Yellowface

“Uh—boiled?” “Got it.” She grabs my menu and heads back off behind the kitchen without another word. What a bitch, I think, but then I remember that bad service is one of the hallmarks of good Chinese food, according to that one tweet. These soup dumplings had better be out of this world. I try to focus on the positives. I can find some good narrative potential here, if I pay attention. Maybe this is the heartwarming story of a Chinatown restaurant going out of business, until the owner’s daughter quits her soulless corporate job to turn the family business around with the help of the community, social media, and a magic, talking dragon. MaybeI can give my bitchy waitress a sympathetic backstory and a personality makeover. Or maybe not. The moreI think about it, the more this sounds like the plots of Ratatouille and Mulan combined. Stop looking through the white gaze, I caution myself. I can’t make up stories about these people without knowing a thing about them. I have to talk to the locals. Make friends, understand where they’re coming from, learn the quirky details that only Chinese Americans could know. The only other person in sight is a middle-aged man wiping down the tables behind me. I figure he’s as good a place to start as any. I clear my throat and wave him over. “What’s your name?” My voice sounds artificially bright and cheery, and I try to rearrange my features into something neutral, or at least less creepy. I took an investigative journalism class back in high school, and I remember some of the tips: establish a friendly relationship, listen and watch attentively, maintain direct eye contact, and ask clear and open-ended questions. I wish I’d remembered to start an iPhone recording. I’m supposed to take down quotes as we’re talking, but I don’t want to have my pen and notebook out in case that intimidates him. “Sorry, ma’am.” He puts down the rag and walks toward me. “Is there a problem?” “Oh no, no, I just, um, wanted to chat for a little, if you have the time.” I wince as the words leave my mouth. Why is this so uncomfortable? I feel like I’m doing something naughty, like speaking without permission to someone else’s child. But that’s ridiculous. What’s wrong with a friendly conversation?

The waiter just stands there, watching me expectantly, soI blurt, “So, do you like living in Chinatown?” “DC Chinatown?” He shrugs. “It’s not really a Chinatown. Perhaps a simulacrum of Chinatown. I live out in Maryland, actually.” His English is a lot better than I expected. His accent is heavy, but what kind of new English speaker uses the word “simulacrum”? I wonder briefly if these accents are put on to convey authenticity to white customers. I wonder also if he’s one of those professors or doctors who immigrated to the United States because he offended his home government. Either could be a fun plot twist. “So how long have you worked here?” He pauses a moment to think. “Oh, maybe nine years now. Ten. My wife wanted to go to California, but I wanted to be near our daughter. Maybe we will move when she graduates.” “Oh, cool,” I say. “Does your daughter go to Georgetown?” “George Washington. Studying economics.” He picks up his rag and turns halfway back to the other tables. I don’t want to lose him, soI blurt, “So, how do you like working in this restaurant? Do you have any interesting stories—about, um, working in this restaurant?” “Excuse me, can I help you?” The waitress strides out from the kitchen. She glances between us, eyes narrowed, and then tells the older man something quick and terse in Chinese. His response sounds lackadaisical—I think maybe he’s saying something like take it easy, but her tone grows higher, more urgent. Finally, shrugging, he tosses the rag on the table and retreats behind the kitchen doors. The waitress turns to me. “If there’s a problem, I’m happy to help.” “Oh, no, it’s okay, I’m just trying to make conversation.” I wave my hands in apology. “Sorry, I realize he’s probably busy.” “Yes, we’re all quite busy. I am sorry it’s a bit quiet in here, but you’re going to have to let the waitstaff do their jobs.” I roll my eyes. I’m the only customer here; how overworked could they be? “Okay,” I say, as dismissively as possible. She doesn’t leave. “Any other questions?” Her voice wobbles. She’s scared. I realize suddenly what this looks like —she must think that I’m police or ICE, that I’m trying to bust the old guy. “Oh my God.” I flap my hands in front of me to—to what, to proveI don’t have a gun, or a badge? “No, it’s not like that—”

