhou Street.

Everything was normal, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Leung

uncharacteristically fidgeting with the ring on her pointer finger and Mr. Leung pulling at

the buttons on his jacket sleeve. My mother kept quietly tapping her nails on the white

cloth, something she had always drilled into me as impolite and unacceptable at the table.

I wonder what that’s all about.

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Just as I stuffed a fried shrimp into my mouth, I heard the word “Communists”

exchanged in a hushed tone, just as I had been hearing if spoken for months now. I

immediately turned to listen, but when the three of them saw my prying eyes, they

instantly changed the subject.

Communists. Within that word lay conflict, tension between the haves and have-

nots, the clashing of democracy and authoritarianism, the debate of what it meant to be

Chinese. But I didn’t know any of that at the time. Later, I would come to realize that

you don’t know you’re in a bubble until it has popped and the sticky residue is all over

you, a mark of the lie you have been living for so long.

But nothing about their tone sounded any more distressed than usual, so I didn’t

let it bother me. The meal was delicious, but by the end of the four hours, I was ready to

go home. The ride home seemed longer than normal, and I passed the time by tracing the

seams of the leather seats with my finger, feeling the smooth and the bumpy all at once.

My mother was in the front passenger’s seat, a ring of pearls around her neck, hair all

done up, and a fan pinched between two perfect painted nails to block her fair

complexion from the sun.

“Dou Mei?”

That was how I was addressed by my family—eldest sister.

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget that your calligraphy class is right when we get back. Go change

into something sensible, and don’t make a mess this time. Also, when we arrive, tell Ni

Mei and Sei Mei that their piano teacher is coming in 30 minutes.”

“Okay, mother.”

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I knew that we were in my neighborhood when we began to pass street signs that I

couldn’t read. We lived in the former French Concession area of Shanghai, and not all of

the street names had been changed to Chinese yet. The wide streets were spotted with

large, leafy trees and accented by iron fences and curly stair railings. Every so often,

there would be an ornate metal gate enclosing a large Western-style residence, some with

Chinese lion statues flanking the sides—an odd meshing of East and West. The district

was a conglomeration of unlikely neighbors—Russian immigrants, American

ambassadors, French merchants, well-to-do Shanghai socialites—and this very diversity

gave it its unique aura. But we never interacted. I knew they were there, but I rarely saw

them.

All of my family’s wealth had been created through hard work, not inheritance.

My father was known as the “Match King” of Shanghai—he became famous for having

found a new way to make matches that burned better for longer. He was not only

entrepreneurial but savvy—his business immediately took off, and he began opening

factories all over the city. How interesting it was—taking the ordinary and creating the

extraordinary, making so much from something so little.

The maids greeted us at the front door. Maybe it was the way that the lighting hit

the façade, or maybe it was the excess of dumplings in my stomach, but the house

seemed to be more beautiful than usual—the white paint standing out against the dark

wood stripes and brown-shingled roof. The large expanse of grass that flanked our home

looked a little greener, and the flowers were just a little perkier.

I ushered my five younger sisters into the house, being sure to tell Ni Mei, second

sister, and Sei Mei, third sister, that their piano teacher was coming in 30 minutes. My

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older brother immediately ran to the backyard to visit the animals that my parents had

bought him. He was the only boy and thus was given special attention and basically

whatever he pleased. I couldn’t let it bother me too much. Anyways, he was the only

son and the eldest out of a household of six girls. To our neighbors, he was the token of

good fortune and prosperity. We were just the other six that came along afterwards.

The house soon turned into the ebullient and bustling space that I loved, and this

is the way that I have chosen to remember it. Even 65 years later, I can still remember

how it felt to be sitting in the drawing room, doing calligraphy, hearing Liu Mei

squealing in the background as she was being chased and tickled, seeing Si Mei water-

coloring, the blues and greens and purples on the page all bleeding together. But my

most vivid memory is hearing the piano every Sunday afternoon. My sisters’ playing

started like droplets of rain that slowly turned into a torrent of sound, spilling over the

sides of the baby grand, washing into the kitchen, flooding the house. We were drowning

in it, but not a bad kind of drowning, a good kind—we were taken by the current, the will

of the water—the sound ebbing and flowing, cascading and surging.

I had no idea that this was the last of these memories I would have. And yet I

remember it all so clearly. Maybe I subconsciously knew—subconsciously knew to take

it all in, to document it in my mind like a movie. Maybe I had seen the signs or

overheard something that I was not supposed to. But how could I have? For I truly had

no idea that this was the day we would leave China forever.

--------------------------

I sat awake downstairs in my white nightgown as Amah, my maid, brushed out

my hair and put it neatly into one long braid down my back. Her fingers worked deftly,

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sorting through the knots and tangles. I was convinced that she could turn straw into

gold, for everything she touched was left more beautiful than she found it. Liu Mei sat to

my right, sucking her thumb just as five year olds do, her hair being brushed as well. We

were all about to go to bed, and the house was at rest, finally at peace. I looked out the

window. It was pitch black, maybe 9 o’clock, and the moon shone brightly. I could

imagine my father all the way in Hong Kong looking at the same moon.

