The Eighth Promise: An American Son's Tribute to His Toisanese Mother

I was skeptical when I first met William Poy Lee and heard him speak about his book. In fact, I wasn't even willing to put money on it; I went the library route. Another Chinese-American memoir? And with a title like that? But Mr. Lee writes cleanly and simply about two extraordinary lives -- his and his mother's -- skipping the mystical hoo-hah and emphasizing the American experience. His optimisim truly shines through and is truly refreshing, especially when so many other Chinese-American authors are about angst, angst and surviving despair-filled lives.

My family also moved into the North Ping Yuen projects when they were brand new and moved out in 1969 to live the American dream of home ownership. I also attended Nam Kue Chinese school but years later. It excited me to read these similarities growing up in Chinatown. My parents were from villages in nearby counties to Toisan. <br /><br />Being younger than Lee and female, I think I led a very sheltered life and didn't pay too much attention to the violent Chinese gang crimes in Chinatown. I was aware of them and was warned by my mom that they were bad seeds that were to be avoided by all means. This part of the book was disturbing to me. While this was an important part of Lee's life, I agreed with his mother that it wasn't good to relive the sorrows from the past. I didn't realize the final third part of the book was going to be more of a tribute to his younger brother's trial and prison life instead of his Toisanese mother.<br /><br />The alternating chapters with his mom's voice were the most interesting. The author's chapters were often repetitive but contained quite a deal of Chinatown history. Still I often found myself wanting to get through his chapters so I can read more of his mother's anecdotes. His mother is one fascinating and wise woman!<br /><br />I didn't like that this book lacked photos, a family tree and a map of Toisan.<br /><br />I would recommend this book to anyone who grew up in San Francisco's Chinatown.

An Asian American odyssey with an edge, this tale is told in the alternating voices of a Chinese American son and his mother from Toisan County, Guangzhou, southern China. The Bay Area family embraces the toughness of their new life in America with a certain innocence and brash naiveté, until reality hits in an explosion of violence and systemic betrayal. William, his mother and his brother fight for their family's moral survival in the face of overwhelming odds, overcome their obstacles, and still manage to retain faith in their adopted country by staying true to their cultural values -- and by keeping the "Eighth Promise." Growing up as a Chinese American girl outside of Chinatown, I was only vaguely aware of the radical struggles going on in our community. But my aunt was the director of the Ping Yuen housing project, and I remember going there many times to visit her. It was valuable and often inspirational to be taken inside this world, and to follow this family's tough journey of assimilation, so different from my own.

I loved the mother’s part of the story more so than the sons’s. So many familiar references to my moms Toi San family. <br />Yet I read this during the time of George Floyd and the injustices and lack of progress made me put the book down. Very dejecting. <br />I was also saddened that his brothers jail story was so full of injustice. Yet the family accepted it. Book somewhat dejecting but I learned and enjoyed.

