by Lisa See
On the stairwell, Suie spoke for the first time since his momentary outburst. “I am a far-ahead thinker,” he said. “That’s why I go to shows and fairs.”
“I know, dear. I know.”
Downstairs, Ming gazed at the hu pensively and murmured quietly to his brothers and sister, “Another of Dad’s follies.” What none of them knew at that moment was that the vase would never be sold and would always be called Dad’s Folly, a name that would make all of them laugh ruefully until every single one of them was dead.
Several hours later, the flaring tempers in the basement were forgotten as the family gathered around the dining table. Ticie saw the boys focus their attention on the platters of food—all the dishes that she’d eaten for every Thanksgiving since her birth. Eddy and Bennie fairly wiggled in anticipation. Although Sissee sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, she, too, looked eagerly at the banquet before her.
The “partners”—the many bachelor “cousins” who’d been brought over—also crowded around the table. They came to dinner in sleeveless undershirts, as though this were any other dinner in the year. They gaped at the food, the plates, the prayers, the words spoken. This evening, one young man stared at the spread as though it were something from another planet. In her heart, Ticie knew that the worker should feel that way. Thanksgiving made no sense to him, just as many things she’d seen in China seemed strange to her.
In so many ways this was not the life that Ticie had envisioned for herself. Sometimes she wondered, What if Suie hadn’t hired me? Would I have gone to work for Madame Matilde? Would I have gone home to Central Point? Would I have married some farm boy and spent my life worrying about drought, frost, and locusts? Would my children have known nothing more of the world than what they could learn in a one-room schoolhouse? Would my older sons right now be thinking about how they would ever be able to go out on their own, how they might support a wife and children, how they—like their parents—would ever be able to make ends meet?
On this Thanksgiving evening, surrounded by her family, Ticie knew how incredibly fortunate she was. Ticie Pruett had been an orphan; Ticie See was the mother of five children. Her family had abandoned her emotionally long before they had actually disowned her; now she had an extended family—her few white friends, all these men sitting around her table in their undershirts, even her kindly neighbors. Her family had been poor and hardworking; she still worked hard, very hard, but she and Suie had made a good life for themselves. At this moment, Ticie couldn’t have asked for anything more, except maybe a house.
CHAPTER 7
THE HOME VILLAGE
1919–20
WHEN World War I ended, thoughts of travel, luxury, and frivolous fun filled the minds of many Americans. The Sees joined in this preamble to the Roaring Twenties by planning a trip back to the home village of Dimtao. As always, Ticie saw to family arrangements while her husband focused on those involving business. At Tide’s request, Anna Mueller filled out affidavits saying that she had delivered all of the children and that they were indeed Americans. With these in hand, the family set about getting their merchant-status permits from the U.S. Department of Labor Immigration Service.
Perhaps because the case presented seven people of varying status, the Sees went through a more difficult time than usual. First, immigration officials had to decide what to do about Letticie. The Consulate General of the Republic of China wrote a letter claiming her as “a citizen of the Republic of China, age 43 years …” Yet, looking at her enclosed photograph, U.S. immigration officials were confused. Mrs. Fong appeared American and said she was American-born, but this defied all logic. Searching back through their records to a trip Fong See had made alone in 1912, they found that he had testified to having an American-born wife. On further investigation, immigration officials discovered the “usual Chinese papers” for Fong See and his children from the 1901 trip, but no papers on file for anyone calling herself Mrs. Fong See. The only mention was found on the manifest of the steamer Korea: “Mrs. Fong See, age 24, American, no other data, no papers, wife of Fong See.”
In a letter from the Angel Island station, Inspector W. G. Becktell wrote: “There appears to be some conflict of opinion as to whether an American-born white woman married to a domiciled Chinese merchant should be given Form 431 (for the wife of a lawfully domiciled Chinese merchant), or should be handled directly under the Immigration Law.” Inspector Becktell later added that since the Los Angeles office had made no mention of the race of Fong See, “it might be assumed that in the opinion of the examining officers she is at least part Chinese.” After a flurry of letters and telegrams, the Immigration Service opted for simplicity by omitting Letticie’s race entirely and issuing her a Form 431.
On June 9, a round of interrogations began. Inspector Harry Blee questioned Ticie on her marriage, her children, and the nature of her husband’s business, then notified her that upon her return to the United States, she would be required to submit to the requirements of a literacy test. “I can meet the requirements, all right,” she answered tartly. Blee then questioned Richard White, who had recently retired from the hardware business to a ranch outside Los Angeles, but who still visited the Sees every Saturday for lunch or dinner; Thomas Clark, a curio dealer who bought and sold goods for Fong See at auction; and police detective Clarence Shy, who stopped by the store as often as once a day. After these inquiries were completed, Blee moved on to the See children, beginning with Milton. After establishing twenty-one-year-old Milton’s American and Chinese names, the inspector asked him to identify photographs of his parents, which he did correctly. “Can you speak Chinese?” Inspector Blee asked.
“No,” Ming replied.
“Have you ever voted?”