Blingggg. Blingggg.

The silence of the house was disturbed by the jarring sound of the phone ringing.

Blingggg. Blingggg.

“Wei?”

One of the maids answered and gestured to my mother who was on the other side

of the room.

“Mr. Shao, for you.”

My father was calling. It’s Baba! I wonder what he’s saying! I hope he’ll return

home soon and bring us back treats from Hong Kong. We always stay at the most

beautiful hotel that overlooks the sea when we are there. Oh, and those delicious

pastries on the corner between the dress shop and the fabric store! I could go for one of

those right now...

As my mind wandered along the streets and alleyways of Hong Kong Island, I

didn’t even notice my mother quietly hang up the phone and walk silently into the next

room and close the door.

The next sound I heard was the most awful noise I have ever heard in my life. It

was one of those sounds that shakes every fiber of your being with fright, makes all the

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hairs on your body stand on end. It was a mixture of a moan, a sob, a release of pain, a

cry for comfort like a tortured animal on the ground or a mutilated soldier on the

battlefield. It made me want to scream too, the type of scream that starts from your core

and pushes itself up, touching each part of your insides until it finally escapes through

your mouth. It lasted for maybe 10 seconds, and the minute after it occurred, we were all

frozen in position. I could feel Amah’s hands quickly tie the end of my braid, and she

stood up. Liu Mei was about to cry, so I put her in my lap and hushed her until she was

quiet.

It became silent again. I could see the doorknob turn, and my mother emerged,

tufts of hair pulled out of her bun, her eyes red and wild.

“We need to leave. Now. The Communists are here.”

No one moved. There was a lull, breaths were held, hearts stopped. It was like

we were paused, and God had his finger poised over the play button, just waiting for the

right moment to let the house implode.

It sure did.

What ensued in the next few hours was pure chaos, and I am not sure if I even

remember it all. All 15 of the servants were up and running around the house trying to

help us pack our things; people were yelling; the butler hollered for the driver to wake up

and get ready. Within minutes, the house had disintegrated into pandemonium—clothes

and possessions were strewn on the ground, people were just blurs as they darted about,

grabbing and throwing. My mother lined us up in birth order to make sure that we were

all present before flinging a small carry-on at each of us.

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“Children, that was Baba on the phone, and he says that we need to leave. He is

flying back right now, and we are going to get on a plane and go to America. No

questions. We need to pack quickly. Go. GO!”

Each of our servants helped us to quickly change into suitable clothing and pack

as much as we could into the small bag that we were allowed to take. My comb,

barrettes, and favorite jumper were shoved in alongside socks, dresses, and underwear. I

was old enough to know that something bad was happening, but no one would tell me

what it was, so all I felt was adrenaline pumping through my veins. For some reason I

couldn’t quite understand, I was excited. I thought that this was some type of a vacation,

some kind of adventure. All I knew was that something transpired with the Communists,

and we were going to America—the place I had dreamed of my whole life.

We were each told to pick one of our favorite toys or possessions to take with us.

I could see Liu Mei’s eyes darting between her stuffed bunny and lion, Si Mei choosing

between a fan that my father had bought her in Taiwan and her favorite set of paints.

The item that I picked first was my porcelain doll. I loved the way her eyes

opened and closed, her eyelashes so delicate and skin so smooth. She was the center of

my childhood fantasies—she was a princess, a sister, a mother, an empress. I couldn’t

leave her behind. Just as I was about to wrap her up and put her in my bag, my eyes

fixated on another object. I dropped the doll, ran over, and snatched it. It was my silver

cup. It was hourglass shaped, the top edge splayed slightly outward, the handle curved

and fitting in my hand just right. I have no idea why I was drawn to this particular object.

Of all the things that I could have taken, I chose a cup. But to this day, that cup still sits

on my bathroom counter, a constant reminder of this night, this life.

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I was suddenly knocked out of my trance as Amah yelled at me to “hurry up!” and

help the other girls. My mother came in with a box of jewelry.

“Here,” she said as she quickly forced her jewels upon us. “Put these in your

suitcases, now. And do not let them out of your sight!”

Diamond earrings, jade pendants, gold watches, and studded broaches were

shoved into the pockets of our little cases. I could hear her maid yelling from down the

hall, asking if she wanted to take this coat or that coat, the clanging of pots as the cook

hurriedly prepared food for us to eat before we left, and the butler on the phone calling

my mother’s family. Everyone was working on pure instinct. My heart started to beat

quicker. I looked over at my brother. He was clutching the side of his bed, chest rapidly

moving up and down, a look of terror on his face as the oxygen entered and left his lips.

Ng Mei, fifth sister, had curled herself up in the corner, eyes closed and knees pressed up

against her chest, quietly singing to herself, trying to ignore the fear and panic overtaking

her small body.

“DOU MEI! I need you right now.”

I rushed out of the bedroom and into the hallway where I saw my mother and her

maid holding a few boxes and bags, which sagged under the weight of their contents.

“We’re going to the basement.”

I ran down the stairs with them, my feet barely kissing each step, until we reached

the brown, wooden door to the basement. As my mother opened it, I was overtaken by

that familiar musty smell, the cobwebs, the darkness, and the feeling that I was

descending into the menacing jaws of an animal, just ready to snatch me up and eat me.

