The Untold Story

Tears streamed down my face as I watched the final scenes of The Joy Luck Club, 1993 American Drama film based on Amy Tan’s semi auto-biographical novel. The relationships between the Chinese-American daughters and their mothers were so perfectly and hauntingly portrayed. The untold immigrant stories of motherhood ranged from fleeing forced marriages, escaping abusive situations, and even a mother who sacrificed her own life by suicide to give her daughter a chance at a better life than she had. Most of these stories are never known or fully understood by their American daughters in the film until they are in their 30’s in the adult world, navigating their own careers and relationships. Each daughter held her own unique perspective of her mother from the lens she began to develop as a child. This really got me thinking that without understanding where her mother came from, is there really any way for a daughter to grasp her own mother’s hyper-critical or extremely stubborn nature? 

At the end of the movie, we finally realize that the protagonist June’s mom, Suyuan, really did see her daughter for the uniqueness and pure heart that she brought to the world, taking the risk of being a freelance writer. But from June’s perspective, she never really felt protected by her mother. In one scene she was shamed by her at the dinner table surrounded by family friends, while she knocked on her lack of “style” with writing, rather than defend her. As a daughter, June felt she could never do or be enough to please her mother, even from childhood not being able to master the art of playing piano. We begin to realize it was Suyuan’s own shame from the trauma of abandoning her twin daughters back in China, while she was ill and alone, that hindered her from really expressing how she feels about her living daughter. After her mother has already passed away, June’s father gives her this white swan feather, which her mom has kept for her in her jewelry box since she first immigrated to the United States. Suyuan never gained enough courage to give her daughter the feather herself, which represented her hopes for a better life for her in America. She also was never able to tell her the complete story about her past in China, while she was still alive. 

I feel this is something that many of us as daughters can relate to, whether we have immigrant mothers or not. There are likely countless untold stories that our mothers, perhaps even grandmothers, never shared and may never share with us. But why? Is it shame, guilt, or maybe even fear? There are many stories I have yearned for my mother to share with me as I became older and more mature. I had the intuition that there was much more to learn of her past, than what I already knew. But when I tried to ask, I hit a brick wall. I suppose for my own mother, maybe the fear of sharing is greater than any desire for vulnerability in our relationship. I am not entirely sure, but I do know that my own grandmother also did not share many stories of her heartbreaking child with my mother, her daughter. 

So maybe this is a tradition passed down between mother and daughter in our human society, that crosses cultural boundaries. Both my grandmother and mother were born in the United States, so I know this is more than just a theme in an immigrant story. This is a universal story of the feminine. We have a fear of sharing our stories. Indigenous cultures have the utmost respect for both storytelling and the wisdom of elders. The oral tradition among women was celebrated in these cultures and this is primarily how our ancestors have carried on their stories, not through writing. So what happened? 

I think as feminine creatures, one of our greatest natural gifts is storytelling, but we also have the innate desire to protect. Perhaps we have come to convince ourselves that holding onto these stories is somehow protecting our daughters; because it would do more damage than good to speak of the past. We have allowed our voices to be silenced by the imparted idea that this story we hold inside of us bears no meaning or relevance for our daughter today. But as a daughter, I am starting to think this does more damage than good. When we see our mothers holding back from telling us their story, we start to get that uneasy feeling that we are not worthy of sharing our own story. I think this is what my mother unknowingly passed down to me, and my grandmother to her. 

Maybe the women in my life see and saw it as a sacrifice to bear all the pain on their own, to not pass it down to the next generation. As women, we are very good at self-sacrifice, another skill we can thank the patriarchy for. This comes at a cost though. Although I may not be able to ever hear the pain in my mother’s story, I can still feel it. It’s subtle- in the way she carries herself, the thoughts and beliefs she projects, and how she navigates her life and relationships. Unfortunately, my mother holding onto her story, and whatever guilt she may carry with it, in silence and solitude, has just made it more challenging for me to express my own voice. But here I am, writing this reflection inspired by a beautiful story told by a courageous woman. I am inspired to begin to tell my story, for future female generations to come and I hope you can be too.