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Literary Research/Recherche littéraire 20.39-40 (2003): 164-176 Othering the Face and Over the past two decades, the concept of globalization has been steadily gaining ground in our discussions of current affairs. Leading the way is of course the talk of economic globalization, which focuses on such topics as the rise of multi-national corporations and the inability of national governments to cope with the problems of a globalized market. The present paper, however, chooses to dwell upon an issue in the field of cultural globalization, which is ontologically related to but methodologically separable from economic globalization. We start with Arjun Appadurai, a prominent theorist of cultural globalization, who proposes to take global migration as a major diacritic and explore its effect on the work of the imagination. At first glance, the proposition looks like a return to the traditional doublet of life versus literature where the latter is believed to be either a reflection of the former or an escape from it, but Appadurai is no orthodox Marxist who operates in the simple binary opposition of base and superstructure; instead he views the imaginary as a field of social practices whose forms and strategies differ depending on the sites and aims of the particular agents involved. As he himself puts it: The image, the imagined, the imaginary — these are all terms which direct us to something critical and new in global cultural processes: the imagination as a social practice. No longer mere fantasy (opium for the masses whose real work is elsewhere), no longer simple escape (from a world defined principally by more concrete purposes and structures), no longer elite pastime (thus not relevant for new forms of desire and subjectivity), the imagination has become an organized field of social practices, a form of work (both in the sense of labor and of culturally organized practice) and a form of negotiation between sites of agency ('individuals') and globally defined fields of possibility.[1] [end page 164] The word "negotiation" among other terms suggests a clear departure from the traditional dichotomy of writing and society. No longer a parasitic phantom, the former is conceived as an active part of the latter (writing in society) where feelings and ideas of all sorts are confirmed, contested, and sometimes commodified. According to Appadurai, one of the historical circumstances giving rise to cultural globalization is the transnational "ethnoscape" where tourists, migrants, refugee exiles, and guest workers form new and complex human relationships. "[A]s international capital shifts its needs, as production and technology generate different needs, these moving groups can never afford to let their imagination rest too long, even if they wish to."[2] The result is a special category of narratives which, as part of the border-crossing activities, cannot be fully understood and explained in relation to one single cultural tradition or homogeneous readership which characterizes much of our literary studies in the past. Take for example the works of Maxine Hong Kingston, who is the first Chinese American writer to win a major book award in the United States. All of her masterpieces, The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a girlhood among ghosts (1976), China Men (1980), and Tripmaster Monkey: His fake book (1988), are about the diasporic experiences of Americans of Chinese descent and, by delineating the ordeals of pioneering migrants who endured brutal exploitation as railroad and plantation laborers, as well as her own bewilderment growing up as a second-generation Chinese American, the author has presented a kaleidoscope of sometimes painful but always illuminating life situations of Chinese people in America. As a Chinese descendent living in a predominantly non-Chinese country, the narrator of The Woman Warrior finds herself caught between two value systems that are often incompatible with each other. One part of her being is Chinese, passed on to her through her mother's innumerable familial stories, and the other part is American which she has acquired from her teachers and peers in school. Both traditions are restrictive and demand different behaviors out of the same individual. Thus she is constantly forced to reexamine established values and behaviors and accept or reject them in relation to her own individual experiences and conscience. China Men is to be read against the background of Chinese migrants who went to the United States around the time of the gold rush — as a source of cheap labor for sugarcane farms and the transcontinental railroad — and were subjected to harsh racial discrimination including the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1885 which unconditionally prohibited immigration of Chinese. The author's declared purpose in writing the book is "to claim America" for those whose contributions to the country have been left out of most history books, so in her narrative focus is the heroic [end page 165] feats of early Chinese migrants: the physical endurance as well as intellectual ingenuity they demonstrated while working in the sugarcane plantations of Hawaii or on the railroad of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Exploited and oppressed by their white hosts, the Chinese forefathers refused to be silenced. Great Grandfather, for one, gave his fellow workers an idea for relieving themselves of their bottled-up emotions: