i uprooted return

i uprooted return

By Liana Fu

A Zine Submitted to the Program in Creative Writing University of Chicago In Partial Fulfilment of the Requirements for the Degree of Bachelor of Arts

April 25, 2021 CRWR Advisor: Lina Ferreira Cabeza-Vanegas CRES Advisor: Riley Snorton

for those seeking to release their shame and realize their power, the ancestors, and my friends who make me possible.

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1. How are you?

2. Do you promise to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God? 3. What is your race?

4. What’s your mother’s name?

5. Do you support the U.S. Constitution and the U.S. government?

6. Do you understand why you are being interviewed?

U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS), 2003-. Questions asked: 10-20.

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If the land of the Flowery Flag is occupied by us in turn, The wooden building will be left for the angel’s revenge.1

花旗旗其轉吾人佔據， 木樓樓留與天使還仇。

1

H. Mark Lai, Genny Lim, and Judy Yung, Island Poetry and History of Chinese Immigrants On Angel Island 1910-1940 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991), 92.

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I hung upside down on the jungle gym, my world inverted, fingertips reaching toward the woodchips. I remember it was multicolored and huge; it had a presence on the playground that overwhelmed even the monkey bars and swings. Since it was only half a sphere I imagined the other half was buried and that one day it’d rise like a relic, all its fossils uncovered and constructed into something new. Whenever the bell rang for recess, I raced to the top to secure my position. I was small and flexible so I could weave between the metal bars, sprawl out on top, do a flip from the inside. Blood would rush to my head if I stayed upside down too long but I think that’s part of why I enjoyed it, the way I could see things differently.

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The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 barred the entry of all Chinese immigrants to the United States except for those who were diplomats, academics, ministers, or merchants.

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I treasured my pencil case—I organized and cleaned it religiously. It was regal purple, plastic, covered in heart stickers, and I felt satisfied with how it snapped open and closed. I had special pencils for writing stories during lunch with my friend Hannah. She was Chinese like me, but I couldn’t understand Mandarin like her. She was the realist, I the dreamer.

“Don’t hog it for too long,” she said as she passed me the loose-leaf notebook paper. It was my turn to continue the story where she had left it. I loved going on page-long tangents about a character’s favorite book or long-lost sister, even though Hannah often found herself fixing these nonsensical parts, huffing in frustration, as if to say, I’m convinced you don’t know how to write.

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Brainstorming notes from my journal

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1. What’s your manifest number (from your ship)?

2. What is your occupation?

3. How much money do you have?

4. Are you able to read and write? (yes or no) 5. Who paid for your passage?

6. Are you coming to America for a job? Where will you work?

Ellis Island Immigration Station, 1892-1954. Questions asked: 29.

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I think my mom wasn’t like most Chinese parents. According to Hannah, she was bad at being Chinese, and by default, so was I. Hannah’s mom forced her to get straight A’s and do extra math homework outside of school; my mom just wanted me to try my best and redirected any math questions to my dad. Hannah’s mom expected her to speak Mandarin at home; my mom stopped speaking Cantonese to me when I started public school in the third grade. My mom was, to Hannah’s surprise, an artist by training who designed digital art for a living.

“You’re so lucky,” Hannah sighed, coloring in one of our original characters. “I wish my mom didn’t care.”

Your parents know you for nearly your entire life, and you only know your parents for a fraction of theirs. I can only paint a half-complete picture of my mom from what she chooses to tell me. I was so good at English, I got better grades on my papers than my white friends. They were always so mad at me, she’d say. I was really involved in the multicultural club and I helped put on our show every year, and When I first met my host family, my host sister brought me to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show—I was so shocked. She thought it would be funny to do that. I didn’t think so.

My mom’s a devout Christian, which is why she sent me to an Evangelical private school from kindergarten to third grade. She met my dad at the same church she’s taken our family to every Sunday. Two summers ago, when I went to Hong Kong to sharpen my Cantonese, she looked at my overstuffed suitcase and said: “I was hoping you’d have space to bring back some English-Cantonese Bibles but I guess not.”

