We Women

“Under the tradition that only the sons could carry on the family line, we feared that we let our family down, for the reasons that were out of our control.”

BY: JINGSHU YAO

Art by Daniel Gomes // THE UNDERGROUND

Linguists use the term “false friends” to refer to two words from two different languages that have very similar pronunciation but unrelated meanings. The Mandarin word “we” (我们), sounds very similar to the English word “woman,” and its pinyin, the phonetic transcription of Chinese characters, is literally Wo Men. For that reason, many boys in my elementary school refused to say the word aloud in English class. “We are not women!” they argued. Only the high-pitched little girl voices could be heard reading after the teachers, “WO MEN! WO MEN!” They learned the word in an instant. Yet it took us much longer to understand what being a woman means.

I always wanted to have a PhD, even before I fully comprehend what doctoral studies are. My idea was based on a single fact—no matter what gender they are, all PhDs use “Dr.” as their title. It seemed that education could make up for any disadvantage due to one’s biological sex at birth, as if one is smart enough, the world won’t care whether they have a dick or a pussy.

Sometimes, I wonder if I would be less conscious of my sex had I had sibilings. Sisters could have shared the pressure of growing up in the patriarchy culture; brothers could have reduced my desire to be both a son and a daughter to my parents, though it would never come true. In 1980, China introduced the one-child policy to control the rapid growth of its population. When I was born in the late 90s, the policy was already well-established and carried out strictly. Growing up, almost all of my cousins, friends, and classmates were the only child of their family. My generation had a negative reputation for being arrogant, self-centered, and inconsiderate because we were so used to getting all the attention from all the family members and never learned to share with others. Every time I heard someone from an older generation commenting on the behaviour of their children and grandchildren, their complaints were concluded by “that’s how a single child turned out to be.” A common term used to describe us is “little emperor” or “little princess,” referring to the fact that we are spoiled and selfish. Yet this statement was far from the truth.

Photo courtesy of Bady Abbas

One of  my childhood friends was the oldest among all her cousins. Her grandfather wished that the first grandchild of the family would be a boy; he was so disappointed about her sex that he refused to talk to her throughout his life. When my friend was six, her aunt gave birth to a son and the grandfather was so joyful that he even gave some celebration candies to his unfavourable granddaughter. My friend threw the candies away and because of that, she was known for being disrespectful to the elderly. 

Due to the different treatment she received at home compared with her male cousins, my friend was aggressive around male classmates. She would consistently get into conflict with them, tear down their notebook, push and bite. Teachers and parents thought of her as a troubled child, but she turned out to be a caring, interesting playmate to her female friends. I lost touch with her after elementary school, yet sometimes I still thought of the time when she told us that she just had an impulse to dislike those boys. I always wondered how she was later on in life, whether she had overcome the anger, insecure, and lack of confidence as a child, or if she still struggled with the issues that were hardly her fault. 

The traditional thoughts of preferring sons over daughters was intensified by the one-child policy. Seeing as a couple could only have one child, the sex of the child weighed more on the parents’ mind since there would be no second chance. 

I knew that my father also wanted a son before I was born. Daughters are meant to be someone else’s wife; only the sons could support the parents and carry on the family line. As an adult, I am fully aware that these gender expectations are slowly dissolving in modern society. Yet as a child, whenever my father joked about not having a son, I felt sorry that I let him down, even though it wasn’t something I could have controlled.

Photo courtesy of Katte Belletje

The Disney animated film Mulan was popular when I was little and I watched it time and time again. My mother saw it as an educational opportunity and reminded me every time that girls could bring their family honour as well, just like Mulan. Yet for a five-year-old who perceived everything literally, I read the message as, in order for a girl to make their parents proud, she must “make a man” out of herself.