they were advised to dig holes in the earth and shout all their unspoken wishes into the ears of the world. These men covered up the shouting holes after they let go their pent-up emotions, but Kingston, who has heard the stories through her parents and grandparents, is here to recreate their world of work and suffering. The little girl in The Woman Warrior and the laborers in China Men can certainly be said to be "seeking a self and a place" as Chinese migrants in America — a motif which has preoccupied many twentieth-century Chinese American writers from Jade Snow Wong to Amy Tan[3] — but no less so is Kingston's narrative act itself, which was carried out in relation to other US writers against whom she was competing as a Chinese American producer of cultural artifacts. One recent study reveals that, despite its heavily fictional nature, The Woman Warrior was forcibly labeled an "autobiography" at the time of its publication for the purpose of reaching a wider readership.[4] The anticipated American interest in China was partly due to the 1973 signing of the US-PRC Communique in Shanghai which started a new round of direct diplomatic and cultural exchanges between the two countries after twenty-four years of total isolation. Being a Chinese American, Maxine Hong Kingston occupied a unique discursive position of being able to satisfy the growing public curiosity about things Chinese with her personal experiences and witness's accounts. But "things Chinese" in this case did not mean "anything Chinese. One must not forget that China historically occupied the position of the Other which appealed to the American imagination by virtue of its sharp difference. Edith Eaton [Sui Sin Far], a nineteenth-century Eurasian American writer, had complained of this invisible yet very real discursive constraint: They [the "funny people who advise me to trade upon my nationality"] tell me that if I wish to succeed in literature in America I should dress in Chinese costume, carry a fan in my hand, wear a pair of scarlet beaded slippers, live in New York, and come of high birth. Instead of making myself familiar with the Chinese Americans around me, I should discourse on my spiritual acquaintance with Chinese ancestors… [5] [end page 166] As is testified by the above comment, for a Chinese American writer to capture a decent portion of the US book market around the middle of the 20th century, he or she had to take recourse to the strategy of "othering the face" of his or her ethnic community.[6] Maxine Hong Kingston must have been aware of the regulatory pressure of the dominant culture on Chinese American articulation, and her grasp of this historical condition is evidenced by her use of the word "ghost" in the subtitle of her first book and by its substantiation in the story proper. The Chinese girl growing up in Stockton, California, is presented by the author as surrounded by ghost-like foreigners and, more importantly, by the historical specters her family has brought with them from China. For instance, the ghost of Moon Orchid, whose genuine role seems to be that of exhibiting the weird "sexual politics" in a polygamous marriage. The character had been separated from her husband for over thirty years but, upon the urging of her sister, came to the United States to claim the man who by then had become a successful neurosurgeon and married another woman. On this matter she was given the following piece of advice from her sister, which belies the narrator's real intention to present an antiquated marriage system: You have to ask him why he didn't come home. Why he turned into a barbarian. Make him feel bad about leaving his mother and father. Scare him. Walk right into his house with your suitcases and boxes. Move right into the bedroom. Throw her stuff out of the drawers and put yours in. Say, "I am the first wife, and she is our servant."[7] The absurdity of someone assuming that she could just walk up to her husband whom she had not seen for thirty years, ask him to restore her to the preeminent position as the number one woman in the family, and thereafter share one man with another female is exactly what would fascinate a lot of Euro-American readers. The same can be said about the dramatic confrontation between the narrator and her mother over a family arranged marriage. Not willing to accept a ghoulish retarded boy as her future husband, the narrator screamed at her mother: I want you to tell that hulk, that gorilla-ape, to go away and never bother us again. I know what you're up to. You're thinking he's rich, and we're poor. You think we're odd and not pretty and we're not bright. You think you can give us away to freaks. You better not do that, Mother, I don't want to see him or his dirty boxes here tomorrow. If I see him here one more time, I'm going away.