Together, Messieurs Li, Chen, and Chen took me by car, pony-pulled cart, sampan, and foot to see and do everything I wanted. We went to Tong Shan Li Village to meet Yang Huanyi, who was then age ninety-six and the oldest living nu shu writer. Her feet had been bound when she was a girl and she told me about that experience, as well as her wedding ceremonies and festivities. (Although anti-footbinding activities began in the late nineteenth century, the practice lingered in rural areas well into the twentieth. Only in 1951, when Mao Zedong’s armies finally liberated Jiangyong County, did the practice end in the nu shu region.)
Recently, the People’s Republic of China reversed its previous stance and now considers nu shu to be an important element of the Chinese people’s revolutionary struggle against oppression. To that end, the government is making an effort to keep the language alive by opening a nu shu school in Puwei. It was there that I met and interviewed Hu Mei Yue, the new teacher, and her family. She shared with me tales about her grandmothers and how they taught her nu shu.
Even today, the village of Tongkou is an extraordinary place. The architecture, paintings on the houses, and what remains of the ancestral temple all attest to the high quality of life that was once enjoyed by the people who lived there. Interestingly, although today the village is poor and remote by any measure, the temple lists four men from this area who became imperial scholars of the highest rank during the reign of Emperor Daoguang. Beyond what I learned in the public buildings, I would like to thank the many people of Tongkou who let me wander freely in their homes and answered endless questions. I’m also grateful to the people of Qianjiadong—believed to be the Thousand Family Village of Yao lore rediscovered by Chinese scholars in the 1980s—who also treated me as an honored guest.
On my first day back home, I sent an e-mail to Cathy Silber, a professor at Williams College, who in 1988 did field research on nu shu for her dissertation, to say how impressed I was that she had lived for six months in such an isolated and physically uncomfortable area. Since then, we have spoken by phone and through e-mail about nu shu, the lives of the women writers, and Tongkou. I was also helped tremendously by Hui Dawn Li, who answered countless questions about ceremonies, language, and domestic life. I am immensely grateful for their knowledge, openness, and enthusiasm.
I am deeply indebted to the works of several other scholars and journalists who have written about nu shu: William Chiang, Henry Chu, Hu Xiaoshen, Lin-lee Lee, Fei-wen Liu, Liu Shouhua, Anne McLaren, Orie Endo, Norman Smith, Wei Liming, and Liming Zhao. Nu shu relies heavily on standard phrases and images—such as “the phoenix squawks,” “a pair of mandarin ducks,” or “the heavenly spirits matched the two of us”—and I, in turn, have relied on the translations of those listed above. However, since this is a novel, I did not use the customary pentasyllabic and heptasyllabic rhyming scheme used in nu shu letters, songs, and stories.
For information on China, the Yao people, Chinese women, and footbinding, I would like to acknowledge the work of Patricia Buckley Ebrey, Benjamin A. Elman, Susan Greenhalgh, Beverley Jackson, Dorothy Ko, Ralph A. Litzinger, and Susan Mann. Finally, Yue-qing Yang’s evocative documentary, Nu-shu: A Hidden Language of Women in China, helped me to understand that many women in Jiangyong County are still living with the fallout of arranged, loveless marriages. All these people have their own well-established opinions and conclusions, but please remember Snow Flower and the Secret Fan is a work of fiction. It doesn’t purport to tell everything about nu shu or explain all its nuances. Rather, it is a story that has been filtered through my heart, my experience, and my research. Put another way, all mistakes are my own.
Bob Loomis, my editor at Random House, once again showed himself to be patient, insightful, and thorough. Benjamin Dreyer, copy editor extraordinaire, offered some early and very good advice for which I am greatly obliged. Thank you to production editor Vincent La Scala, who shepherded the novel, and Janet Baker, who carefully read the manuscript. None of my work would see the light of day if it weren’t for my agent, Sandy Dijkstra. Her faith in me has been unwavering, while everyone in her office has been wonderful to work with, especially Babette Sparr, who handles my foreign rights and was the first person to read the manuscript.
My husband, Richard Kendall, gave me the courage to keep moving forward. This time around he also had to field questions from numerous people who, while I was away, kept asking him, “You let her go there by herself?” He had not thought twice about letting me follow my heart. My sons, Christopher and Alexander, who were physically apart from me during the writing of this book, continued to be as inspired and inspiring as a mother could ever wish for.
A final thank-you goes out to Leslee Leong, Pam Maloney, Amelia Saltsman, Wendy Strick, and Alicia Tamayac—all of whom took very good care of me when I was housebound with a serious concussion and drove me around Los Angeles to doctors’ appointments and on other errands during the three months I couldn’t drive. They are a living example of a sworn sisterhood and I truly could not have finished Snow Flower without them.