Each of my three stories is an attempt at exploring how loss characterizes so much of the diaspora experience. How does one grapple with loss of language, family history, or cultural traditions? It’s not an unusual or particularly special question, and as part of the Sino diaspora, I’m not the first to consider it. Things change. Languages die. People forget. Adapting to survive in a new land with a new language in a new culture is hard. That’s probably an understatement. Still, loss can end up haunting even the most intimate and personal moments. That’s what I’m interested in.
In “Vows,” I wanted to tell a story through a Hong Kong diasporic lens wherein self-discovery and gender exploration are set within a dynamic where things regularly go unsaid, undefined, or even purposefully forgotten. Just as the narrator and the mother actively skirt around politically and personally sensitive topics, the narrator and Godfrey speak in veiled, homophonic conversations even as they get to know each other more intimately. I also wanted to play with how our narrator and Godfrey contextualize their relationship and their blurred identities within a genre that is itself also inherently diasporic: Jin Yong, one of the most famous wuxia writers, along with others of his generation, wrote in Hong Kong.
“Bunny, Three Ways” is the result of my imagination taking off during dim sum with friends. In the late 80s, my dad worked the Chinese-restaurant circuit, and it always seemed like everyone knew a little bit about each other’s lives. Here, I was interested in exploring the generational and linguistic differences that can cleave the current 1.5/second-gen Sino diaspora from the older generation. I also had fun tinkering with how gossip, stories, and rumors can cross oceans, echo, and spread within the dim sum parlor space.
“Antioch” is one of those stories I wrote because I’ve always wanted to engage with how America treated Chinese immigrants during and after the Gold Rush. I think many Chinese Americans end up reading about this period when they search for a shared history or connection to America. I know I did. In “Antioch,” I set out to tell a love story with elements readers like me would pick up on: In the late 1800s, the citizens of Antioch, like many other California towns, lynched and chased away its Chinese residents. Most of these immigrants were men (at this time, Chinese women were banned from entering the U.S.) who had stayed after the Gold Rush. “Antioch” is my response to this history, and in the story, Chinese American bodies are depicted as beautiful, as bodies that don’t need to hide, as precious—literal gold. I wanted to depict queer love between two people who, because of their Chineseness and gender and sexuality, would have once been prohibited threefold, but instead, they find each other and recognize their worth.
You may notice that “Vows” and “Antioch” end with the same phrase: “our bodies too.” In full transparency, I didn’t catch it until we looked at all three stories. The current order of the stories reflects our intention to start and end with the site of the diasporic body.
Thank you so much for reading!