When the Red Gates Opened by Dori Jones Yang

Author:Dori Jones Yang
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2020-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

In April 1985, just as Paul sent out his first queries for jobs in Hong Kong, I returned to the States for yet another BusinessWeek editorial conference.

It was time to tell my parents I planned to marry Paul. We could not set a date, but our marriage seemed likely—well, at least possible. Since my mother had already met him, I had reason to hope they would approve. Still, I was nervous. In their eyes, I was sure, Paul was the wrong guy. As in China, old values and unthinkable new ones were colliding, and I was not confident I could steer the ship of my life through these roiling waters.

That first night back in Youngstown, at nearly midnight, I started walking down the dark stairs of the home I had lived in since age ten. My hand gripped the wooden rail, and my bare toes scuffed the worn carpet. With each stairstep, I shored up my resolve. I had interviewed tycoons and taipans, but this time the risks were far higher. The downside was that I could alienate my parents and create a rift that wouldn’t heal.

My parents had always been loving and supportive, although they had certainly never expected me to live in such a foreign country for so long. Cocooned in their country-club world with traditional values that had worked well for generations, they couldn’t imagine the appeal of marrying a man from a different race and culture. My parents had no particular prejudice against Chinese people, but they had firm ideas about the traits I should look for in a husband: well-educated, well-off, from a fine family. And, obviously, white and Protestant. A product of his upbringing, Dad firmly believed that we should marry our own kind. Marrying outside the fold was asking for a life of conflict.

I had planned to talk to Mom earlier that evening, after Dad went to bed. But my nerves had failed me. Just five minutes earlier, I had said good night and gone up to my bedroom. I chastised myself for cowardice, then turned around and walked back down those stairs. Despite my dread of confrontation—inherited from Mom—I needed to tell her tonight, to pave the way for an even bigger talk with Dad the next day. Dad had a more forceful way of expressing his feelings, but I recalled that it was Mom, not Dad, who had sent me to Hong Kong with the advice “Just don’t marry a Chinaman.”

When I reached the dim, smoky lamplight of the living room, Mom was sitting on her couch with a paperback. Her feet were tucked under her. Surprised to see me again, she stubbed out a newly lit cigarette as I sat down in my great-grandmother’s platform rocking chair, opposite her. I steadied myself by grabbing its wooden arms.

“I need to tell you something,” I began. She was regarding me steadily and not unkindly. I leaned forward in the rocker, feet planted on the carpet, and spat out the words I had bottled up all evening: “Paul and I have decided to get married.

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