The maid flipped on a switch, and the red brick room was illuminated. All I could hear

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was the buzz of the lonely light bulb tenuously hanging from the ceiling. I looked over at

my mother and saw beads of sweat forming at the top of her forehead, her cheeks flushed,

while at the same time, I felt a chill running down my abdomen, goosebumps on my

arms. Is it hot, or is it cold? We were deep within the earth, the panicked noise from

upstairs barely audible, and yet, I was even less at ease.

“I know it’s right here. It must be,” my mother said to herself, urgency in her

voice, as her hands slowly grazed the red rock and white mortar, “Right…here.”

She quickly edged her fingers into a loose brick and broke it free. Inside was a

little space, a hole just big enough to hold a few valuables.

“Start stuffing all along this wall,” she said, hurriedly pulling out gold coins, “We

need to hide all of these so we can retrieve them when we come back. Help me, now.

We need to get this done fast!”

My hands began scaling the wall, checking for cracks and crevices, quickly

pulling out loose bricks, stuffing the space with colorful hairpins and chain necklaces and

large rings, and carefully slipping the blocks back into place. It’s funny how easily we

could take apart the seemingly strong foundation of the house—with just the slightest

touch, it was breaking down before our eyes.

As my hands got scraped from the sharp bits of mortar, and I slowly became

covered in dust and dirt, I realized that what we were doing was hiding pieces of us in the

house. Maybe it was a form of possessiveness, so it would always know that we were its

rightful owners, or maybe it really was just because we believed that we were going back.

Either way, I feel like we left a part of our souls in China that night—a part that we

would never retrieve.

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Years later, I would come to understand that the Communists were taking over

Shanghai much more quickly than had been anticipated. My father was in Hong Kong

getting our passports and visas, as he knew that we would have to flee to America

eventually. Once he was given word that we were in imminent danger, he scrambled to

get us out. The airports were shutting down one by one as the Communists engulfed the

city, and no Chinese airlines were flying. I could see it in slow motion—it was like an

invisible hand sweeping across the metropolis locking gates, taking over embassies,

closing train stations, trying to keep us in. Somehow, he was able to find an American

pilot in Hong Kong to charter a private flight to Shanghai to pick us up and eventually

travel to America. The gracious pilot agreed to take us after requesting an absurd amount

of gold from my father, but only under the condition that we were on the plane by 6am.

American planes could still fly, but the Communists were about to close the airspace for

good.

There are gaps in my memory from that night. I was told years later that after we

finished in the basement, my mother disappeared for a few hours to say what would be

her final goodbyes to my grandmother, who was too old to come with us and had to be

left behind. I never stopped to contemplate how hard this was for her. I didn’t think

much of it because we all thought that we were coming back. This wasn’t goodbye

forever.

The next thing I knew it was 4am, and we were being ushered out the door,

suitcases in hand, and thrust into two cars that were awaiting our arrival. I was

surprisingly apathetic—mostly because I didn’t know what was going on—but I felt a

pang of emotion as I hugged Amah. She had been there since my birth, seen my first

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steps, changed my diapers, and witnessed me grow and change more than my own

mother had. She squeezed me tightly and said, “Be good, Dou Mei. Take care of the

little ones.”

I kissed her and squeezed her tight. The maids around me were crying round,

silent tears. They were mourning our departure as much as they were mourning their old

lives, their reality splintering and disintegrating before their own eyes. We were their

family, just as much as they were ours. They lived with us and worked for us for over 15

years—what were they to do once we fled 6,000 miles away? My mother was paying

each one generously and saying goodbye. Money may seem like a shallow gesture, but it

was all we had to give in the moment. We didn’t have time to tell them what they meant

to us. The sight of them wailing as we drove away will be engrained in my memory for

the rest of time.

The house quickly disappeared from view in the pitch black night. The driver

was silent the whole way. Every feeling was magnified—each bump in the road felt

more pronounced, each stoplight felt like an eternity, each whisper that escaped

someone’s lips felt like a shout. The air was at once suffocating and electric—energy

coursed through each and every particle that entered my lungs.

When we got to the airport, it was a ghost town. My stomach was uneasy as we

grabbed our bags and made our way through the large building. The whole place looked

abandoned, the lights flickering in and out and the tall ceilings making it feel even more

desolate. It was like watching a movie or walking through a museum exhibit—it wasn’t

real life. I was afraid of making a sound because I didn’t know how it would bounce off

of the walls, how it would travel through the emptiness.

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I gripped Liu Mei’s hand and tugged her along as we navigated our way through

the wasteland. All I could hear was the soft padding of our feet on the dingy carpet and

the occasional sound of a bag slapping against someone’s leg as we walked. Suddenly I

saw a speck in the distance.

“Ma! It’s people!”

Down at the end of the way, I could see Baba waving his arms and running

toward us. His cheeks were flushed, and he was breathing hard. When he reached us, he

didn’t say anything—there were simply no words left. He merely looked at each one of

us, and in his milky brown irises I saw relief, agitation, pain, fire, love.

