Memory, Homeland, and Identity in Exile in Daughters of Shandong
The Thematic Claim: Memory as a Living Bridge in Exile
In Daughters of Shandong, Eve J. Chung explores how memory of homeland becomes both a lifeline and a burden for characters displaced by war. The novel’s central claim is that identity in exile is not a fixed inheritance but a dynamic negotiation: the remembered landscape of Shandong—its wheat fields, rivers, and courtyard homes—provides the emotional and cultural raw material for rebuilding a sense of self, even as characters must adapt to new languages, economies, and social orders. This adaptation is never a clean break; it is a process of translation, where the past is carried forward in food, language, and generational ambition. The theme unfolds across the prologue’s lyrical recollection, the family’s harrowing journey through Hong Kong and Taiwan, and the narrator’s later reflection on her daughter’s success, ultimately revealing that memory can both anchor and constrain, and that true resilience lies in the ability to let the past nourish the present without being imprisoned by it.
The Prologue: Memory as the Foundation of Self
The prologue establishes the narrator’s relationship to her birthplace as the bedrock of her identity. She recalls the shiheyuan, the traditional courtyard home, with sensory immediacy: “I smell my mother’s cooking and hear my sisters sing.” This is not mere nostalgia; it is a deliberate act of preservation. The narrator describes the landscape before dinosaur fossils were discovered, the fields where she tumbled, the town’s aging wall, and the scars of bombing that the community endured and rebuilt. Crucially, she frames memory as a choice: “Most important, I choose to remember love.” This choice is what allows her to survive exile. She identifies with the wheat of Shandong soil and the northern flowers that bloom in snow—images that recur throughout the novel as symbols of tenacity. The prologue thus establishes that memory is not passive recollection but an active, life-sustaining force. The narrator, now living “across the sea,” draws strength from these images, suggesting that her identity remains rooted in a homeland she can no longer physically inhabit. This opening sets the thematic stage: memory is the bridge between a lost home and a present self.
The Rupture of Exile: Language, Food, and the Struggle to Adapt
The novel traces the family’s displacement from Zhucheng to Qingdao, then to Hong Kong’s Rennie’s Mill refugee camp, and finally to Taiwan. Each stage forces the characters to confront the erosion of their familiar world. In chapter 12, the letter from Xiao-Long (the father) reveals that he has fled to Taiwan, leaving the family behind. The letter is a physical artifact of rupture—it carries news of abandonment and a new, alien geography. The narrator’s reaction underscores the disorientation: “Taiwan was as exotic and unfamiliar to us as Germany or Japan.” This moment marks the beginning of a long process of renegotiating identity.
The most vivid evidence of this struggle appears in chapter 32, “Heritage,” where the family has settled in Douliu, Taiwan. The narrator, Hai, faces a linguistic crisis: she cannot understand Mandarin, the national language imposed by Chiang Kai-Shek’s regime, and her Shandongese dialect marks her as an outsider. She describes the humiliation of being mocked by classmates and the internal pressure to abandon her mother tongue: “Don’t speak Shandongese, or everyone will think you’re a bumpkin!” Her sister Di, by contrast, adapts more easily, practicing Mandarin tones with musical fluency. This contrast highlights a central tension: Hai clings to the past, while Di embraces the new. Yet even Di’s adaptability is complicated by her refusal to forgive their father—a form of emotional exile that persists despite linguistic integration.
The mother, Chiang-Yue, embodies a different strategy: practical adaptation without abandoning memory. She sells flatbread and hard-boiled eggs, using flour sacks to sew clothing for her youngest daughter, Lan. The flour and bread become symbols of continuity—the wheat of Shandong, transformed into sustenance in a tropical land where rice dominates. The mother even attends church and gets baptized to receive Spam and milk powder, a pragmatic compromise that does not erase her Buddhist faith but demonstrates the flexibility required for survival. This scene shows that identity in exile is not a binary of preservation versus assimilation; it is a series of small, daily translations. The mother’s bread is both a memory of home and a means of forging a new life.
The letters that circulate in the novel—from the father, from Nai Nai, and later from the narrator herself—function as another medium of memory. They carry news, accusations, and sometimes love across vast distances, but they also reveal the limits of connection. The father’s letter is a confession of abandonment; Nai Nai’s letters are tirades of disappointment. These written words become objects of emotional negotiation, illustrating how memory can be weaponized or cherished. The narrator’s own act of writing, as revealed in the author’s note, becomes a way to fill the gaps left by silence and loss.