I really enjoyed this book and its homage to Toisan. Being of Toisanese descent myself and having been to the villages before, I can relate. Also, being close with my paternal grandparents who spent time in Toisan and spoke the language during my childhood, I have an affinity to the language. <br /><br />The author definitely had an interesting life and it was fascinating to hear his stories from his perspective about growing up in Chinatown. My parents are also from the same generation and had similar experiences, but not catalogued in such detail. There were some parts that seemed idealized or romanticized, but what memoir doesn't do that? I enjoyed the writing style (sometimes so poetic) and reflections on life, along with his mother's philosophies, which seemed so down to Earth and easeful, as well.<br /><br />“And everyone spoke Toisanese as if it were the universal language of the world, the only language. Here, it felt that, by contrast, only those with a limited education were stuck with Big City Cantonese. As for those Mandarin speakers, well, they must be foreigners, official dialect of China or not.” pg. xv<br /><br />“In truth, my mother didn’t know much about any of those things; she was a simple daughter of the earth. For her, to ‘stay Chinese’ meant to retain, nurture, and pass on the virtues of intuitive cooperation and recognition of the humanity of others that are embodied in the ways of the Toisanese people. She meant for me to internalize the strength, flexibility, and pragmatism of a people who lived within the cycles, embracing both the abundance and the fickleness of nature. She wanted me to recognize myself as a child of Toisan.” pg. 5<br /><br />“But still, we had lots more time to relax, to chat with one another, and to play. Once everything was done, it was done. You can’t make the crops grow any faster by acting busy.<br />Life was simpler in the village in that way and safer—that is, until the Japanese army attacked us.” pg. 8<br /><br />“Grandmother’s quick thinking had saved them all; they would live another season. ‘Ten thousand joys and then thousand sorrows—this is the promise of life,’ she undoubtedly muttered to herself as she thanked Kuan Yin, the bodhisattva of compassion who aids all beings who are suffering.” pg. 12<br /><br />“Because of Toisanese’s reverse cachet as a hillbillyish, coarse, down-in-the-delta variation of Big City Cantonese, there are no Toisanese novels, poems, or operas. There is no legacy of Toisan royals with ornate Toisan summer palaces. The prolific Shaw Brothers Studio of Hong Kong did not make movies in Toisanese. Bruce Lee never slipped into Toisanese. There are no Toisanese television series, and no Toisanese pride movement is clamoring for one. Toisanese sounds signify sweaty, impoverished, backcountry peasant farmers working oxen in mud the whole day long, with syllables that are harsh to the normal ear and spoken at a decibel level equivalent to shouting. In truth, the normal volume of spoken Toisanese is a shout. When spoken angrily, the listener is sometimes finely sprayed with spittle. People coming from Toisan who wanted to pass for better in Guangzhou or Hong Kong dropped Toisanese and picked up Cantonese as if shedding soiled, ill-fitting, rough cotton work clothes for the blue silk garments of scholars and merchants.” pg. 70<br /><br />“Our dialect reflects life wrested from the mud, clay, and stone of wet delta land and the need to be heard over vast stretches of fields. Not surprising then that the sounds of Toisanese syllables come wrapped up like clods of dirt embedded with stones and held together by the long, sinewy grasses used for cooking. Sentences explode out of the mouth like a mortar barrage, with consonants, vowels, all the tones meshed into a tight, barbed clump of earthy linguistics. Toisanese can arc over rice paddies, penetrate a flock of noisy geese, cut through a stand of bamboo trees, and curve around a hill. As the sentence lands, the remaining barbs of sound hook your eardrum so you know that, indeed, you are being addressed and the reasons why.” pg. 72<br /><br />“In the land of Toisan, there were no excuses for failure. There could only be survival, and thus Toisanese evolved to guarantee survival. A nuance-free language whose meanings were harshly, crudely, and loudly clear—where layered linguistics of hidden meanings has no place—served its speakers well.” pg. 72-73<br /><br />“Turtle soup is best eaten just before winter. The turtle should weigh four to five pounds. The turtle should be alive with a healthy shell, shiny eyes, and active feet. The really important thing beforehand is to remove the intestines and organs that have toxins. And you have to remove it without spilling any of the toxins onto the flesh of the turtle. Otherwise, the soup tastes bitter. This is not hard to do once you know how.<br />For cooking turtle soup, we used the special lacquer pot that is used only for cooking herbal soups. It looks like a little bushel, reddish in color and covered with wires on the outside. Simmer turtle soup with the same herbs we always use, but add a lot of Chinese liquor to give it a very strong fire Ch’i. Cook it for about four hours. Eat it just before bedtime, after dinner has been digested. That way, the balance of the medicinal ingredients is not upset. Dinner foods have a very different kind of balance—don’t mix dinner foods with Ch’i soups.” pg. 79<br /><br />“President Chiang was smart in this way; he knew how to keep the Six Companies loyal to him. He gave them seats in the Taiwanese legislature—overseas Chinese seats, he called them. He gave them exclusive deals to import Chinese food treats to sell in every Chinatown—like black mushrooms, bird nest and shark fin for soup, traditional herbs, ginseng—lots of stuff you can’t find in America. Those Six Companies heads made millions. No wonder they ended up doing more for Chiang Kai-shek and Taiwan even though their main job was to help Chinese Americans. They wanted Chinese Americans to be good, not make noise or ask for too much, just mind our own business and take care of our own. That was okay with me—I was raising my sons to grow up well mannered, to stand on their own two feet.” pg. 149<br /><br />“Within Mother’s cocoon, Richard relaxed, found peace in the communal rituals of food preparation, family-style dining, and cleanup as he and Mother engaged in a kind of practiced dance of gentle gestures, softened Toisan words, and unhurried shared tasks.<br />These were the simple family practices that had been perfected and passed on from generation to generation over a millennium, which even I knew so well from childhood. Despite famine, drought, bandits, twentieth-century warfare with its butterflies of death, and now imprisonment, generations just keep on living this way, grounding themselves against the harsh externalities, healing each other, squeezing vitality out of the good fruits of the earth, our alchemical culinary knowledge transmuting that harvest—however abundant or sparse, however sweet or bitter—into renewed spirit and unmarred hope for a better tomorrow. Ten thousand sorrows followed by ten thousand joys, and sometimes all mixed up in no discernible sequence—this is life, after all.” pg. 231<br /><br />“Did I hate the judge? No. Of course I was shocked at the mean sentence the judge gave Richard—couldn’t he see there was no case? So many years in jail for someone so young, a good boy. You know how I cried in the court. But I didn’t hate him or the prosecutor or the police. What would hating accomplish? Would it make them better people, more honest and fair? Would it make the witnesses tell the truth? Would it get Richard free? . . . <br />So it is; there’s no point to hating officials. Hate eats you up, drives you crazy, which defeats you, not them. They already forgot about you. That’s Toisan philosophy.” pg. 239-240 <br /><br />“The congenital perversity of Chinatown machinations was a dragon too savage to reason with, impossible to subjugate.” pg. 270<br /><br />“Unlike my mother, I was not skilled in deflecting negative states of mind. I didn’t know to whisper prayerful mantras of positive affirmations. Instead, a workaholic, I had buried my feelings in an overdrive of activity. The demands of Richard’s case, college and law school, grassroots electoral politics, a youth agency, and my life with Jacqueline and her daughter had left me with no time to feel. Now, in my late twenties, free of even family demands since Jacqueline and I had parted ways, I settled into an undemanding nine-to-five job with lots more free time, and long-suppressed feelings lashed themselves into the unbattened-down spaces of my life. I was drowning in my own underground river of ten thousand sorrows.<br />I was perilously unaware of the corrosive effect of stored grief and trauma. A process called healing needed to take place. To everyone else, I must have looked great in my three-piece suits. My job sounded wonderful, and—look—there was my spanking-new law license on the wall. But inside I was sinking into a malaise where I often stopped caring about anything—romance, work, friends, causes, and then even my family. Live or die; at least death delivers finality’s repose, I felt at times.” pg. 285<br /><br />Book: from my collection (received as a gift from ChAm Pilgrimage event in Marysville 2022)

