marries out. Your two sons will live with you for the rest of your life.”
Every day the two of them came to this same sad place in the conversation, and every day my mother tried to steer the subject to more practical issues.
“If Lily becomes a
laotong,
she won’t have sworn sisters. All the women in our family—”
—have had them
is how Mama intended to end the sentence, but Aunt finished it another way—“can act as her sworn sisters on those occasions when they are necessary. If you feel we need more girls when it comes time for Sitting and Singing in the Upstairs Chamber before Lily’s marriage, you can invite the unmarried daughters of our neighbors to assist her.”
“Those girls won’t know her well,” Mama said.
“But her
laotong
will. By the time those two girls marry out, they will know each other better than you or I know our husbands.”
Aunt paused as she always did at this point.
“Lily has an opportunity to follow a path different from the one either you or I took to end up here,” she continued, after a moment. “This
laotong
relationship will give her added value and show people in Tongkou that she is worthy of a good marriage into their village. And since the bond between two old sames is forever and does not change with marriage, ties with people in Tongkou will be further cemented and your husband—and all of us—further protected. These things will help secure Lily’s position in the women’s quarters of her future husband’s home. She won’t be a woman crippled by an ugly face or ugly feet. She will be a woman with perfect golden lilies who has already proved her loyalty, faithfulness, and ability to write in our secret language well enough to have been the
laotong
of a girl from their own village.”
Variations of this conversation were endless, and I listened to them every day. What I didn’t get to hear was how all this was translated to my father during Mama and Baba’s bed time. This match would cost my father resources—the constant exchange of gifts between the old sames and their families, the sharing of food and water during Snow Flower’s visits to our house, and the expense for me to travel to Tongkou—all of which he did not have. But as Madame Wang said, it was up to Mama to convince Baba that this was a good idea. Aunt helped too by whispering in Uncle’s ear, since Beautiful Moon’s future was attached to mine. Anyone who says that women do not have influence in men’s decisions makes a vast and stupid mistake.
Eventually, my family made the choice I wished for. The next question was how I should respond to this Snow Flower. Mama helped me add extra embroidery to a pair of shoes I had been working on to send as my first gift, but she could not begin to advise me on my written response. Usually the return message was sent on a new fan, which would then become part of what might be considered the “wedding” gifts exchange. I had something different in mind, which broke completely with tradition. When I looked at Snow Flower’s interwoven garland at the top of the fan, I thought of the old saying, “Hyacinth bean and papayas, long vines, deep roots. Palm trees inside the garden walls, with deep roots, stand a thousand years.” To me this summed up what I wanted our relationship to be: deep, entwined, forever. I wanted this one fan to be the symbol of our relationship. I was only seven and a half years old, but I envisioned what this fan with all its secret messages would become.
Once I was convinced that my response would be on Snow Flower’s fan, I asked Aunt to help me compose the right
nu shu
reply. For days we discussed the possibilities. If I was to be radical with my return gift, I should be as conventional as possible with my secret message. Aunt wrote out the words we agreed upon, and I practiced them until my calligraphy was passable. When I was satisfied, I ground ink on the inkstone, mixing it with water until I achieved a deep black.
Every day the two of them came to this same sad place in the conversation, and every day my mother tried to steer the subject to more practical issues.
“If Lily becomes a
laotong,
she won’t have sworn sisters. All the women in our family—”
—have had them
is how Mama intended to end the sentence, but Aunt finished it another way—“can act as her sworn sisters on those occasions when they are necessary. If you feel we need more girls when it comes time for Sitting and Singing in the Upstairs Chamber before Lily’s marriage, you can invite the unmarried daughters of our neighbors to assist her.”
“Those girls won’t know her well,” Mama said.
“But her
laotong
will. By the time those two girls marry out, they will know each other better than you or I know our husbands.”
Aunt paused as she always did at this point.
“Lily has an opportunity to follow a path different from the one either you or I took to end up here,” she continued, after a moment. “This
laotong
relationship will give her added value and show people in Tongkou that she is worthy of a good marriage into their village. And since the bond between two old sames is forever and does not change with marriage, ties with people in Tongkou will be further cemented and your husband—and all of us—further protected. These things will help secure Lily’s position in the women’s quarters of her future husband’s home. She won’t be a woman crippled by an ugly face or ugly feet. She will be a woman with perfect golden lilies who has already proved her loyalty, faithfulness, and ability to write in our secret language well enough to have been the
laotong
of a girl from their own village.”
Variations of this conversation were endless, and I listened to them every day. What I didn’t get to hear was how all this was translated to my father during Mama and Baba’s bed time. This match would cost my father resources—the constant exchange of gifts between the old sames and their families, the sharing of food and water during Snow Flower’s visits to our house, and the expense for me to travel to Tongkou—all of which he did not have. But as Madame Wang said, it was up to Mama to convince Baba that this was a good idea. Aunt helped too by whispering in Uncle’s ear, since Beautiful Moon’s future was attached to mine. Anyone who says that women do not have influence in men’s decisions makes a vast and stupid mistake.
Eventually, my family made the choice I wished for. The next question was how I should respond to this Snow Flower. Mama helped me add extra embroidery to a pair of shoes I had been working on to send as my first gift, but she could not begin to advise me on my written response. Usually the return message was sent on a new fan, which would then become part of what might be considered the “wedding” gifts exchange. I had something different in mind, which broke completely with tradition. When I looked at Snow Flower’s interwoven garland at the top of the fan, I thought of the old saying, “Hyacinth bean and papayas, long vines, deep roots. Palm trees inside the garden walls, with deep roots, stand a thousand years.” To me this summed up what I wanted our relationship to be: deep, entwined, forever. I wanted this one fan to be the symbol of our relationship. I was only seven and a half years old, but I envisioned what this fan with all its secret messages would become.
Once I was convinced that my response would be on Snow Flower’s fan, I asked Aunt to help me compose the right
nu shu
reply. For days we discussed the possibilities. If I was to be radical with my return gift, I should be as conventional as possible with my secret message. Aunt wrote out the words we agreed upon, and I practiced them until my calligraphy was passable. When I was satisfied, I ground ink on the inkstone, mixing it with water until I achieved a deep black.
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