The Year of the Dog
by Grace Lin
My elementary school always held a multi-culti week, but probably back then we called it Heritage Week or Roots Week or something very '70s. We'd gather in the cafeteria to see how they'd stuck little Italian flags in the same old soggy meatballs, which was somehow supposed to make Roman hearts thump with pride.
There was no "Jewish" day that week, probably because matzoh balls were beyond the lunch ladies' meager talents. But we did have "Chinese Day" complete with a Chow Mein-like dish that glistened with grease, despite there being only one Chinese girl in all of Honeyhill Elementary School. I remember Noelle Li being called up in front of the entire school to demonstrate chopsticks. She looked like she'd rather be digging a hole through the linoleum back to her ancestral country.
Turns out there were only two kids present who had ever used them: my brother and me. Thank goodness for my mother's past life regression; she had drilled us in their proper use.
I thought of Noelle and her mortification reading Grace Lin's memoir-ish novel, with its poignant moments of cultural dissonance. Is the little girl Chinese-American or Taiwanese-American? Should she use her Taiwanese name, Pacy, or her American name, Grace? She navigates some choppy waters with optimism and resolve. After all, it's the Year of the Dog, a lucky year for her, she's absolutely sure of it.
If there's an American story nearly as old as the immigrant's, then it belongs to the immigrant's kid, the one who must navigate between the Old World and the New, acting as cultural translator and bridge builder, ever unsure which side of the divide she truly belongs on.
Lin brings the genre to kid-level, creating an alter-ego in Grace, who lives with her Mom, Dad and two sisters in a smallish town, where she's thrilled to discover another Taiwanese girl like herself.
Lin covers the usual tribulations of pre-adolescence filtered through a cultural lens. Even trying out for the school play, The Wizard of Oz, becomes a litmus test for American-ness:
"You can't be Dorothy," she said. "Dorothy's not Chinese."
Suddenly, the world went silent. Like a melting icicle, my dream of Dorothy fell and shattered on the ground. I felt like a dirty puddle after a rain.
I say the sooner you can get kids to think in terms of metaphor, the better. Lin's imagery is as light as her mother's dumplings, floating ethereally and tempting us ever further. We know exactly how Grace feels, which gives us Anglos a way to span the gulf between sympathy and real empathy.
Of course, we all know Grace is as American as fortune cookies. She relishes her culture too, and what can't be described in mouth-watering terms, Lin fills in with delightful doodles, as if the fictional Grace had scribbled in the margins and this is the notebook of her life.
The doodles are an integral part of the storytelling, as are the stories-within-the-story, told by her parents as examples of their own, less privileged, childhoods. That too is part of the second generation's experience; the mixture of fascination with your roots and sorrow at your parents' sacrifices, with such stories having the power to make you feel lighter and more burdened all at once.
Lin's special gift is for making this story float despite its heavy subject matter, and her resistance to all things melodramatic (we're talking a pre-teen girl, after all). Grace takes her lumps and we nod knowingly, having been through similar struggles in different circumstances. She's out there for all of us who didn't fit the blonde ideal, doodling her way into our multi-cultural hearts.
I know The Year of the Dog has been out for a while, and many fine reviews have already appeared. And I'm sure Ms. Lin, who mailed my copy months ago, probably gave up on me. I finally managed to pull it off the shelf one morning, delighted to find it began with a rich description of Chinese New Year's celebration, making it a perfect entry for the first day of the Year of the Boar (or Pig, whichever you prefer. I prefer them over heaping bowls of noodles, myself).
Rating: *\*\*\*\
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