During my teenage years, I refused to wear dresses, any clothing that was pink, or anything with lace and flower patterns. I intentionally walked in an exaggerated way and swung my arms outward, I never zipped up my sports jacket, I inserted swear words into every sentence and disconnected myself from anything that was considered soft or girly. I hoped that if I appeared more like a boy, my father might be able to trust me to carry on the family line as well. Of course, all of these efforts were in vain. I lost friends because I always wore a tough face and treated people rudely. My parents and teachers were worried because my behaviour was far from what was considered “a good girl.” More importantly, I was confused and upset about pretending to be something I was not. 

It took me a few years to grow out of this phase. My father went on a business trip when I was 16 and brought back some gifts. The city he visited was famous for its jade products and he brought back some necklaces and bracelets made out of beautifully carved jade. He gave them to my mother, grandmother, aunt, and female cousins, but when Mom asked me, “Don’t you want one?”, my father glanced at me with a confused look on his face. “I thought she doesn’t like such things,” he said.

In the depth of my heart, I knew that I preferred a necklace over the wooden statue he bought me. Yet I swallowed and said that I didn’t like the necklace. I was proud that my clumsy acting was able to convince my father, but the daughter that my father came to know wasn’t who she really was.

I learned Mulanshi (The Poem of Mulan), the original poem that tells the story of Mulan. The original story doesn’t have as many dramatic plots as the Disney adaptation. However, what I thought about the most was the simile about rabbits. Male and female rabbits behave differently in normal situations. Yet when they are both in danger and run for their lives, the differences are hard to tell. The poem didn’t make a big deal out of Mulan pretending to be a man, but emphasized that the circumstances of the war zone had triggered humans’ innate abilities to survive. The warrior came from within, not from simply imitating or pretending to be someone else.  

The confusion did me some good in the end. I started to seek answers in books that I otherwise wouldn’t have read until much later on in life. I read Simone de Beauvoir, Betty Friedan, and Judith Butler, struggling with all the words and philosophy that I hardly understood. I still can’t understand many of the theories to this day, but I did realize that empowerment should be mental, intellectual, financial, and physical.

Despite the moments when my father joked about wanting a son, I very much enjoyed growing up as an only daughter. Fortunately enough for me, whether or not my parents were disappointed at first, they gave my equal opportunities a boy would have despite society’s gender bias. Compared with the girls who were drowned at births, who were sold to human trafficking, or growing up under neglect or abuse, I was definitely the beneficiary of the policy. I also had the resources and attention that I would never have had I had any siblings, such as getting my higher education abroad instead of getting in the job market or marriage. Similarly, my mother also got better opportunities in her career development. Many research studies point out that women’s careers tend to be harmed by maternity leave and the responsibility to take care of children. Having fewer children offered more chances for their personal and professional development.

However, we were the lucky ones. The Nobel Prize-winning writer Mo Yan was famous for Frog, a novel about the mothers and children who lost their lives during the enforcement of the one-child policy. I took classes with some exchange students in Suzhou, China, and befriended a girl from Buffalo, New York whose mother adopted her in the 90s from Xinyi, a small city in southeast China. A few years later, her mother adopted another girl from the same orphanage. During her time studying in China, my friend went on a trip to the orphanage she came from. She was told by the caregivers that most children there either had visible disabilities or were female, and the reason was implied. After the emotional trip, my friend went back to Buffalo, finished her undergraduate degree, and started to work as an HR manager. 

After three decades of being in effect, the policy came to an end in 2015. Since then, I had seen many analyses of one-child policy, both positive and negative, from different points of views. Yet it occurred to me that the scholars, policy makers, or writers who talked about one-child policy always view it from an outsider’s perspective. It occurred to me that many of us who grew up under the policy simply took it as a norm, and overlooked the effects that it might have on our personality and identity. I am curious about what they might make of themselves, and what they might make of the future. 

I want to write the stories about us, girls born during the same era, in the same country, under the same policy, and how our lives are different yet similar at the same time. How we made peace with our sex and identity. How we continue to explore the meaning of womanhood long after the day we learn the sentence in English class.

“We are women.”