“We need to get on now.”

There were a few other Chinese families escaping with us, and in the midst of all

the people, I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Leung. Mr. Leung gave me a small smile and what

was supposed to be a comforting nod, but he looked absolutely petrified.

We hustled into seats, strapping ourselves in and pulling the belts extra tight, as if

this would protect us from the violence and turmoil we were running from. I looked

around, and everyone appeared stricken as the American pilot emerged from the cockpit,

his blonde hair standing out against the dark cap on his head, explaining that we needed

to leave this instant. We would get to the United States safely. There would be no crew

members on the flight. There may be turbulence. Although I knew I should be scared

out of my mind, maybe crying even, excitement brewed in my belly—it was my first time

on an airplane!

Silence and darkness overtook the cabin. The lonely ding of the lights turning off

and the blinking markers on the asphalt outside my small window made the experience

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even more real. As we edged onto the runway, I felt the rumble of the engine and a

sudden sense of panic overtook me. I desperately needed something to distract me, to

ground me, and all I had was my silver cup. I quickly grabbed it from my bag, my eyes

tracing its edges and fingers trailing the engraving of fengzhuang, male and female

phoenixes, on its surface. Their long tails were splayed wide, sweeping down the glossy

metal. How beautiful they were. The plane began to gain speed. I leaned my head back

against the seat and imagined the phoenixes in color, robust reds, soft golds, jade greens,

cobalt blues. They materialized in front of me, soft plumes tickling my nose and

brushing my arm, their small, dark eyes consoling me. And as I felt us leave the ground,

they seemed to turn toward me before spreading their wings, beaks pointed upward, and

taking off into the night—guiding our way, soaring through the sky, and disappearing

into thin air.

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“White Walls”

I woke up that day with an awful crick in my neck. My head throbbed and my

ears rang as I slowly peeled myself off of the ground, confusedly blinking, trying to get

the blurry white spots out of my vision. Groan. I turned to my side and saw six sound-

asleep faces peeking out from under the covers. The sheets that we slept on were of

contrasting colors and mismatched sizes, with a few rips and tears here and there. It was

like a bunch of leftovers all thrown together, an odd patchwork quilt.

I quietly rose and padded out to the small living area and kitchen. We were in

the middle of San Francisco, just on the outskirts of Chinatown, and the nine of us were

crammed into a tiny two-bedroom apartment. The past month had been interesting, odd,

and terrible all wrapped up in one. We were lucky to have escaped the Communists, for

many of our family and friends were not quite as fortunate. My father was in a perpetual

state of mourning, but I could tell that he was trying to keep it all wadded up. It was

there but deep inside his heart.

Even after four weeks, we were still struggling to get used to the most basic

aspects of life—bathing ourselves, dressing ourselves, cooking our own food. I hadn’t

seen much of my mother, which is odd because we lived in such close-quarters. She

often sat in her room by herself, door closed. It was a bit selfish because the apartment

was small enough already, and we really needed a mother, but my father loved her so and

thus told us not to bother her. He was the one who ran around, buying us food, trying to

find work, keeping us entertained.

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I sank down into the lumpy couch, massaging my neck. It had a bit of a stench,

and there were some questionable stains on the patterned fabric, but after weeks of

avoiding it, I finally gave in, realizing that this was my new reality.

We had not left the apartment often. Our neighborhood was mostly made up of

Chinese immigrants, but my father was still wary of the Cantonese-speaking people

outside our bolted door. He said that, as a large brood of seven Shanghainese children,

we were an immediate target. A target for what, I was not sure, but his greatest fear was

losing one of us. If something happened, he would never forgive himself. Occasionally

he would pick one of us to go out with him on a small errand, but never all of us at once.

I had only been down the block to a Chinese grocery store run by an old man with

a pipe. I thought my first experience on the streets of America would be awe-inspiring,

would render me breathless with pleasure and the thrill of this new land, but it was a

quick trip and nothing eventful occurred. But I had not given up just yet—I was still

holding out for that moment.

After long days inside, the white walls of the apartment became slightly

asphyxiating. They were so plain, so uniform that they seemed to be closing in on us—

not all at once, but slowly. Inch by inch they crept closer, the whiteness formidable and

threatening. White symbolizes death in Chinese. The white walls were a slow death—

ours.

The only redeeming quality of the apartment was the one window in the main

living space. It was fairly large and had a nice view of the city. I could look out and

admire the fog rolling like slow gray waves over the hills in the morning and the bright

blue sky as it burned off in the afternoon. I stared at the streets that cut San Francisco

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into little squares, the trolleys with bells that rang as they approached their stops,

envisioning and wishing that I was part of the city too. But who was I to complain. We

were all together and alive and that was more than most people had.

I heard footsteps. I turned over my shoulder and saw Baba walking toward me,

his hair standing on end from just waking up, the bags under his eyes getting darker with

each passing day. He smiled as he sat next to me, putting his arm around my shoulder.

“You’ve always been such an early riser. When you were a baby, you used to cry

the minute the sun rose. The maids didn’t sleep for a year!”

I was smiling. “Amah used to tell me about that.”