What I only learned recently from her sister while I was in Hong Kong: before the Bibles flew, her other sister died from cancer. She’d never call language a vehicle but it carried her to America. In her carry-on, a Bible on its second flight. The first, from the hands of her father. I

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imagine him yelling, “How dare you believe in fake gods,” the book smashing into the wall with a thud. She, the perfect eldest daughter, dared to disobey him—which is why I exist.

When my mom arrived, she was dropped into the middle of the ‘80s. Fifteen years before that, before she was born, the Hart-Celler Act allowed “qualified immigrants” to enter America on the basis of their skills. It got rid of the national quotas set by the Chinese Exclusion Act, but maintained a distinction between “legal” and “illegal,” defining value based on productivity.

Since my mom was beginning her high school education, she was deemed acceptable and left Hong Kong. The city, a British colony about to become a Chinese one, was no longer stuck in the past, securing its worth because of its profitability. She fell into the promised land that was called 美國, beautiful country.

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From my notes: “canto english mandarin mix. Fragmentary?

Live translation…part of how I learned canto”

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I learned the meaning of shame on Sundays. I always saw something wrong to fix about myself, I felt like I owed a debt to God, and my mom. I didn’t go to a language school like my other Chinese friends but I went to church, which was effectively the same thing. Traditional Chinese characters printed side-by-side on program pamphlets I doodled on during sermons; hymns like How Great is Our God sung in English and Cantonese; aunties and uncles from Hong Kong who taught me to be grateful for Noah’s Ark, the whale that spit Jonah out, and my parents’ journey to America. Learning Cantonese was a religious experience for me, so I often had things to apologize for: my limited vocabulary stalling conversation, being a better listener than speaker, falling asleep during sermons that were twice as long because of live translations.

It could have been boredom but I think it was my way of disagreeing, even though I felt ashamed for even questioning it. Forever ingrained in my memory is this verse, carved into wooden letters and nailed to the church wall: For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. Remember, sacrifice. Remember, repay it.

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In the fourth grade, my homeroom teacher thought it was a good idea to recreate Angel Island for the class on our annual Immigration Day. Maybe she saw it as an exercise in empathy, imagining a pain unfelt by us but real and enduring. She had a kind face that reminded me of my mom, and one of her kids was my classmate. She was stern but caring in the way I expected a mom to be. I put a lot of trust into her, and I hated to disobey or seem like a bad student. That’s what people like Jay did—cause problems. He lived comfortably in the social hierarchy. He was funny, able to make the whole class crack up over one joke. He had a smile that could be confused with a smirk, and all the girls fell for it, including me. His swooping blonde hair and very blue eyes rivaled fairytale princes. To remind everyone of his athleticism, he wore soccer jerseys and challenged everyone to race him, and of course he always won. When I watched him, he seemed untouchable; he was everything I was not. In a distant dream, maybe I could be as charming, as funny, as desired. Not weak and small, with anger I couldn’t articulate.

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1. Where do you currently live?

2. How long have you lived there?

3. Where do you sleep at your house?

4. Is there a wall around your village?

5. What’s it made out of?

6. How many pigs does your neighbor on the left have?

Angel Island Immigration Station, 1910-1940. Questions asked: 200-1000.

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My mom tells me that my great grandpa went through Angel Island as a Paper Son. An earthquake and fire in 1906 destroyed all birth records in San Francisco, enabling his rebirth as a Lee, though he was born a Chang. He forged his relation to an American citizen and slipped in through the cracks. He brought his daughter, my grandma’s sister, with him. This was all before my mom was born. I imagine he memorized elaborate details about his so-called relatives, from the layout of their ancestral village to the last name of his third cousin, in order to pass the endless-question judgment trials. To prevent collusion on entrance questions, visitors weren’t allowed—except for Christian missionaries, who taught English.

The poems of Angel Island haunt me. They were first painted, then carved when the guards erased them, into the walls of the men’s detention cells. Whenever I read them I feel as if I’m fulfilling someone’s long-lost hope, offering an impossible response to a call asking to be reached and remembered. A lot of the poems feel hopeless and sad, so when I find an angry one I drift towards it, the voice.

Leaving behind my writing brush and removing my sword, I came to America.