Generational Transmission: Memory as a Legacy
The theme culminates in the narrator’s reflection on her daughter Yun-Mei’s achievements. In chapter 38, Hai watches Yun-Mei graduate from National Taiwan University and receive a scholarship for a master’s program in the United States. She realizes that “success is something that happens over the course of generations, something that is built upon life after life.” This observation ties memory to ambition: the sacrifices of the mother—selling eggs, enduring abuse, fleeing war—are not lost but transformed into opportunities for the next generation. Yun-Mei’s journey to America is a new exile, but it is also a fulfillment of the family’s collective memory of striving. The narrator’s pride is rooted in the knowledge that her daughter will never have to kneel to anyone, a direct contrast to the humiliations she herself endured.
This generational transmission is also evident in the author’s note, where Chung explains that she wrote the novel after interviewing her mother about her grandmother’s refugee experience. The gaps in family history compelled her to write fiction, a creative act that preserves memory while acknowledging its incompleteness. The book itself becomes a vessel for memory, ensuring that the story of displacement and resilience is not lost. This meta-narrative reinforces the theme: identity in exile is sustained not only by personal recollection but by the deliberate act of passing stories forward.
Complexity and Contradiction: The Double Edge of Memory
The novel does not romanticize memory. It shows that clinging to the past can be both a source of strength and a cause of suffering. Hai’s initial refusal to learn Mandarin stems from a desire to preserve her Shandongese identity, but it also isolates her and delays her integration. Di’s hatred of her father, rooted in the memory of abandonment, becomes a corrosive force that prevents her from moving forward. The mother’s practical adaptations, while necessary, involve compromises—baptism for Spam, silence about trauma—that blur the line between survival and betrayal.
The contradiction is most acute in the narrator’s relationship to her homeland. She identifies with the wheat and northern flowers, yet she also acknowledges that the China she knew “ached” and “bled.” Her memory is selective—she chooses to remember love, not the suffering. This selectivity is both a survival mechanism and a form of erasure. The novel suggests that memory is never pure; it is shaped by need and desire. The characters must learn to hold their memories lightly, using them as a foundation without being trapped by them. Hai’s eventual acceptance of her father’s departure, and her ability to “move forward,” exemplifies this balance. Di’s refusal to forgive, by contrast, shows the cost of holding on too tightly.
Study Questions and Answers
1. How does the prologue’s imagery of wheat and northern flowers establish the novel’s central metaphor for identity in exile?
The wheat and northern flowers symbolize resilience and rootedness. The narrator identifies with these images to assert that her identity remains tied to Shandong even when she is physically elsewhere. The metaphor recurs when Hai sees her sister Lan taking her first steps in a refugee camp and thinks, “She was the wheat that burst through Shandong soil,” suggesting that the family’s tenacity is inherited and portable.
2. In chapter 32, why does Hai struggle so intensely with learning Mandarin, and what does this struggle reveal about the relationship between language and identity?
Hai’s struggle stems from her emotional attachment to Shandongese, which she associates with her mother and her homeland. Learning Mandarin feels like a betrayal of that identity. The novel shows that language is not just a tool but a carrier of memory and belonging. Hai’s eventual mastery of Mandarin does not erase her Shandongese self; it adds a new layer, illustrating that identity in exile is additive rather than substitutive.
3. How does the mother’s use of flour and bread function as a symbol of cultural continuity in a new land?
The mother’s flatbread and buns are made from wheat, a staple of Shandong, and sold in Taiwan where rice dominates. This act transforms a memory of home into a means of survival and connection. The flour sacks used to sew clothing for Lan further link the past to the present, turning a symbol of displacement into a practical, wearable heritage.
4. What role do letters play in the novel’s exploration of memory and exile?
Letters are physical artifacts that carry memory across distances, but they also reveal the limits of communication. The father’s letter announces his abandonment; Nai Nai’s letters are full of reproach. These written words force characters to confront painful truths, yet they also allow for the possibility of reconciliation or closure. The author’s note extends this idea: the novel itself is a letter to the future, preserving a story that might otherwise be lost.
5. How does the novel complicate the idea that memory is a purely positive force?
The novel shows that memory can be a source of strength, as in the prologue, but also a source of pain and division. Di’s refusal to forgive her father is rooted in memory, and it prevents her from healing. The narrator’s selective memory—choosing to remember love—is a survival strategy, but it also involves erasing suffering. The novel suggests that identity in exile requires a delicate balance: honoring the past without being imprisoned by it.