“Oh, yes, but other than that, you were a good baby. Fat and happy, never gave

us trouble. Still never give us trouble.”

He winked, but immediately after, his tone shifted.

“Dou Mei, I have something important to tell you.”

I sat up straight, staring him in the eyes, prompting him to continue.

“I have found a boarding school for you to go to. It is in Marin County, right over

the Golden Gate Bridge, so you won’t be far. It’s time for you to go, to start living and

learning for yourself instead of caring for everyone else. You will live there, and it’s

very nice, all girls, and the nuns will take care of you. You can learn English and

continue with your studies. I have talked about it with your mother, and we agree—it is

time you left this apartment. You start next week.”

I was motionless, still processing his proposition. It wasn’t really a proposition at

all, actually—I loved my father dearly, but this relationship wasn’t a democracy, it was a

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dictatorship. What he said was the rule. I didn’t know what to think about this idea.

Living on my own in this new country? Away from my sisters and family?

“I’m going to let you think about it,” he said when I didn’t respond, hoisting

himself off of the sofa, “Remember, Dou Mei, education is the most important thing.

People can take away your money, the clothes off your back, everything you have, but

they can never take away your education.”

He left to go back into the bedroom. I stared out the window toward the north. I

could see part of the Golden Gate Bridge peeking out from behind a tall apartment

building, its rusty-red paint conspicuous and bright. Boarding school. The more I said

the words over and over in my head, the more exhilarated I became. I could leave this

place. I could explore America on my own, see what it had to offer me, learn, move on,

grow up. This was my time.

The excitement started in my toes, tingling my calves and thighs, travelling up my

abdomen, and into my heart. I jumped up, unable to contain it anymore, elated. I was

going. It was starting. I would be the first to travel beyond the white walls.

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“Beautiful Country”

My mother always said that I came into the world with my eyes wide open,

fingers uncurled, arms outstretched as if to embrace it all…and with a bloodcurdling

scream.

Even over six decades later, I vividly remember the feeling of standing outside of

the school, entering this new world in the exact same way. Only without the scream. My

cotton gingham dress was pressed up against my skin, the tie of the apron looped around

my waist just a little too tight. The uniform was white and green—a deep green like old

jade or cooked Chinese broccoli, the kind steamed and drizzled with oyster sauce. I

wasn’t used to the lace up saddle shoes, the stark white bobby socks, or the concept of

having to look like everyone else. My dad was by my side, and he nudged me forward.

Looking back, I was just like Alice in Wonderland—I had fallen down the rabbit hole and

was suddenly plopped into this new, fictional land. In front of me was a brick building,

with formidable white steps leading up to the grand front door. You could tell it was old,

a little rough around the edges, but in every detail you saw intention and artistry. To this

day, “castle” is the first word that comes to mind when I think of it.

Suddenly a woman walked down the stairs in black and white, everything covered

except for her face, which peeked out beneath all the fabric. I knew that these ladies

were called nuns, but I had never conceived how odd they would actually look in person.

She was stern, tough like bamboo shoots, as she peered over her wire rim glasses,

inspecting me.

“Elizabeth?”

I just nodded, for my English was not very good.

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She gestured at me to follow. No warmth, just curt and short, to the point. We

walked up the big white steps, my eyes wide. A rush of excitement pumped through my

blood. It’s beginning! I thought of America as the land of ultimate promise, ultimate

opportunity. In Chinese, the word for America is meiguo, where mei means beautiful and

guo means country. Beautiful country. This was the beginning of my America story.

Luggage in hand, we passed through a dark, mahogany-paneled foyer and up the

main curling staircase. I remember seeing girls staring at me. Girls with yellow hair,

brown hair, dark hair, light hair, all wearing the same bobby socks and gingham dresses.

I looked just like them. How naïve I was to think that wearing the same clothes

constituted any kind of sameness, made us any more alike.

The walls were covered with paintings of past women who had gone to the

school, “San Domenico” in curly script engraved the frames. My fingers trailed along the

edges of the portraits, taking in their faces, wondering if they were like me. We entered

the dormitory, which was a large room split up by fabric dividers—each girl had her own

cubicle with a curtain for a door and just enough room for a bed, dresser, and nightstand.

The headmistress was talking to my father about the rules—how the nuns would do

checks every night to make sure I was properly in bed, how once I was a junior I would

get my own proper room, how they were strict on the girls and would turn us into proper

ladies, how they had already created a proper class schedule for me.

Proper. What an odd word.

My father nodded, intently listening to the headmistress. His face was handsome

but worn from all the stress. You could see his strength in his skin, kindness in his eyes,

hard work in the creases of his forehead, zeal for life in his laugh lines. I always felt like

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our spirits were the same. We had the same energy, same tics. That’s why I was his

favorite daughter. It was fitting that he was the one to bring me to this new place.

When it was time for him to go, my father leaned in and quietly said: “Watch the

other girls, and do as they do. Your mother and I have sent you here to learn—to learn

English, to learn this way of life—so embrace it all. I know you are going to do so well.”

I remember hugging him, smelling him one last time, a mix of spicy ginger and

something sweet. He kissed my forehead and told me that he loved me. Looking back

now, I wish I had hugged him a little harder, smelled him for a little longer before we

parted, but I was too excited. I had too many hopes and dreams, ideas and wishes.