“Then what’s it like?” She looks me up and down, then cocks her head. “Wait, aren’t you that writer?” My heart skips a beat. I’ve never been recognized before in a place that wasn’t a bookstore or a speaking event. I’m momentarily flattered, and some part of me thinks she’s about to ask for my autograph. “I—um, yeah, I’m Juniper—” “You’re that girl who stole Athena Liu’s work.” Her face hardens. “I knew it—I’ve seen your photo online. Juniper Song, right? Or Hayward, or whatever. What do you want?” “I’m just trying to make conversation,” I say weakly. “I promise, I’m not out to—” “I don’t care,” she says curtly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but we want no part of it. Actually, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She probably doesn’t have the right to kick me out. I’m not causing a public disturbance; I haven’t done anything illegal. All I did was make casual conversation with a waiter. I consider standing my ground, enforcing my rights as a customer, insisting that they call the police if they want to remove me. But I’d rather not go viral for yet another reason. I can imagine the YouTube title: “Chinatown Karen Insists She’s Not ICE.” “Fine.” I stand up. “Don’t bother with my dumplings, then.” “You sure?” asks the waitress. “We don’t do refunds. That’s eight ninety-five, plus tax.” My face burns. My mind races to come up with some quippy response, but I can’t think of anything that isn’t pathetic or plain racist. Instead I dig a twenty out of my wallet, sling my bag over my shoulder, and push past her to the door, pretending not to hear the amused snorts behind me as I storm out. BRETT STARTS BUGGING ME ABOUT A MONTH INTO MY CREATIVE DESERT. I can tell he’s been trying to give me space—all his emails so far have been gentle, tactfully worded nudges—but clearly, he’s running out of patience. Want to run a new opportunity by you, reads his latest missive. Call when convenient. I groan, then reach for my phone. He picks up on the first ring. “June! Good to hear from you. How’ve you been?”

“All right. The hate mail has stopped, mostly. Not getting death threats anymore.” “Well, that’s good. I told you it would blow over.” He pauses. “And, uh, regarding what we last discussed—” “There’s nothing.” I figure it’s best to just spit it out. “I’ve got nothing, not a single idea. I don’t even know where to start. Sorry, I know that’s not what you want to hear.” I feel a twinge of guilt. It’s not about the money for Brett. His reputation is on the line, too; he doesn’t want to burn bridges with the Eden editorial team by bringing them their most embarrassing client by far. But I can’t give false hope where there is none. I brace myself for Brett’s disappointment. Instead he asks promptly, “Then what about IP work?” I suppress a scoff. IP—intellectual property—work is for mediocre writers, or so I’ve always been told. It’s cheap, work-for-hire labor for people who couldn’t manage to sell their original projects. “What about it?” “All I mean is, if you’re having trouble coming up with your own concept, what about writing to an outline?” “What, like a superhero novel? No thanks, Brett, I still have standards —” “It’s just—it’s been a while, June. People are getting impatient.” “Donna Tartt spends a decade in between novels,” I sniff. “Well.” Brett doesn’t state the obvious: that I’m not Donna Tartt. “Circumstances are different.” I sigh. “What’s the IP? Marvel? Disney?” I could go for a Star Wars novel, maybe. I mean, it sounds very difficult, and I’d have to really dig deep into my nerd past to make myself care about whatever bit character they fling my way, but I could make something work. At least well enough to fool the average, undiscerning fanboy who buys those books. “Actually, it wouldn’t be for an existing franchise. Have you ever heard of Snowglobe?” The name rings a bell. I’ve seen that word floating around Twitter— perhaps their account followed me recently—but otherwiseI can’t connect it with anything important. “Are they some kind of book packaging company? Like, a vanity press?” “Well, they do all sorts of things. The founders have connections with both publishing houses and film studios. They work with editors to develop

ideas that suit the market’s current needs, and then they work with writers to create them. It takes the guesswork out of what editors at big publishers are looking for. And you’d have plenty of creative flexibility to really take on the idea, you know, and make it your own.” “I wouldn’t own the copyright, though?” I don’t know much about IP, but from what I’ve read online, it’s usually a rough deal for the creator. Unlike original properties, for which you own the copyright and receive royalties, IP writers are typically only paid a flat fee up front. A novel for a popular video game franchise, for example, might sell tens of thousands of copies. But even if it was a runaway bestseller, the hired writer might never see more than ten thousand dollars. That’s not incredible pay for six to eight months of work. “And people don’t take IP seriously, do they? Like, it’s not serious literary work.” “Many beloved titles are IP,” says Brett. “It’s just not common knowledge that they are. And anyways, it wouldn’t be a permanent career move, just something to help you get over this slump. It seems like you might do better if you have . . . some preexisting scaffold.” I hate the way he puts that. Like it’s a joke between us, like he knows the truth about The Last Front. Wink wink, hint hint, Junie. We know you can paint by the numbers. Let’s find you a new coloring book. To be fair, it’s not the worst idea in the world. But my pride rankles at the thought. I’ve been in the running for some of the top literary prizes in the country; I can’t imagine going from that to doing work for hire. “I’m assuming the pay would be awful.” “Well, they’re willing to negotiate, especially for such a high-profile author. But yes, the royalties wouldn’t be as high as you’re used to.” “Then what’s the point?” “Well, you’d have a new book out. So you’d have something new to talk about. Something to move the conversation along.” Well played, Brett. Fair point. I can’t help but ask: “And what’s the pitch?” He can’t tell me right away. I have to sign an NDA first, but fortunately he has one ready, and he just needs to send me a DocuSign link. While he’s getting that sorted, I look up Snowglobe and browse through their company website. The founders are all young, sleek-looking white women; the kind I see prowling around industry functions all the time, chardonnay in hand. On their “Current Projects” page, I see production deals listed with Amazon,