“No.”
“Did you register for military service during the war?” “Yes,” Milton answered, producing his papers. “Do you know any Chinese persons born in the U.S.?” the inspector queried.
“Besides my brothers and sisters, none that I can testify to,” Milton lied.
Moving on to Ray, who had just turned nineteen, the inspector asked him to state his name. “Ray See is my English name. I think my Chinese name is Fong Ming Fook, but I never use it.” Again, photographs were produced and identified.
Bennie, aged sixteen, and Eddy, aged 13, answered promptly and also identified the photographs. Finally, Inspector Blee escorted Sissee, who was just short of her tenth birthday, into the room. As the youngest child, she was the most frightened. Like the rest, she was cautioned to tell the truth.
“What is your papa’s name?” Blee began.
“Mr. Fong See.”
“Do you know whose photo this is?” Blee asked, setting Fong See’s Form 430 application and photograph on the table.
“That is my papa,” she answered in a quavering voice.
Blee presented Ticie’s Form 431 application and again queried the girl.
“This is my mama’s picture,” she told him. He showed her photo graphs of her brothers and asked her to identify them by name. Finally, Blee asked Sissee what she did. “I am going to the California Street School,” she answered. “I am in the B4 grade.”
Unsatisfied, Blee gathered the children together. “I show you here two other photographs, one marked ‘Exhibit G’ and the other marked ‘Exhibit H,’ which I will attach to the record. I will ask you each separately if you can identify these photographs.” The children were again sent out of the room. Then, going by age, Blee called them in one by one. Each of the boys found and identified the pictures of their parents. As the youngest, Sissee was the last to be called. Presented with the photographs, she pointed, “This is Mr. Fong See, with the G, and my mama is the one with the H.”
As the interrogations dragged on, Fong See contacted the Chinese consul in San Francisco, which then wired the passport division of the State Department in Washington, D.C., to please forward the passports for the five native-born children without waiting for the arrival of their 430
forms. On June 18, the passport office wired back that this would be impossible. On July 1, based on evidence submitted and adduced during the investigation, the See children were found to “reasonably establish their American citizenship by reason of birth in the United States.” The Department of State concluded that they could be regarded as citizens. The passports—heavy with extra documentation stating the race for each See sibling as “Mongolian”—arrived two weeks later, three days before the family’s scheduled departure.
While Ticie handled immigration matters, Fong See focused his attentions on what would happen to the business while he was away. In February he had filed a revised partner list. Wing Ho still manned the Long Beach store. Fong Yun was managing a new store at 800 West Seventh Street, downtown. (Fong See closed the Pasadena branch, because only he had the expertise to deal with those customers.) The rest of the old names were removed from the partnership list, and a dozen new ones took their place. Ming Kuen and Ming Ho—Uncle’s sons in China—were awarded “partnerships.” As a precaution against unforeseen difficulties from future immigration inspectors, Milton, Ray, Bennie, and Eddy were also given “partnerships” under their Chinese names.
In the final hectic days before setting sail, Fong See drilled his workers on their duties during his absence. With instructions in hand, Uncle would oversee recalcitrant helpers and clerks, deal with customs officials when Fong See sent merchandise back to the States, supervise the uncrating of each piece, and provide testimony on behalf of the “false” Fong Lai for a return trip to China. At last, on July 17, 1919, Fong See and his family boarded the SS Nanking for the twenty-nine-day trip to Hong Kong via Honolulu, Yokohama, Tokyo, and Shanghai. They planned to stay in China for a year.
*
By the end of the first day out of San Francisco, Fong See had checked on everything of importance he needed to know, as far as this leg of the trip was concerned. He laughed when his children complained that the vessel was small and rocked miserably. Compared to the clipper ship he’d first taken to America, the Nanking, a steamer, was civilized and safe. It offered reasonable fares, decent cuisine, and accommodations for all classes. He had appraised his fellow passengers, noting which seating they were called for, and to which deck they retired after dinner. He’d seen only a few Caucasian passengers—missionaries with religious zeal in their hearts, and a handful of businessmen, their eyes glistening with the possibilities of the Far East—who took cabins in first and second class.
Most of the passengers were sojourners who’d come to the Gold Mountain, worked as laborers, saved their money, and were now retiring to their home villages with one or two thousand dollars in their pockets. Watching them hunker down on the open-air third-class deck for what they surely hoped would be a month-long game of fan-tan, Fong See thought of something his father used to say. Put one and a half Chinese together and you will find gambling. Already a dealer was counting out buttons in sets of four from a metal cup, while other men placed their bets.
Part of Fong See’s mystique was his ability to make both the Chinese and Caucasians around him believe that he had more and lived better than they did. This trip was no exception. The Chinese aboard—whether in second class or steerage—believed that Mr. See and his family traveled as first-class passengers. “Fong See is the only Tang Man among us who has climbed to such heights,” the gamblers might mumble in admiration, looking up from their fan-tan buttons.