[8] [end page 167] The scene described here is taken by many critics as the turning point where the girl is finally able to separate herself from Chinese culture and finds her new identity as an individualistic American, but a case can easily be made for the interpretation that the author just wants to show one more bizarre yet interesting aspect of an alien culture. Ghost stories no doubt contribute to a touch of oriental mysticism that is supposed to surround Chinese culture, but the main feature of Kingston's narratives is speaking the pain and suffering of Chinese people on both sides of the Pacific Ocean. The Woman Warrior is a description of untold miseries experienced by Chinese women. In line with the overall design of the book, Chapter Two contains a number of Chinese proverbs which are meant to serve as indicators of women's low status in that society, — "Girls are maggots in the rice"; "It is more profitable to raise geese than daughters"; "Feeding girls is feeding cowbirds"; "When fishing for treasures in the flood, be careful not to pull in girls" — and those sayings are then illustrated with a series of anecdotes about foot-binding, concubinage, female slavery and female infanticide which most contemporary Americans would consider very inhumane. But the suffering of Chinese women is not to be confined to the geographic area of the Middle Kingdom because Chinese who have immigrated to other countries, whether motivated by homesickness, alienation, or persecution, often hold tightly to what they have brought from the Old Country and thus customs and attitudes that may have altered or disappeared in the mother country may still be continued almost unchanged in isolated enclaves abroad. Maxine Hong Kingston was more than happy to show how "young Chinese women today — even (or perhaps particularly) those living half a globe away from China — are still haunted by the misogynist proverbs and attitudes of generations past."[9] As a parallel to The Woman Warrior, China Men recounts the hard lives of male Chinese migrants in the early days of their settlement in America. On top of their suffering caused by the Chinese civil examination system, Japanese invasion, and communist rule at one time or another back in China for which American readers are invited to embark on several cultural trips into the realm of a pitiable Other, the early settlers are also remembered to have lived in squalor, battling filth and disease and malnutrition, dodging cruel overseers and lynch mobs, chipping at granite rocks, inch by inch, or hacking away at mosquito-infected jungles. To put it in the words of another critic, "these men slaved for years, collected a shockingly small amount of money, and set sail for home. If the Chinese woman was unwelcome from birth on, she was at least secure in her domestic prison, the Chinese man lived in constant hardship and peril. He was lucky to return alive."[10] [end page 168] Both books, as has been shown, speak the misfortune and sorrow of being Chinese, and the narration obviously hit a string somewhere among Kingston's Euro-American readers who have since responded to her books with enthusiasm both individually and institutionally. When The Woman Warrior first entered the market, the first batch of 5,000 hardcovers immediately sold out. The publisher had to rush another 40,000 copies into circulation within months of the initial publication of the book, which led to its winning the 1976 National Book Critics' Circle Award for nonfiction. Before long, the book appeared on school reading lists and in university curricula as either required or supplementary material. Today, it has become one of the most anthologized texts and a recurrent subject of academic journals and conferences in North America. Unlike its reception by the mainstream American culture, Kingston's strategy of self-dramatization has not fared very well with her fellow Chinese Americans. Being a writer from a minority community which has long been silenced in the American literary arena due to its deficiency of what Pierre Bourdieu has called "symbolic capital," Kingston finds imposed upon her an unwelcome burden of having to represent her ethnic group in national culture and politics. The following, for example, is one of many angry responses to her works: First, the depiction of "unique" experience in literature is deemed reprehensible because it threatens to "distort" Chinese American reality. Secondly, fantasy drawing on traditional Chinese culture (in which The Woman Warrior abounds) is considered exotic "fanciful caricature," presumably because social reality is given short shrift. As for the translation of Chinese terms, most translators would agree that a word may be variously rendered depending on context, the Chinese American writer is proscribed from exercising such discretion. A weightier task awaits her, namely, educating the reader about the reality of Chinese American life. To this end, only one translation, with all the "right" connotations, is acceptable.[11] Kingston's counter response is equally agitated. "Why must I 'represent' anyone besides myself?" she retorted. Being an ethnic spokesperson is an honorable social role if one chooses to accept it, but it is not something which should be imposed from above. As to her narrative strategies, she defended them by saying, "I do not think I wrote a 'negative' book, as the Chinese American reviewers said; but suppose I had? Suppose I had been so wonderfully talented that I wrote a tragedy? Are we Chinese Americans to deny ourselves tragedy? If we give up tragedy in order to make a good impression on Caucasians, we have lost a battle."[12] [end page 169] Kingston no doubt has a strong argument. She is before anything else an individual human being who needs to survive in a country which is much larger than her ethnic group and for that reason is entitled to producing stories that are either sad in sentiment or exotic in ambiance or a combination of both. It should be further pointed out that Maxine Hong Kingston is not the only Chinese American writer who chooses to adapt to the aesthetic tastes and demands which come from outside her ethnic community. As one contemporary critic points out, "[a]s long as outsiders are the main reviewers or arbiters of success — of what is acceptable, scholarly, or popular — controversy is likely to swirl around the work of a 'chosen few.' Indeed, the more marketable Asian American writings have been said to be not those with an explicit societal critique, but rather, those which locate the solution or blame for problems in the individual, the family, culture, or ethnic community."