Reviewers and students have educated me not only about how I write but about why I write. Apparently (line 2), I wish to capture the immigrant experience, to demystify Chinese culture, to show the differences between Chinese and American culture, to pave the way for other Asian-American writers — and I have a whole host of other equally noble motivations.
The truth is, I write for more self-serving reasons — that is, I write for myself. I write because I enjoy stories and make-believe. I write because if I didn’t, I’d probably go crazy. Thus I write about questions that disturb me, images that mystify me, or memories that cause me anguish and pain. I write about secrets, lies, and contradictions, because within them are many kinds of truth. In other words, I write stories about life as I have misunderstood it. To be sure, it’s a Chinese- American life, but that’s the only one I’ve had so far.
Contrary to what some students, professors, reporters, and fund-raising organizations assume, I am not an expert on China, Chinese culture, mah jong, the psychology of mothers and daughters, generation gaps, immigration, illegal aliens, assimilation, acculturation, racial tension, Tiananmen Square, Most Favoured Nation trade agreements, human rights, Pacific Rim economics, the purported one million missing baby girls of China, the future of Hong Kong after 1997, or, I am sorry to say, Chinese cooking. Certainly I have personal opinions on any of these topics, especially food, but by no means do my sentiments or my world of make-believe make me an expert.
And so I am alarmed when reviewers and educators assume that my very personal, specific, and fictional stories are meant to be representative, down to the smallest detail, of not just Chinese-Americans but sometimes all Asian cultures. Is Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres supposed to be representative of all American culture? Do all American daughters serve their tyrannical fathers the same breakfast every morning? Do all sisters betray each other? Are all conscientious objectors flaky in love relationships? Why do readers and reviewers assume that a book with Chinese-American characters can encompass all the demographics and personal histories of Chinese America?
My editor at Putnam tells me that over the years she has received hundreds of permission requests from publishers of college textbooks and multicultural anthologies, -wishing to reprint my work for educational purposes. One publisher wanted to include an excerpt from The Joy Luck Club, a scene in which a woman invites her non-Chinese boyfriend to her parent’s house for dinner. The boyfriend brings a bottle of wine as a gift and commits a number of social gaffes at the dinner table. Students were supposed to read this excerpt, then answer the following question: ‘If you are invited to a Chinese family’s house for dinner, should you bring a bottle of wine?’ My editor and I agreed to turn down that permission request.
I hear that my books and essays are now on the required-reading lists for courses in ethnic studies, Asian-American studies, Asian-American literature, Asian-American history, women’s literature, feminist studies, feminist writers of colour, and so forth. I am proud to be on these lists. What writer wouldn’t want her work to be read? But there’s a small nagging question that whispers into my ear once in a while:‘What about American literature?’
I know I’m not supposed to complain, or at least not too loudly. After all, I am one of the lucky writers to be read, in classrooms, by the mainstream, and in CliffNotes. I have had many readers tell me that they read my books because they feel the stories are about universal emotions between mothers and daughters.
But as my mother has often told me, I have an attitude. I have an attitude not just about my books but about literature in general. I have this attitude that American literature, if such a classification exists, should be more democratic than the colour of your skin or whether rice or potatoes are served at your fictional dinner table. And so I ask myself and sometimes others: Who decides what is American fiction? Why is it that works of fiction by minority writers are read mainly for the study of class, gender, and race? Why is so hard to break out of this literary ghetto?