Carol Wong, writer
Carol Wong is the author of two as-yet unpublished works: Learning to Walk, a collection of linked short stories about a Chinese-Canadian immigrant family; and the novel Good People, set in early 1910’s Victoria, Canada, about a prostitute from Chinatown who is taken in by the Methodists’ “Rescue Home for Oriental Women and Girls.”
Born and raised in Victoria, B.C., Carol received a B.A. in Writing from the University of Victoria and an M.A. in Creative Writing in the UK from Birkbeck College, University of London. She has had stories published in Epoch and Birkbeck’s Mechanics’ Institute Review. She has been a finalist or honourable mention in short story competitions for Zoetrope and Glimmer Train. She currently lives in Vancouver.
About Good People
Chinatown, Victoria, 1912. Pearl, a young Chinese orphan is brought to Victoria’s Chinatown under the promise of marriage to a Gold Mountain man, only to be sold into prostitution upon her arrival. Life seems hopeless under the cruel watch of her madam, a woman she simply calls Auntie. But then she meets Jin, a customer at the brothel, a laundryman with kind eyes and ravaged hands, someone who shows her kindness and respect. Love can take root in the most unlikely of places.
Pearl and Jin plan to run away and make a life together. But the night of their planned escape, a heavily pregnant Pearl goes into labour just as a riot erupts in Chinatown. After the difficult birth, she wakes to find the baby has been taken away from her and she is to be “rescued” – taken in by the Rescue Home for Oriental Women and Girls, a home that was setup by Methodist missionaries.
The rescue home takes care of her; they give her a new name, teach her to read and write, teach her about the Bible. But they also tell her that the only way to redemption - to become a "good person" - is to learn to be a good Christian, a good wife, and leave her "Chinese ways" behind.
Good People is a story about the power of shame, and the lifelong battle to overcome it. It’s a story about the identities given to us, and those we build and choose for ourselves. It shows us how the past is always with us, and how love and family can survive, despite everything.
An excerpt from Good People
The name they give me is Mary. A good, simple, Christian name.
They leave my family name for now, which could be anything. But it doesn’t matter – soon, when I have proven myself, I will take a husband’s name. If I work hard enough, enough to deserve it. This is the ultimate goal, to be married. Then their work will be done and all will be forgiven.
“Mary is probably the best name there is,” Mother Helen tells me. They make us call her that: Mother. “She was Jesus’s mother. You’ll learn all about her soon.”
Mary, I try. It feels awkward and big on my tongue, like a dumpling stuffed whole into my mouth out of greediness. The r is a struggle, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“It suits you,” Mother Helen says. As if it is a dress, or a coat. Something to be put on.
The others have been given English names too. Anne. Sarah. Dorothy. I learn them at bible class, when Mother Helen introduces me. They sit at their desks, hair in braids, bibles open in front of them. “Girls, help Mary get settled here. Show her how we do things. You are an example to her, of the good work that we do.”
We are here to be saved; from evil, particularly evil men, but also from our pasts and our own blood which, we are told, is naturally, inherently wicked because we are Chinese. We’re here to be saved from ourselves.
Short stories
It has been like this between them as long as Mei can remember -- anger just under the surface, sharpening their voices. It's like the screen door at the back of the house, how it has always squeaked and banged in the wind, and though it annoys them, they don't bother to fix it. They just live with it.
from "Flight", published in Epoch
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I took a small comfort in knowing that we had these cousins; we were not the strange, rootless, marooned family I thought we were. My concept of relatives had been limited to curled black-and-white photos pasted in my parents' old photo albums -- people I would never meet because they lived so far away, or were long dead. But now I had real ones.
from "The Cousins", published in The Mechanics' Institute Review
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She turns to me, full of questions, but not sure where to start.
“What, Mom?”
“You Dad…”
“Yes?”
“You think he… be OK?”
“What do you mean?” I know I need to be careful about what I say, her fragile hopes in my hands.
“You think – he may walk again?” She’s careful not to look too hopeful, or too frightened, but the quiet desperation in her voice makes me look away.
from "Learning to Walk", finalist in Zoetrope's short fiction competition
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Yang would never forgive himself for what he did next.
He ran.
Yang didn’t understand why. He ran up the footpath, past the bridge, his legs with their newfound strength propelling him. He took the dirt trail that went into the woods. Why did he not run towards the main road, to get help? He did not think, did not make a choice. Fear told him, simply, to run; if he ran, he could make it unreal, he could erase it, he could disappear into the trees. A passer-by shouted after him, but he did not stop to tell him, to say, My friend is dying. Help us.