Hulu, and Netflix. I’ve actually heard of a few of their titles—Brett was right, I really had no idea how many popular projects were actually IP. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would be easier to let someone come up with what the market wants, so that I can focus on what I’m good at, which is writing beautifully. “Okay.” The NDA is signed; Brett is back on the line. “So they’re really interested in tapping into your expertise on Chinese social issues, right?” I feel an inkling of dread. “Okay . . .” “And you know about the one-child policy, right?” “Uh, the one where they forced women to have abortions?” “No, I mean the population control policy in China introduced in 1978.” He’s reading this off of Wikipedia. I know, because I’ve just pulled up the same Wikipedia page. “That’s what I said, though. They were forcing women to have abortions.” I do a quick search for the word “abortion” to check that I’m right, and I am, sort of. “They want a novel about that?” “Well, they want a sort of modern twist on it. So the problem with the one-child policy is that there are way too many men in China, right? Because of selective abortions. Parents preferred to have boys, because it’s a patriarchal culture, and all that, so there are lots of missing girls and women. Therefore it’s hard for Chinese men to find wives, or to have children of their own. See the stakes so far?” “Uh, sure.” “That’s where the dystopian twist comes in. Imagine a world similar to The Handmaid’s Tale. Women are raised in institutions, born and bred to be baby-makers, and they’re sold to their husbands as house slaves.” Brett gives a nervous chuckle. “Pretty sharp commentary, right? You could even broaden out the themes to make it a subtle critique of Western patriarchy, if you wanted to. Up to you. LikeI said, you’d have lots of flexibility to play with the concept. What do you think?” I’m silent for a long time. Then, because one of us has to say it out loud, “Brett, that’s idiotic. No one in their right mind is going to want to work on that.” (I’m wrong, in fact. Two weeks after this conversation, I will open Twitter in my browser to read the following announcement: “Simon & Schuster in partnership with Snowglobe, Inc., is so excited to have signed with renowned author Heidi Steel for the publication of The Last Woman in

China, a thrilling romance set in a dystopian world inspired by the one￾child policy!”) “I mean, I really think this could work,” says Brett. “It’s a cool concept. It gets you the feminist crowd. That’s your book club market. And there’s a lot of film potential here—I’m sure networks will be hunting for the next big thing once The Handmaid’s Tale wraps up.” “But the story idea—I mean, that’s conflating so many different . . . like, are they serious? The one-child policy meets The Handmaid’s Tale? They’re not worried we’re going to offend, like, all of China?” “Well, the book’s going to be published in the West, Junie. So who really cares?” I can see Adele Sparks-Sato and Xiao Chen sharpening their claws. I’m not that up to date with Chinese politics, but even I can spot the land mines just glowing around this thing. If I write this, I’ll be eviscerated for hating the PRC, or Chinese people, or men, or all three. “Absolutely not,” I say. “This is a nonstarter. Don’t they have any other ideas? Like, I’m not opposed to working with Snowglobe per se, I just really hate this one pitch.” “Well, they do, but they’re tailoring their pitches to authors of the right . . . backgrounds. They’re making a big pivot toward diversity this year.” I snort. “Baffling that they want me, then.” “Come on,” says Brett. “At least take a look at the treatment. I’ve just sent it over. And you did get your start in speculative fiction, so you already have a built-in fan base . . .” I’m not sure that Brett understands that the people who are into magical realism are so not into near-future science fiction of this sort. “Okay, but you’ve got to admit a dystopia set in Beijing is pretty far out of my wheelhouse.” “A few years ago, I would have said a project like The Last Front was pretty far out of your wheelhouse. It’s never too late to broaden your horizons. Just think about it, Junie. This could rescue your career.” “No, it won’t.” I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry. “No, Brett, I’m pretty sure this is the sort of thing that ends careers.” “June. Come on. We might not get an opportunity like this again.” “Call me if, like, Lucasfilm gets on the line,” I say. “But I’m sorry, Brett. Even I’m not stooping that low.”