In second class, Leong Jeung, who owned a produce stall at the Los Angeles Central Market, was not acquainted with Fong See. His wife, however, knew him well. For if Fong See lived as a merchant prince, then Mrs. Leong ruled as a despotic warlord over Chinatown’s Methodist Mission, and ran the language school with dedication and uncompromising energy. Although the two rarely spoke, Mrs. Leong was not unaware of Fong See’s importance. She could threaten the wives of her other countrymen with damnation if their children didn’t attend Sunday school, but she would never succeed in these tactics with Fong See or his family.
“He is the importer,” she lectured her husband. “He is a successful businessman. He is on his way to hell, but he is articulate in the language of the Gold Mountain. How fortunate we are as a family to have our staterooms on the same level as his.”
Mrs. Leong was a poor judge of Fong See’s speaking ability. She may have been an empress of her own language who devoted her life to teaching the children of Chinatown the eloquent strokes of Chinese calligraphy and drilling them for hours each weekday afternoon on passages from the classics, but her English was forever meager. Fong See’s English was neither Hong Kong English nor Oxford English, but, as his American customers and immigration officials knew, he “got along.”
For all the rumors that drifted among the Chinese and Americans on this voyage, none but Fong See’s own family knew that they traveled Special Second Class. They ate with the first-class passengers and slept in beautifully outfitted cabins, but paid only a token amount over the ordinary second-class fare. Still, what a conundrum the Sees posed to those around them. Fong See—whatever age he was, from fifty-three to sixty-two, depending on who was asking—still looked youthful, his face unlined, his body slim. Dressed immaculately in a western suit, he entertained the Caucasian wayfarers with tales of Sung Dynasty landscape scrolls, Ming vases, and T’ang horses. For him, this trans-Pacific passage was just another way of luring potential customers to the F. Suie One Company; any location would do.
Where Fong See sometimes seemed too showy with his brash pinstripes and diamond tie tacks, his wife appeared quietly elegant in well-cut silk gowns of classic design and little artifice. Ticie, her auburn hair crimped and swept up into an elaborate bun, exchanged appropriate pleasantries with the Caucasian wives, but, in her effort to be a correct Chinese wife, she was subdued, self-contained. She had little in common with these women.
The two sets of sons, left to their own devices, prowled the ship. Ming and Ray—both gallant and debonair—found no young ladies with whom they could try to establish reputations as irresistible playboys. For diversion, Ming and Ray mercilessly teased Gilbert Leong—the eight-year-old pride of the rigid and strict Leong family. Gilbert was born “lucky,” slipping from his mother’s womb in the first year of Dr. Sun Yat-sen’s Chinese Republic. The Leong family believed Gilbert was destined for a special, fortunate life. Ming and Ray, however, thought he was a little squirt. Each afternoon they took turns grabbing Gilbert by his belt, hoisting him above their heads, and shaking him like a pompom at a football game.
“Hey! Hey!” Gilbert screamed and yelled. “Put me down! Put me down, please.”
He cried out in English. He tried Chinese. But Ming and Ray never listened, preferring the raucous encouragement they got from Bennie and Eddy. The gamblers in steerage looked up from their games of fan-tan and shook their heads. What could they do? These boys were from the See family. They were moneyed. They were spoiled. They were untouchable.
Sissee stayed at her mother’s side. The stringent rules that applied to the only daughter of Chinatown’s most prominent importer were followed to the letter, even away from home. Every night after dinner, Ticie tied up her daughter’s black hair in rags. Each morning before breakfast, passengers and crew marveled at the little girl’s pristine ringlets. (By the end of a day in the damp sea air, Sissee’s curls loosened once again to the naturally straight hair of a young Chinese girl.) Needlework every day. No wandering off to explore the ship. The schedule varied only when seasickness felled the adults. Then Sissee kept her ailing mother company in their stateroom, serving her tea or bouillon.
The long days centered around the ship’s meals. In steerage, surrounded by mounds of baskets, trunks, and boxes, men squatted around a communal dinner of rice and a single dish of stir-fried vegetables and meat. In the main dining room—with its white table linens, crystal, and silver—heavy American meals prevailed. Each night at the table for the few second-class Chinese travelers, some joker would regale his dinner companions with stori
es of his first trip to the United States.
“The peasants in my home village all helped to pay for my voyage, so I sailed not as a coolie but as a young man seeking his fortune,” a traveler might tell his neighbors over beef Wellington, potatoes au gratin, and green beans almondine. “I spoke no English. I could read no English. Each mealtime, I would go to the dining room and look at the menu. The waiter would come. I would point to three things.” Here, his companions would begin to laugh. They knew this story. They had lived it themselves. “The waiter would bring my dinner. A soup, a soup, and another soup.”
After many days at sea, the Nanking chugged into Honolulu harbor. Standing at the railing, the children watched as laborers hauled up blocks of ice for the refrigeration unit and brought new stores aboard. The kids, as well as the adults, learned to appreciate this pattern. With ice refrigeration, each day out of port altered the quality of the meat. As the ice melted, sauces became heavier to cover the rank flavor of the putrefying flesh.