And at that moment, there was one particular vision that came to mind. Back in

Shanghai, there was an old man who used to stand on the corner of the street across from

our house selling candy. I loved watching him as he carefully kneaded and strung out the

beautiful white strands—dragon’s beard candy. He positioned himself in front of a large

bin of powder, a mix of sugar and ground peanuts, taking the dough, stretching it into

smaller and smaller strands, and gingerly rolling them into fluffy morsels. As a child, my

mother forbade us from visiting the candy maker. The walls and gates around our large

house were meant to keep us in, to keep us safe. I yearned to break free—I could see the

world but couldn’t quite touch it. How funny it was now, to find myself in a place much

farther away than the candy man’s stand. One moment the walls were there, and the

next, they were gone.

--------------------------

I peeked my head out of my curtain and saw a gaggle of girls staring at me. Their

eyes were of alluring colors—all shades of blue. They were deep blues like the

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embroidery on my qipao, traditional Chinese dress, light blues that reminded me of the

sky on stiflingly hot Shanghai summer days, dusty blues like on the painted china that we

used to eat off of, mysterious blues that you just wanted to dive into and never leave.

One by one they said their names. Emma. Olivia. Judith. I honestly could be

making those up, but I remember thinking how pretty they were. Pretty white names.

I introduced myself in broken English by saying, “My name is Elizabeth. I come

from…China.”

How silly I felt. My English was awkward, fragmented. I could see the girls

giving me a silly look, which made me even more self-conscious, yet I knew that I had to

force myself to practice in order to embrace everything America had to offer. I would

not be mute. I would not hide.

Before the girls had time to respond, a nun with a kind face, an inviting, round

face like baozi, Chinese steamed buns, came into the room telling us that it was time for

dinner. I would come to know her as Sister Bertha. I don’t remember if I immediately

liked her because her face reminded me of baozi, but I know that I grew to love her

because of the compassion that she showed me.

“We young ladies don’t run,” she chided with a disapproving look as one of the

girls hastened towards the door.

We entered the dining hall, a stately room with more mahogany-paneled walls

and floors. A nun ushered me to a table, where I sat with four other girls. My heart

started to pound as I looked down and saw two utensils, one with prongs and one with a

sharp edge. Can I ask for chopsticks?

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Hao

Before I could even contemplate the question, the nuns began entering the room

in a single file line, bringing out large platters of food to each table with many little

dishes on the side. They placed them all in the middle, family style. This was familiar to

me—this was the Chinese way. What was curious was what was on the platter. Whole

potatoes, not peeled or cut! What in the world am I supposed to do with those?

In the midst of all of my confusion, in the background, I could hear the nuns

coming around, disciplining and chastising.

“Eat slower, Emily.”

“Elbows in when you’re cutting, Natalie. You are not a bird…or a man!”

“Manners, ladies!”

I watched as the girl in front of me took a whole potato and put it on her plate.

She then cut it in half with the sharp edged utensil and added butter and salt from the

little dishes. She cut off small bits and put them in her mouth. Watch the other girls, and

do as they do. I was like her shadow, trying to steal glances, following her every move.

It feels so ridiculous now, thinking that I didn’t know what a baked potato was or how to

use a fork or a knife.

Sitting at that wooden table, I closed my eyes just for a moment and was

transported back home: small bowls of white rice, dainty chopsticks, platters of meat,

fish, duck, pork, steamed, fried, you name it, the smell of garlic, ginger, and soy sauce in

the air. To Chinese people, food is more than sustenance, it is life—it’s a form of

greeting, mourning, celebration, love. And now there I quietly sat, struggling with my

fork and knife, trying to consume a bland potato with the skin on.

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Hao

After dinner, I learned that groups of girls were allowed to go on walks around the

gardens with a nun, before it became “too dark to be appropriate for young ladies.” How

dark was too dark? Pitch black? The type of dark when you can only see shapes and

outlines? The type when the sun has just left one’s sight? The nuns were so ambiguous,

yet so specific. We were treated like rare animals that needed to be tamed—we couldn’t

be out in the sun too long, couldn’t be out in the dark too long, couldn’t eat this way,

couldn’t eat that way, couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that.

But it didn’t seem to bother anyone else, so I wouldn’t let it bother me. We

walked along the gravel path with Sister Bertha, admiring the sunset and the seasonal

plants. Some girls linked arms and were giggling, but no one said anything. You could

occasionally hear a bird chirp, the wind rustle through the trees. I couldn’t quite tell if

the whole situation was peaceful or awkward. One girl broke the silence.

“So, Elizabeth, what’s it like in China? I’ve heard it’s pretty exotic.”

I didn’t know what that word meant, so I hesitantly responded, “Yes?”

I didn’t realize that this answer would open up a box of questions, and once they

were out, there was no stuffing them back in.

“So you mean there are like tigers. That is so cool.”

“Ching chang chong! What does that mean?”

“So, do you really eat dog?”

“That’s enough!” snapped Sister Bertha, “Stop bombarding Elizabeth.”