Who was to know two streams of tears would flow upon arriving here?

If there comes a day when I will have attained my ambition and become successful, I will certainly behead the barbarians and spare not a single blade of grass.2

In it, the promise of revenge.

2

Ibid, 84.

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A white girl, Sarah, asked me for help writing cursive letters sometimes. I couldn’t tell if she was really my friend because she ended every conversation with a smile I didn’t understand, her eyes always looking at someone else. When she pulled the corners of her eyes up on the bus, telling me to look, I had a feeling it was bad but I didn’t know why. During another lunchtime writing session with Hannah, she interrupts and I end up spending my time tutoring her.

“Just write it at least three times for practice,” I said.

“Isn’t it three?”

“That’s what I said?”

“No, you said free.”

“Free,” I said.

“No, three. Three.”

“Fr-Three.”

Hannah ignores the both of us, engrossed in her perfect story.

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握别依然又一秋: 天涯作客遠方遊。 回憶高情心未價: 望傳佳語藉書郵。

Since our parting, another autumn has yet arrived.

I have become a distant traveler of far away places.

Remembering your great kindness, I know in my heart I have not repaid you.

Hoping to send good tidings, I’ll depend on writing letters.3

3

Ibid, 154.

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On Immigration Day, the whole fourth grade was herded into the jungle gym. Instead of being on top, I was at the bottom with everyone else. I would get in trouble for even thinking about climbing out and up.

The teachers monitored us as we waited. People tried entertaining themselves, pulling aggressively at the colorful bars as if they were really stuck inside. Some sat on the ground and played Concentration 64 or Lemonade, their hands slapping rhythmically. I couldn’t find Hannah or Sarah, who were probably with the other group.

After what felt like hours, the teachers began pulling people randomly from the makeshift holding station until there were only a few left. I was led back into the school building to greet my homeroom teacher, who was staring at me while holding a strange metal tool, like the kind dentists use.

“Have you seen this before?” she asked. “Immigrants used to go through long medical examinations with tools like this.”

I didn’t know what was happening. I followed instructions, didn’t question anything my teacher said. When she asked, I answered and obeyed.

“Stand against the wall please.” I stood. She made a note of my height.

“How many family members do you have?”

“What’s your last name?”

“What’s your mile time?”

“What’s three times two?”

She asked more questions that I don’t remember before releasing me. I walked back to the classroom in a daze.

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When I was in Hong Kong, I registered for a Queer Theology camp. I was trying to make sense of the disparate parts of myself, hoping to find acceptance by queering religion while learning language. I jokingly called my return to Hong Kong a “reverse-diaspora,” thinking about the irony of my grand return juxtaposed with my mom’s hurried exodus. All that effort to leave just for me to come back so easily.

I could recite Bible verses by heart but the theological theory in lectures was beyond me.

Still, I felt strange comfort in the company of queer Cantonese people, like Sunday school without the homophobia. But I don’t know if I felt any more complete, having to listen to the English interpretation. Another thing to fix.

I learned that there are no gendered pronouns in spoken Cantonese, something British and Chinese colonization couldn’t bury. Something God can’t explain.

Afterwards, emboldened, I considered getting a tattoo to commemorate the experience. I could have said nothing, but I told my mom about my plan.

Please don’t do it, I’m so worried you’ll get an infection and die.

Mom, I wanted to say. Can’t you see I’m testing you? I’m only preparing you for what’s to come with these little disappointments.

I do not have the words yet. Or maybe the words aren’t enough.

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Poem 65 carved into Angel Island’s walls in Cantonese

Bidding farewell to the wooden building, I return to Hong Kong.

From hence forward, I will arouse my country and flaunt my aspirations.

I’ll tell my compatriots to inform their fellow villagers.

If they posess even a small surplus of food and clothing, They should not drift across the ocean.4

4

Ibid, 130.

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My childhood drawing of Hong Kong

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At ten, I felt a rage I couldn’t reign in, an irresistible desire to destroy and confront and scream. I couldn’t name it, but the accumulation of small things made me as volatile as a volcano before it creates new earth.