[13] Such a textual strategy can be heuristically compared with that of another group of Chinese American writers who likewise are particularly concerned with the experiences of intercultural encounters of Chinese migrants in America. These writers belong to the same general ethnoscape as Maxine Hong Kingston, yet — because they target their works at an entirely different readership, that is, readers who live far away on the other side of the Pacific Ocean — their transnational productions have not received adequate critical attention outside China. Chinese critics, on the other hand, have been quick to notice the sudden emergence and fast growth of a new category of writing which they term as "haiwai huaren wenxue" (overseas Chinese literature). As can be seen from some of their titles[14], works subsumed under this genre are multifarious in subject matters, ranging from the expression of nostalgia toward the homeland to the description of a prostitute's experiences in a foreign city; but the ones that have been most popular with readers in China are usually those which narrate the successes of Chinese migrants who have turned their fate around in a foreign land within a lifetime. Two narrative texts in recent overseas Chinese literature stand out for our particular attention: A Frozen River in the Jungle (conglin xia de binghe) by Zha Jianying and Manhattan's China Lady (manhadun de zhongguo nuren) by Zhou Li. The former is chosen for the fact that it is the first of its kind, and the latter because it is the best known of its kind to hit the Chinese book market. A more important reason for our selection, however, is that these two books contain many of the enunciative features that characterize the majority of works written by diasporic Chinese specifically for their homeland readers. Similar to the works by Kingston we discussed earlier, Manhattan's China Lady is told from the first person perspective. Playing the role of a [end page 170] semi-insider, the "I" brings her readers on a cultural trip to the United States and zealously introduces to them various aspects of American life which are not easily available back at home. "What is recorded here are my personal experiences," thus declares the writer in her preface to the book, "and through them I wish to present a picture of life in America." The autobiographic nature of the stories needs to be clearly stated because the presence of the narrator in the events narrated, her proximity to them, is crucial for the desired tone of "authenticity" which appeals to a largely territorially bound readership. Also contributing to this effect is the author's inclusion of half a dozen real-life photos of herself and several other important personages who figure prominently in her subsequent stories. The photos, however, reveal much more than their exhibitor wants them to. They are indeed "true" electro-chemical records of some life situations of the narrator in America, but they are also telling indicators of which part of the diasporic experiences she wants or does not want to share with readers in China. The ones the writer is most eager to show in this book are "moments of glory" which feature her Caucasian husband Dr. Michael Fochler with a contented smile, her wealthy sponsor's family, the Kirbys, dining in a magnificent Japanese restaurant, the ex-major of New York city Edward Koch patting her shoulder in his grandiose office, and above all, herself signing a business deal in an expensive attire. These pictures and the verbal elaboration which follows make the book very different from Kingston's stories. Unlike the Chinese characters in The Woman Warrior and China Men who seem to be sub-human either because of the repressive cultural tradition at home or the brutal racial discrimination abroad, the Manhattan's China lady is able to make the best of two worlds and emerge triumphant in the battle between the East and the West. Within less than four years after her arrival in America, she has established her own trade company with a business output running into tens of millions of dollars per annum. She also becomes the owner of a luxury apartment near the Central Park in New York and takes frequent vacations in Europe where, if necessary, she and her husband continue to manage through phone and fax the ceaseless flow of containers that originate from the Far East. The narrator unequivocally ascribes these accomplishments to her upbringing in China, and reminisces in particular over the precious education she received as a pupil in Shanghai. In addition to formal schooling, we are told, she participated in such extracurricular activities as "Learning from Lei Feng Campaign," summer camping, a singing and dancing troupe and a literature reading society, all of which contributed to her later success as a business woman in the United States. "Up until today," she says, "I still feel indebted to my country for giving me a beautiful childhood which not everybody can [end page 171] get."