I was relieved that I didn’t have to respond. What a terrible place they were

making China out to be! I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Eating dog?

Ching chang chong?

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Hao

As we were going back inside, I heard one blonde girl whisper to another, “My

father doesn’t hire Japs at the business. He says on the outside they are all polite and

agreeable, but on the inside, they’re really just immoral and uncivilized.”

They turned around and saw me staring at them. The second girl smiled sweetly

at me, the type of sweet like dried plums—also salty and a little sour—before turning

back to the first and saying: “It’s fine, she doesn’t even understand English.”

I may not have known what “Japs” or “immoral” or “uncivilized” meant, but I

wasn’t stupid and got the message loud and clear.

As I lay in bed that night in my white nightgown, a little remnant of home, in the

curtain-partitioned space that reminded me of a hospital room, it hit me that I was alone

and really on my own. I had left my life—we had left our life—living in a large,

beautiful house, waited on and fawned over, surrounded by family and comfort, having

the luxury of being carefree. I already missed the way Liu Mei would give me big hugs,

her little arms squeezing my midsection, the way Ni Mei and I would whisper under our

silk sheets at night, the way Si Mei would sit by the window sketching in a notebook. I

was Dou Mei, oldest sister. That was my place in our family, place in the world.

Without my siblings around me, what did that title even mean?

Our lives were prosperous, perfect even, and there was so much to be grateful for.

And then the Communists came, and the idyll ends. How unrealistic I was then, thinking

that we would go back someday, that all of this was just temporary. How wide-eyed I

was, unable to grasp the gravity of the situation. I was too optimistic for my own good.

My mind was restless. Everyone here was perfectly polite, at least on the outside,

but something was still bothering me. I had gone from being the majority to being the

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minority. For the first time in my life, I felt like a roast duck hanging in the market—

shriveled, tied up with string, hanging against its will. Something to be stared at,

prodded. It had only been a few hours in this strange place, and its charm was already

starting to wear off. I just wanted to go home. I realized that if I squinted, put my fists to

my chest, and focused hard enough, I could relive snippets of my old life—like feeling

my maid Amah’s hands in my hair or hearing the breaths of my sisters as we fell asleep at

night. So that’s what I did, lying there, in my hospital bed, body all clenched, just trying

to feel a little bit of home.

--------------------------

The next few days and weeks were draining. I remember becoming more and

more irritable as the experience dragged on. Sure, I was learning so much, slowly

assimilating, but I also felt suffocated. It was as if my vocal cords were cut. The

language was truly a wall between me and my classmates, and I was silent all the time.

It didn’t help that I was taking French. At San Domenico, we were required to

take a foreign language. This idea is good in theory, but not so great in practice when

you have a 14-year-old girl fresh out of China who can’t even speak the language that

you are supposed to use to learn the next language. When I was called on that first day in

class, a sound came out of my mouth that was unrecognizable. I heard a girl mutter

“Chink” to another, which was accompanied by chuckles and whispers. 30 eyes were

burning holes into my back—the redness was creeping up into my face, like when you eat

mapotofu, a notoriously spicy tofu dish from the Sichuan Province, and you can feel the

heat from the peppers slowly entering your cheeks. I just wanted to suppress it, suppress

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it all—the hot redness, my frustration, the laughter—push it all back down to where it

came from, but I was already holding in too much.

For my first breakfast, a glass of white liquid was put on the table in front of me.

It was slightly thick, a little bit of foam just hovering on the surface. I felt the glass, and

it was cold. The conception of cold drinks at meals was a bit baffling to me, but the other

girls around me were gulping it down, so I had to try it. I took a sip, and, immediately, a

new sensation coated my tongue. I found it repulsive—too creamy—it was like drinking

liquid fat. The nuns also served us cheese scrambled eggs, and the smell of the bizarre,

oozing substance made my stomach churn.

Sister Bertha must have seen my face because she slowly made her way over to

my table and slipped an extra piece of toast onto my plate. She winked and quietly said,

“You don’t have to eat the eggs if you don’t want.”

I was relieved. I wish I had known that most Chinese immigrants don’t like dairy

products at first, that this was common and normal, but there were simply no other

Chinese immigrants to find comfort in.

Slowly, the uniform that once gave me confidence, confidence that I could fit in

and be like the others, was beginning to feel like a sham. It felt fake, like an act, a feeble

attempt to find some non-existent common ground between me and the other girls.

My name also felt like a façade. My Chinese name is Shao Zu Ying. Family

name first, generational name second, individual name last and seemingly least

important. My father chose my English name when I came to the U.S—Elizabeth Shao.

Suddenly, I, me, my individuality was the forefront of my identity, my surname just an

appendage, an afterthought. Just like my name, my family and familial obligations were

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now taking a backseat to my personal and educational development. I had left the perfect

Chinese daughter behind like an item casually dropped from my purse, selfishly

abandoning my responsibilities and duties, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

Elizabeth Shao. I liked to think of my renaming as a rebirth of sorts, that there

was thought and significance behind its meaning “oath of God,” that out of a whole

garden of names it was carefully handpicked just for me, but in reality, it was given just

for practicality. I still hadn’t come to grips with it. The name “Elizabeth” didn’t seem to

fit. What girl named Elizabeth—such a proper, common name—couldn’t even say

“Good morning” without stumbling over her words?

