According to U.S. immigration records, in 1834 there were only a handful of Chinese in America. All were male and lived on the West Coast as traders or, mostly, manual laborers. On October 17, 1834, when the merchant ship Washington landed in New York City harbor, there were still only a handful – plus one – the first Chinese woman to step foot on American soil. Her name was Afong Moy, and Lloyd Suh’s evocative play The Chinese Lady, which receives a formidable production from Stages, is her story.
As a 14-year-old Chinese girl from Guangzhou, the only Chinese port where international trade was permitted, Afong was bought from her father by Salem, Massachusetts, merchant brothers Francis and Nathaniel G. Carnes in business with the ship’s captain Benj. Obear. It was a two-year contract with a promise to return Afong home. How they secured the deal and any details of the financial transactions are long lost, but Afong did not return home. Why they secured the deal, though, has not been lost.
Her arrival was craftily arranged with newspapers alerted to this strange cargo. Headlines flashed the news: “Unprecedented Novelty! The Chinese Lady.” It was a grand publicity stunt that Hearst or Pulitzer, and later her last exploiter P.T. Barnum, would later copy.
Shamelessly, she was put on exhibition to tout the Carnes’ inventory of “fancy goods” from the exotic East: fans, painted shawls, vases, lacquer ware, watercolors, inlaid boxes. First put on display at Obear’s house in a “salon” setting, she would be surrounded by objects for sale. Later, she was displayed at Carnes’ warehouse where she sat on a dais in “native” costume, ate with chopsticks, performed a tea ceremony, “walked” the room unsteadily in her bound feet, sang traditional songs, and answered questions from the audience. Her interpreter was a young Chinese man, Acong (Suh names him “Atung”), who had worked previously for the Brothers as translator in their Asian trade business.
Her “presentation” was a financial windfall and social sensation. No one in America had ever seen a Chinese woman, and no one east of the Rockies had seen a Chinese man. The public was dumbfounded. Crowds lined up around the block. The ultimate alien, a stranger in a strange land, Afong drew huge crowds of the curious, the gawkers, the doubters, doctors and scientists, all willing to then purchase the goods surrounding her.
The Brothers quickly doubled the original admittance fee to 50 cents. Afong toured the East Coast, met Vice President Van Buren, then President Andrew Jackson, visited Louisiana, Pennsylvania, Florida, South Carolina, even toured Cuba. She was presented in museums, atheneums, literary salons. In a two-year whirlwind of exhaustive exhibition and crass merchandising, neither she nor Acong were ever paid.
When the Carnes’ warehouse burned down, it also seared Afong’s career. She was abandoned by her managers, in poverty, and without her public. For eight years, she lived on assistance from a family in New Jersey. Who came calling but that infamous humbug himself, Barnum. What a marvelous addition to his American Museum with its catalog of freaks, oddities, and “unusuals.” At 37 years old, Afong joined the showman’s menagerie, now just one of many misfits and curiosities. Her ineffable mystery, though, had vanished along with her youth. She wasn’t a novelty anymore, anti-Chinese sentiment was on the rise, and the fascination with her tiny malformed feet now approached scorn and derision. When Barnum discovered another 14-year old Chinese girl to exploit, Afong was hastily replaced. There were no more breathless newspaper or broadside reports, no more penny advertisements glued to telephone poles. Afong Moy simply disappeared from history.
In this two-character, 100-minute heady reconstruction, Suh stitches this fascinating piece of Americana into a culture clash between Afong and Atung. He’s jaded from the beginning, out-of-place and knows it. Weary and full of frustration, he gently mocks Afong’s naivety and increasing egotism, even as she grows weary of performing these mindless rituals year after year. She hopes, he despairs.
Their seesaw confrontations grow desperate. “What are we doing here,” Atung asks futilely. She wants to be an ambassador, bringing Americans and her people together. Can’t we all just get along, she implies in banter with Atung. No friends, no family, no lover, he dreams at night of the metaphorical box she performs in and what it means. It’s a nightmare of unrequited sex, dashed opportunity, and failed existence. It’s all so humiliating. Their lives are a cage that has trapped both of them forever.
Afong is seduced by “the gaze.” She worships it at first, those people out there staring at her, peppering her with questions, desiring to see her feet. She stares back but gets no warmth. They’re looking at her but not ever seeing her. She has lost her identity by play acting this character that the Americans have forced upon her. The role consumes her. Poor Atung has accepted his fate. He just goes on. Patient, but seething, he cranks the turntable where Afong reigns. With no money, what else can he do. He’s lost his self-confidence, while she’s about to.
Alexandra Szeto-Joe is a radiant Afong Moy. Bedecked in Sandra Zhihan Ha’s richly embroidered costumes, her hair braided in coils entwined with colorful flowers, and a high-pitched voice verging on helium balloon, she is the ultimate teenager lost in translation. Bitchy and bossy, she believes her own inflated press. She craves the control that her handlers deny and therefore takes it out on gentle Atung. As years pass, her voice darkens, her rituals decline, and a slovenliness takes hold. She drinks, brazenly smokes, and flings her legs across her salon chair. But she’s got chutzpah. She will be remembered. And by remembering, we will honor those who came after her. This play is her worthy epitaph.
As marvelously detailed as is Szeto-Joe’s performance, Lloyd Wayne Taylor slyly steals the show with his multi-faceted dive into understated Atung. Watch while he stands in the shadows as Afong drones on – look how he listens. See him slump while he toadies to her star’s faux privileges. His battered ego is all there in his humble stance, the way he carries his arms, his ironic manner, a particular stress on a word. He may be defeated, but he’s still got dignity. With his Manchu pigtail (later tinged with gray) and peasant trousers, and subtle command of the stage, he’s a most lively counterweight. Suh allows him to run with the character as does director Sarah Shin, whose work throughout is nuanced and knowing.
Stages’ production is first-rate. First of all, there’s that turntable set which is this side of brilliant. Thank you, designer Inseung Park. Entering the Smith Stage, my seat was behind the chair on the dais. Oh, no, I despaired, I’ll never see the actor. Who’s dumb idea was this? Not to worry. Almost immediately the turntable within the four-sided open box (a delicate beauty in Chinese red) was rotated by Atung and then clunked into place by a bolt lock. With its semi-constant revolution, everyone had a perfect view. An ideal solution for this problematic theater in the round while using the most ingenious symbolism for “us” gazing at Afong while she returns our gaze.
Suh missteps in the final sequence. Afong Moy in ghostly modern apparition (all in white, with silent observer Atung wearing headphones and hip-hop mufti) details a litany of discrimination and brutal mistreatment of Chinese in America through the years. This historic timeline is sketchy at best and preachy at worst. Her and Atung’s tales are woeful enough. We get it already. Piling on only weighs down Afong’s shoulders. She needs to stand tall. After all, this is her story.
It’s a minor structural problem and doesn’t dampen the jubilant mood that everyone at Stages has delivered in stunning form. Taylor and Szeto-Jo make a complete complementary team. Perfect Yin and Yang, you might say.
The Chinese Lady continues through March 22 at 7 p.m. Wednesdays through Saturdays, and 2 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays at Stages at The Gordy, 800 Rosine. For more information, call 713-527-0123 or visit stageshouston.org. $25-$91.