Eighteen IN JULY, I PACK MY BAGS AND FLY UP NORTH TO TEACH AT THE Young AAPI Writers’ Workshop in Massachusetts. It’s the only program that’s invited me back for the season, and likely only because I’m still paying for that stupid annual scholarship in Athena’s name (the workshop is funded and hosted by the Asian American Writers’ Collective, and Peggy Chan is the coordinator of both). My other regular engagements have dried up since the Adele Sparks-Sato blog hit. Last summer, I was booked week to week with keynote talks and guest lectureships; this summer, there’s nothing on my calendar between May and August. I strongly considered canceling on the YAWW, but ultimatelyI couldn’t face an otherwise endless, monotonous summer. Any distraction seemed better than pacing my apartment all day, trying and failing to write a single word. Besides, I’m hoping this might be good for me. Teaching is an unassailably noble calling, and even if this doesn’t redeem me in the public eye, it might at the very least build bridges with a group of students who haven’t decided yet that I’m a public enemy. It might make writing fun again. I’m assigned to lead a daily, four-hour critique session with the select class: all high school upperclassmen I handpicked on the strength of their writing samples. It’s fascinating to meet them in person. I spot the big personalities in the group immediately: there’s Christina Yee, a tiny goth girl with very pronounced black eyeliner whose writing sample involved lots of body horror and teeth; Johnson Chen, who sports gelled-up hair and eighties-style overcoats like someK-pop singer, and whose navel-gazing writing sample had led me to believe he was an ugly duckling but he is

actually quite clearly a chick magnet; and Skylar Zhao, a tall and leggy rising senior who, during introductions, declares her intentions to be her generation’s Athena Liu. They slouch casually like they don’t care how they’re perceived, but I can tell how badly they want to impress me. They’ve got the classic fledgling talent mentality—they know they’re good, or could be good, but they crave acknowledgment of this fact, and they’re terrified of rejection. I remember this mix of feelings well: unbridled ambition, a growing pride that one’s own work might in fact be that remarkable, paired with staggering, incurable insecurity. The resulting personality is astoundingly annoying, but I sympathize with these kids. They’re just like myself, ten years ago. A well-phrased barb right now could irreparably destroy their confidence. But the right words of encouragement could help them fly. This summer, I’ve decided I’ll try to be that for them. I’ll put the rest of the world aside. I’ll stop checking Twitter, stop browsing Reddit, and stop agonizing over my own writing. I’ll focus on doing this one thing that I might be good at. The introductions go well. I use the same icebreakers I’ve picked up over years of creative writing classes: What’s your favorite book? (“Voice and Echo,” declares Skylar Zhao, citing Athena’s debut. “Lolita,” Christina responds, chin jutted out as if in challenge. “By Nabokov?”) What’s a book that would be perfect if you could rewrite the ending? (“Anna Karenina,” declares Johnson. “Only Anna wouldn’t kill herself.”) We construct a short story by going around the room, each adding a sentence to the one that came before. We speed-revise that story in under five minutes. We play with different interpretations of the same line of dialogue: “I never said that we should kill him!” By the end of the hour, we’re all laughing and making inside jokes. We are no longer quite so scared of one another. I round out the session by hosting an AMA about the publishing industry—they’re all eager to know what it’s like to query agents, to have a book go to auction, and to work with a real, actual editor. The clock strikes four. I give them some homework—rewrite a passage by Dickens using no adverbs or adjectives— and they cheerfully slide their laptops into their backpacks as they stand up to leave. “Thanks, Junie,” they tell me on their way out the door. “You’re the best.” I smile and nod at each one of them as they depart, feeling like a

wise, kind mentor. THAT NIGHT I SCARF DOWN A SALAD FROM THE DINING HALL, THEN head to the nearest coffee shop and scribble out a half-dozen story ideas—descriptive paragraphs, experimental structures, crucial bits of dialogue, whatever comes to mind. I write so fast my hand cramps. I’m buzzing with creative energy. My students made stories seem so rich, elastic, full of infinite variations. Maybe my gears aren’t irreparably jammed. MaybeI only needed to remember how good it feels to create. After an hour of scribbling, I sit back to survey my work, scanning the pages for anything I might expand into an outline. On second glance, though, these ideas don’t seem quite as fresh or scintillating. They are, in fact, slightly modified versions of my students’ writing samples. A girl who can’t get her mother’s approval no matter how well she does at school. A boy who hates his aloof, taciturn father, until he learns the sort of war trauma that shaped his father’s past. A pair of siblings who travel to Taiwan for the first time and reconnect with their heritage, even though they can’t pronounce anything right and they don’t like the food. I snap my notebook shut in disgust. Is this all I can manage now? Stealing from fucking children? It’s fine, I tell myself. Calm down. All that matters is that I’m greasing the gears; I’m getting back into the zone. I’ve sparked a flame that I haven’t felt in a very long time. I have to be patient with myself, to give that flame time and space to grow. On my way back to the dormitory, I glimpse my students through the window of Mimi’s, one of the many bubble tea cafés near campus. The twelve of them are crowded around a table meant for six; so many chairs pulled up that they each get only a little bit of table space. They seem totally comfortable around one another, hunched over their laptops and notebooks. They’re writing—perhaps working on my homework assignment. I watch as they show one another snippets of work, laughing at funny turns of phrase, nodding appreciatively as they take turns reading out loud. God, I miss that. It has been so long sinceI thought of writing as a communal activity. All the published writers I know are so cagey about their writing schedules, their advances, and their sales numbers. They hate divulging information