That day, I hastened to my etiquette course (I didn’t run because running is for

men apparently), and I knew I was going to be late. We had this class everyday, and it

was taught by the nuns. The class was second nature to me, as it embodied all of the

rules that I had to follow as a daughter of Shanghai socialites. We young ladies don’t

slouch. We young ladies don’t sit with our legs spread—do you want to be a man? We

young ladies don’t speak with our mouths full—table manners are a visible sign of class.

We young ladies sit gracefully—how do you expect to find a husband otherwise?

The more and more I heard these sentiments—acting ladylike, shying away from

manual labor, taking care of one’s appearance and making beauty paramount—the more

and more irritated I became. I wasn’t sure why because it wasn’t like I hadn’t heard them

a million times. It was like a little itch I couldn’t scratch, and it kept bothering me day

and night. One day, I realized it bothered me because it reminded me of my mother.

My mother married into wealth at 17, never lifted a finger, and birthed seven

children whom she barely took care of. The only time I saw her be in control or truly

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take care of us was when we had to flee that night. Maybe the stress and adrenaline

brought out some motherly instinct, maybe it was just a biological compulsion. I will

never know because I never saw that in her again.

My mother was spoiled in China—she had fur coats in delicious colors that

reminded me of chestnuts and mushrooms and moon cakes and jewelry from Tiffany’s

that my father brought back from his trips to America. She never realized how good she

had it until she came to America. Without the maids, she didn’t know how to take care of

seven children. She did not know how to cook or clean or do anything for herself, and

she was miserable. I had never seen her like this, and I realized that her lack of presence

in our lives was not a choice, but purely because she didn’t know how.

This etiquette class was trying to make me like her—complacent, polite, passive,

in essence, to be a woman. She was from an era where her mother’s feet were bound for

beauty and status—she learned and grew up under a mother who was limited in every

way. I was beginning to see the real truth—these women’s feet were bound to keep them

in, to keep them weak, to make their daughters the same way. I decided then and there

that I would not be like my mother. But the whole experience truly baffled me—I didn’t

get it. America was supposed to be about freedom and equality, and yet, it was just like

China.

When I brought this up to Sister Bertha, she merely replied, “I am afraid that’s

just the way it has to be here, dear, for now at least.”

I should have held my tongue—I would have not dared to do this back home, as

women are expected to be seen and not heard, authority is supposed to be respected and

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not questioned, and there was no “rocking of the boat” to be had. You were either on the

boat or you drowned. But I felt different at that moment, so I pressed, “But why?”

She sighed.

“Everyone here has your best interest at heart—we just want you to be successful

when you enter the real world. You see, during the war, women had the opportunity to

go to work, to be independent, but with the men back now, things have seemed to

reverse. To get to where you want, dear, for right now at least, you have to please the

men. It’s only 1949. There is room for change. Now, that’s all I have to say on the

matter.”

I nodded and left her alone. Even though I didn’t like her answer, I felt like she

truly understood why I was asking.

Back in Shanghai, I used to leaf through American newspapers and magazines

that my father had brought back. I was too young to know what most of it meant, and I

definitely could not read English, but I loved the color pictures nonetheless. I remember

seeing recruiting ads for women—pictures of women working in factories, joining the

Marine Corps—and thinking that this was what America had to offer me. There was one

particular advertisement that always caught my eye—one of a woman staring directly at

me, urging me to join the Nurse Corps. She wore bright red lipstick, red like the

chunlian, calligraphy hung outside doors for good luck on Chinese New Year. There was

something about her direct, intentional stare that intrigued me. It was powerful. Maybe

that photo was what inspired me to become a nurse. Or maybe it was just a happy

coincidence.

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I realized that those pictures were fake—everything around me was fake. Those

ads were just another item added to my growing laundry list of things that I was

beginning to doubt, things that I was beginning to challenge. I began asking Sister

Bertha more and more questions, and she would answer them more and more candidly. I

spent a lot of time with her, and she looked out for me.

My grades in Writing and Social Studies were not so good, so Sister Bertha began

tutoring me in English. With her, I felt much more comfortable navigating the language.

When I left China in the middle of the night, I didn’t have a choice. It was dark when we

left, and when I awakened, we were on a different side of the planet. It wasn’t much of a

journey at all, in fact. It was a forced uprooting. I realized that learning English was the

journey, the experience that I had felt that I had been robbed of. As I learned more and

more words and grammar points, I was consciously taking steps towards America. I was

walking through the plains and climbing the mountains, swimming through the ocean and

navigating the valleys in order to get to where I physically stood. My brain and body

were not on the same page and needed time to get there, to reconcile my new reality.

These lessons gave me the time and space to do so, and for the first time in a

while, I was feeling optimistic again. I felt empowered—once I gained the tool of

language, there was no stopping me. My insides felt joyous again, and my heart was

happier. I was making it.

Oh, how I would come to realize how innocent and idealistic I was then. To think

that language would be my most formative hurdle in this beautiful country was simply

naïve.

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