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Why would anyone live in Chicago? It’s so cold. The sun never comes out and the wind always blows. Thank you for the long underwear from the army surplus store, but even it doesn’t make me warm. Everything is white—the sky, the sun, people’s faces—and the days are too short up here. I don’t know what I miss most—going to the beach or hanging out with Auntie May on film sets. I even miss the sweet-and-sour pork Dad makes in the coffee shop.
This last is really bad. That sweet-and-sour pork is the worst kind of lo fan dish: too sweet and too breaded. In February, she writes:
I’ve been hoping to get a job with one of my professors during spring break. How can every single one of them not have work for me? I sit in the front row in my history class, but the professor gives handouts to everyone else first. If he runs out, too bad for me.
I write back:
People will always tell you that you can’t do things, but don’t forget you can do whatever you want. Make sure you go to church. You’ll always be accepted there and you can talk about Bible times. It’s good for people to know you’re a Christian.
Her response:
People keep asking me why I don’t return to China. I tell them I can’t return to a place I’ve never been.
In March, Joy suddenly cheers up. “Maybe it’s because the winter is over,” Sam suggests. But that’s not it, because she still complains about the endless winter. Rather, there’s a boy …
My friend Joe asked me to join the Chinese Students Democratic Christian Association. I like the kids in the group. We discuss integration, interracial marriage, and family relationships. I’m learning a lot and it’s nice to see friendly faces, cook together, and eat together.
Quite apart from this Joe, whoever he is, I’m happy that she’s joined a Christian group. I know she’ll find companionship there. After reading the letter to everyone, I write our reply:
Your dad wants to know about your classes this semester. Are you keeping up? Auntie May wants to know ’what the girls are ’wearing in Chicago and if she can send you anything. I don’t have much to add. Things are the same or nearly the same. We closed the curio shop—not enough business to hire someone to sell that “junk,” as you always called it. Business at Pearl’s is good and your dad’s busy. Uncle Vern wants to know more about Joe.
Actually, he hasn’t said a thing about Joe, but the rest of us are
itching with curiosity.
And you know your auntie—always working. What else? Oh, you know the kind of things that go on around here. Everyone’s afraid of being called a Communist. During troubles in business or rivalries in love, one person can find a solution by labeling the other a Communist. “Did you hear so-and-so’s a Commie?” You know how it is, people gossiping, chasing the wind and catching shadows. Someone sells more curios; he must be a Communist. She spurned my affections; she must be a Communist. Fortunately, your father doesn’t have any enemies, and no one is ‘wooing your aunt.
This is my around-the-corner-and-down-the-block way of trying to get Joy to write more about this Joe. But if I’m Joy’s mother, then she’s definitely my daughter. She sees right through me. As usual, I wait to read the letter until everyone’s home and we can gather around Vern’s bed.
“You’d like Joe,” she writes.
He’s in premed. He goes to church with me on Sundays. You want me to say my prayers, but we don’t say them at my Christian association. You’d think that Jesus would be all we’d talk about at those meetings, but we don’t talk about Him. We talk about the injustices that were done to people like you and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa. We talk about what happened to the Chinese in the past and what’s continuing to happen to black people. Just last weekend we picketed Montgomery Ward because they won’t hire blacks. Joe says that minorities need to stick together. Joe and I have been getting people to sign petitions. It’s nice to think about other people’s problems for a change.
When I come to the end of the letter, Sam asks, “Do you think this Joe speaks Sze Yup? I don’t want her to marry someone outside our dialect.”
“Who says he’s Chinese?” May asks.
That sets us to twittering like birds.
“They’re in a Chinese organization,” Sam says. “He has to be Chinese.”
“And they go to church together,” I add.
“So? You always encouraged her to go to church outside Chinatown so she could meet other kinds of people,” May says, and three accusatory pairs of eyes glare at me.
“His name is Joe,” I say. “That’s a good name. It sounds Chinese.”
As I stare at the name written in Joy’s even hand and try to decide exactly what this Joe might be, my sister—forever my devilish little sister—ticks off other Joes. “Joe DiMaggio, Joseph Stalin, Joseph McCarthy—”
“Write her back,” Vern interrupts. “Tell her Commies are no-good friends. She’ll get in trouble.”
But that’s not what I write. What I write is not at all subtle: “What’s Joe’s family name?”
In mid-May I receive Joy’s reply.
Oh, Mom, you’re so funny. I can just imagine you and Dad, Auntie May, and Uncle Vern sitting around and worrying about this. Joe’s family name is Kwok, OK? Sometimes we talk about going to China to help the country. Joe says we Chinese have a saying: Thousands upon thousands of years for China. Being Chinese and carrying that upon your shoulders and in your heart can be a heavy burden but also a source of pride and joy. He says, “Shouldn’t we be a part of what’s happening in our home country?” He even took me to get a passport.
I worried about Joy when she left us. I worried about her when she got homesick. I worried about her hanging out with a boy when we had no idea who or what he was. But this is something different. This is truly scary.