I discovered a small hole poked into the heart sticker on my pencil case. My mom, who I saw between business trips to Hong Kong, gave me the pack of 3D heart stickers as a souvenir and apology. It was an ugly piercing, tiny but noticeably made by a pencil from the dark graphite evidence left behind. It was unfixable. Jay averted his eyes, mouth twitching.

I stood up and pulled my kiddie scissors out of my pencil case, pointing the blades at him. “Hey,” my voice wavered, “don’t touch my stuff.”

Suddenly he was staring right at me and it was overwhelming. Didn’t I want him to look at me? His eyes widened in surprise.

“Woah, calm down,” he said, raising his hands up in surrender. “Put the scissors down.”

“No,” I said. I snapped the blades open and shut quickly. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“Fine, I won’t. You’re crazy,” he said.

Crazy. I’m crazy. I repeat it in my head and my heart swells. I smiled, dizzy with power.

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Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 (Hart-Celler Act) To amend the Immigration and Nationality Act, and for other purposes.

Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That section 201 of the Immigration and Nationality Act (66 Stat. 176; 8 U.S.C. 1151) be amended to read as follows:

…Exclusive of special immigrants…the number of aliens who may be issued immigrant visas or who may otherwise acquire the status of an alien lawfully admitted to the United States for permanent residence, or who may, pursuant to section 203(a) (7) enter conditionally…shall not in any fiscal year exceed a total of 170,000…

The immediate relatives specified in this subsection who are otherwise qualified for admission as immigrants shall be admitted as such, without regard to the numerical limitations in this Act…

The immigration pool and the quotas of quota areas shall terminate June 30, 1968…

No person shall receive any preference or priority or be discriminated against in the issuance of an immigrant visa because of his race, sex, nationality, place of birth, or place of residence…

“(1) Visas shall be first made available, in a number not to exceed 20 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), to qualified immigrants who are the unmarried sons or daughters of citizens of the United States.

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“(2) Visas shall next be made available, in a number not to exceed 20 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), plus any visas not required for the classes specified in paragraph (1), to qualified immigrants who are the spouses, unmarried sons or unmarried daughters of an alien lawfully admitted for permanent residence.

“(3) Visas shall next be made available, in a number not to exceed 10 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), to qualified immigrants who are members of the professions, or who because of their exceptional ability in the sciences or the arts will substantially benefit prospectively the national economy, cultural interests, or welfare of the United States.

“(4) Visas shall next be made available, in a number not to exceed 10 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), plus any visas not required for the classes specified in paragraphs (1) through (3), to qualified immigrants who are the married sons or the married daughters of citizens of the United States.

“(5) Visas shall next be made available, in a number not to exceed 24 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), plus any visas not required for the classes specified in paragraphs (1) through (4), to qualified immigrants who are the brothers or sisters of citizens of the United States.

“(6) Visas shall next be made available, in a number not to exceed 10 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), to qualified immigrants who are capable of performing specified

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skilled or unskilled labor, not of a temporary or seasonal nature, for which a shortage of employable and willing persons exists in the United States.

“(7) Conditional entries shall next be made available by the Attorney General, pursuant to such regulations as he may prescribe and in a number not to exceed 6 per centum of the number specified in section 201(a) (ii), to aliens who satisfy an Immigration and Naturalization Service officer at an examination in any non-Communist or non-Communist-dominated country, (A) that (i) because of persecution or fear of persecution on account of race, religion, or political opinion they have fled (I) from any Communist or Communist-dominated country or area, or (II) from any country within the general area of the Middle East, and (ii) are unable or unwilling to return to such country or area on account of race, religion, or political opinion, and (iii) are not nationals of the countries or areas in which their application for conditional entry is made; or (B) that they are persons uprooted by catastrophic natural calamity as defined by the President who are unable to return to their usual place of abode…

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1. When did you lose the ability to imagine? Why? 2. What can you do with the past, with what you’ve been given?

3. What would it mean to see your ancestor’s lives as deliberate, to see them as complex agents of power in their circumstances?

4. What would it mean, then, to see yourself as an agent of power in your circumstances, to be free of that ancestral weight?

5. To define for yourself your own life, to create and imagine something better for this world?

6. Are you free?

Questionnaire for myself, 2021.

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