If you come from a Toisanese family, the themes of compassion and kindness are undenialably familiar. This is the first book I have EVER read by any Chinese American author that has been able to capture the essence of Toisanese culture, language, values and our way of being. I don't know why it took so long for a book like this to be published considering a huge percentage of Chinese in San Francisco are Toisanese or descendants of immigrants from Toisan.<br /><br />Lee beautifully weaves together the story of his youth in San Francisco together with that of his mother's. He's able to bring to life the tumultuous times of the late 1960s and 1970s American with that of his own efforts to fight for civil rights for the residents of San Francisco's insular Chinatown. Meanwhile, Lee aptly blends together the depth of his mother's values, struggles and triumphs of a woman and mother who successfully maintains her milennia-old values and practices and translates them for her children in an Toisanese-American context.<br /><br />

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, which started as a memoir of the author’s mother and turned into a memoir of his own life, sharing the journey of what it meant to grow up as a Toisanese-American in Chinatown in California. Lee details the treatment of Asian Americans throughout American history as well as his own and his family’s journey. He writes with a deft hand of the joys and challenges, and I was completely drawn in as a reader. Highly recommended. This was the Washtenaw Reads book in 2008.

As a Canadian Born Chinese, I found the bits about the values and life in village of Toisan fascinating. Unfortunately the majority of the rest of the book just wasn't as interesting to me and if weren't for the the fact that I, myself, am Toisanese (which was why I picked up this book in the first place), I probably would not have forced myself to finish reading it.

A really empathetic memoir about justice and the violence of migration, war, and the American prison industrial complex. I’ve been organizing around prison abolition for years now, but I had no idea that my own family’s story was part of this history of struggle. This book was healing in so many ways. May Richard Lee’s memory be a blessing. Abolition now!

I heard author William Poy Lee speak about Tibet's recent unrest at a US-China Friendship program in August 2014 and purchase a copy of his 2007 memoir afterward. I had little expectations of good writing and an interesting story, but the book succeeds with both. This tale of a son of San Francisco Chinese immigrants from Toisan Canton China is written with honesty, a keen intelligence. The book serves as an excellent backdrop of the growing into adulthood of a young Chinese American activist in San Francisco through the 1960s to 1980s and beyond. Interwoven are the narrative of the author's immigrant mother side-by-side. Mrs. Lee epitomizes the strong, nurturing, itinerant mother embued with a rich family cultural heritage that she passes on to her children and others in her care. The author is adept at explaining the centuries long discrimination against Chinese immigrants whose sacrifices and forbearance allowed the next generation to work more boldly for equal rights in American society. A good read. Recommended.<br />