[15] This feeling of pride sometimes spills over into her attitude toward Americans which can be detected in the following narrative comment on some "blondes with high noses and blue eyes": "Each time I went to the dining hall for skaters in the Rockefeller Center on weekends and saw those lovely girls take rounds greeting customers, carrying drinks, and issuing bills, I could not help but wonder why they did not want to become actresses and quit the job which would eventually ruin their lives."[16] Here and elsewhere in the book, what the readers get is an impression of overflowing confidence, one that borders self-aggrandizement, which is lacking in any of Kingston's China men and women. All is not well with China of course and that is why the narrator tried so desperately to get out of the country for the United States. Following the first person narration, readers are bombarded with very detailed descriptions of "the American way of life" such as natural parks, water falls, cross-country freeways, shopping malls, museums, concerts, cars, restaurants, or anything which was unfamiliar to ordinary Chinese at the time of her writing. And whenever the narrator speaks about a person, an event, or a landscape of her new country, she has China in her mind as a contrast. This narrative method is made explicit in her reaction to a suburban neighborhood she was taken to by Mr. and Mrs. Kirby: During those two days, Mr. Kirby and Georgia took me to visit eleven families and introduced me to their American friends. For the first time in my life, I felt like being struck by a thunderbolt: every single house I saw had a different architectural style and its inside was luxuriously decorated. There were expensive oil paintings and a piano in the living room which led to a master bedroom, a study, and further to children's rooms and guest areas. Every household also had a mini-bar for the function of holding cocktail parties, an indoor swimming pool, a game center, plus a garage, a basement, storage rooms, and you name it. Flowers were in full bloom on the front lawn and trees heavy with fruits in the backyard. There were also yachts on the river and a green golf field in the vicinity. I was dazzled and stunned by all this, because most of Mr. Kirby's friends were no tycoons like Rochefeller but ordinary American retirees, and yet there was such an unimaginable gap between their life and that of the Chinese people![17] For ordinary Chinese of the time who had been living in drab and crowded apartment buildings all their lives, the cultural shock vicariously experienced here must be equally enormous, and the impact is repeated [end page 172] and reinforced many more times with similar "spectacles of wealth." In this sense, Zhou Li's textual strategy can be described as one which prepares her Chinese readers to "face the other." In A Frozen River in the Jungle, which is a collection of short stories by one author, the depiction of American life is not as spectacular. There are no quick and exciting turnarounds of fortune in big metropolises, but plain and everyday occurrences in small towns experienced and witnessed by a group of new Chinese migrants in America. Nevertheless, one feels the ubiquitous magnetism of the New Continent emanating through the pages. The title story, for example, tells about the life of a Chinese student in America. She left her home country with thirty dollars in her pocket, and the journey — which consisted of three separate flights — brought her to the brink of exhaustion, but "when I saw the green shadow of the American Continent for the first time, all the sickness and fatigue was sudden swept away. The moment I stepped onto the American soil, I felt the freshness of the air and I was walking like a bird. … I think my excitement at the time could be compared with that of Columbus."[18] Naturally, life in the new country is not without its share of hardship and disappointments. The narrator does speak about the difficulty and impracticality of studying literature, but her "complaint" is so insincere and weak that its effect is quickly lost in her admiring descriptions of the library facility where lights would be automatically turned on and off when rare species like her approached or left a particular bookshelf deep down in the basement. The best selling point of the story is the narrator's intimate yet independent relationship with an American young man Jeff. Time and again she proudly mentions her boyfriend's white convertible where they spent so much time courting each other. "Even in America," she says, "a college student driving a fashionable double seater like this is very eye-catching. But when a black-haired, brown-eyed, and yellow-skinned oriental girl sits in it, it is not just eye-catching; it is simply eye-dazzling."[19] There is a second plot line in Zha Jianying's A Frozen River in the Jungle which involves the narrator's first love D, who gave up his worldly pursuits in the capital city and volunteered to work as a village teacher in a backward region of China. At one point she went on a sentimental trip to the place where D lost his life for the common good of the community, but was deeply disillusioned by what she saw along the way: the absence of a shower in her parent's apartment, the same broken cover which had been hanging to the garbage tank of their building since her childhood, the latrine in a wayside hotel she had to put up with for a number of days, and the commotion in a train compartment where she had to stand for hours. All this prompted her to question the meaning of her own actions, [end page 173] At that time, D went to the northwest for some "real needs" and was able to finally realize his dream. What is there for me to do? Sell garlic and melons or teach mandarin to Xinjiang people? It is true that men and women are treated the same in our time, but we have different ideas about life. Even if I had had a beautiful dream, a dream that could have come to fruition in the native land, it surely has disappeared without a trace. Do you know anybody who has been successful in trying to recover a lost dream?[20] The narrator soon returned to the United States and, as if to make up for what she had lost during the trip to China, drive her Toyota around the small town. Sometimes, she would follow the strange impulse of a particular moment and drive dozens of miles just to have a Mexican fast food in a suburban restaurant. Other times, she would go to the school gymnasium and swim long stretches of rounds in a broad lane all by herself. Coming back from the swimming pool, she would take a long hot shower, rub her body hard with a big tower, and change into a loose and soft cotton outfit. "I really loved that feeling of being cleansed of dirt," she exclaims.[21] Obviously, what is imparted in this account is a renewed zeal for material comfort which is obtainable only in the wonderful land called America. To come back to Arjun Appardurai's proposed linking of the imagination with the transnational ethnoscape, it is not difficult to see why our second group of Chinese American writers choose to narrate the "glamour" and "affluence" of life in America. In fact, both Zhou Li and Zha Jianying were part of the "leave the country fever" which has swept across the Chinese mainland since the reopening of its borders in the early 1980s. Up until that time, China had been plagued by a long succession of political and military upheavals — the Republican Revolution of 1911, the Japanese invasion from 1937 to 1945, the internal war between the Communists and Nationalists shortly afterwards, the enforced centrally planned economy after 1949, and the Cultural Revolution between 1966 and 1976. These unfortunate events plus its four-thousand-year agrarian tradition had kept the country's living standard at a very low level in comparison with that of developed countries. To be able to "cross the ocean," therefore, means for most people making the transition from poverty to wealth within a relatively short period of time. It is in response to this burning communal desire "to plunge into the ocean" that a new discourse was born, a discourse which is characterized by recurrent images of the affluent West. In other words, works like A Frozen River in the Jungle and Manhattan's China Lady are part of the cultural repertoire of contemporary China through which a wider set of possible lives in other parts of the world are imagined and consequently commodified. [end page 174] [1]. Arjun Appardurai, Modernity at Large. Cultural dimensions of globalization. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1996: 31. [2]. Ibid., 34. [3]. For details, see Chapter 4, "Focus on America: Seeking a self and a place in Amy Ling," in Between Worlds. New York: Pergamon Press, 1990. [4]. Noted by David Leiwei Li in his Imagining the Nation. Asian American literature and cultural consent. California: Stanford UP, 1998: 51. [5]. Quoted in David Leiwei, op. cit., 47. [6]. Zhang Yimou is one of the better known contemporary Chinese film-makers to the West, whose Red Sorghum (Hong Gaoliang), Ju Dou, Raise the Red Lantern (Dahong Denglong Gaogao Gua), The Story of Qiu Ju (Qiu Ju De Gu Shi), To Live (Huozhe) were produced on the mainland of China during late 1980s and early 1990s but were targeted mainly on western audiences outside the country. [7]. Kingston, The Woman Warrior. Memoirs of a girlhood among ghosts. New York: Knopf, 1976: 126. [8]. Ibid., 201. [9]. Amy Ling, Between Worlds. New York: Pergamon Press, 1990: 9. [10]. Anne Tyler, "A Review of China Men," The New Republic, vol. 182, no. 25, 21 June 1980: 32. [11]. Sau-ling Wong, "Necessity and Extravagance in Maxine Hong Kingston's Woman Warrior: An inquiry into the nature of art and its relevance to ethnic experience," MELUS, 1988. [Quoted in Deborah Woo, "Maxine Hong Kingston: The ethnic writer and the burden of duel authenticity," in Lawrence J. Trudeau et al, eds., Asian American Literature. Reviews and criticism of works by American writers of Asian descent. Detroit: Gale, 1999: 222.] [12]. Quoted in David Leiwei, Imagining the Nation. Asian American literature and cultural consent. California: Stanford UP, 1998: 53. [13]. Deborah Woo, "The Ethnic Writer and the Burden of Duel Authenticity," Amerasia Journal, vol. 16, no. 1, 1990. [Quoted in Lawrence J. Trudeau et al, eds., op. cit., 225.] [14]. The American Dream of Illegal Immigrants (Wu Yong), Moon Is Brighter in the Homeland (Li Huixin), Studying in America (Qian Ning), Green Card. [end page 175] A Beijing girl in New York (Cao Guilin), Selling Flesh in New York (Xiao Qing), Sights and Sounds in Small American Hotels (Zhang Suoshi), My One Time Appearance in a Hollywood Movie (Qi Tianda), and so on. [15]. Zhou Li, Manhattan's China Lady. Beijing: Beijing Publishing House, 1992: 51. [16]. Ibid., 2. [17]. Ibid., 391. [18]. Zha Jianying, A Frozen River in the Jungle. Changchun: Contemporary Arts and Literature Publishing House, 1995: 18. [19]. Ibid., 20-1. [20]. Ibid., 68. [21]. Ibid., 70.
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