Interview with Jane Yang

The Chinese custom of foot binding has long fascinated Westerners. Long after its abandonment and the transformation of the state that created it, the custom continues to symbolize the restrictions imposed on women under the imperial system. Foot binding is also often used to imply not just difference but backwardness. So it’s refreshing to see Jane Yang, in her debut novel set in late nineteenth-century China and named after the tiny slippers worn by women with bound feet, explore more complex inequities and interactions between rich and poor, native and foreigner, and yes, women and men than the traditional narrative. Read on to find out more from my interview with the author of The Lotus Shoes.

What drew you to the story that became The Lotus Shoes?

The Lotus Shoes is inspired by the family lore handed down to me by my grandmothers. Maa Maa, my paternal grandma, was small and fine-boned—a porcelain doll—with a delicate constitution and a soft voice. Maa Maa embraced the traditional feminine sphere, rejecting the opportunity to attend school, preferring to devote herself to domestic virtues like embroidery. One of my most vivid childhood memories was the day Maa Maa first showed me a silk handkerchief embroidered with a double-sided goldfish—it looked so real that I thought it might swim. Alongside this treasure, she told me about Autumn Moon’s extraordinary fortune: this distant great-aunt was born in the 1880s, during an era when a woman’s worth was still almost entirely judged by the size of her golden lilies (bound feet). With natural feet, Autumn Moon had no marriage expectation beyond one to a kind but poor peasant, like her father. Though she was gifted with needlework, the most she had dared to hope for was a job as a sewing amah, thereby sparing herself from a life of toil in the rice fields. Yet, against all odds, her embroidery skills secured a marriage into a genteel home. Her triumph benefited her female relations too, helping many of them to marry above their stations, and the good fortune trickled down the generations to my maa maa—she grew up in a privileged home with the luxury to embroider all day and proved to be as talented as Autumn Moon. Little Flower is an embodiment of Autumn Moon and Maa Maa.

Linjing is modeled on my maternal grandmother, Po Po: both wanted to escape the gender roles that confined them. At almost 170 centimeters tall, Po Po towered over most other Chinese women and surpassed lots of men too. Her voice boomed, and she had the strength and endurance of a triathlon champion. Po Po did not enjoy a loving or comfortable home. As a bright and inquisitive child, Po Po was desperate to attend school, but her family felt only boys were worthy of an education. Daughters didn’t even deserve a full belly; food was scarce, therefore reserved for fathers and sons. Po Po’s only happy childhood memories were of her own grandmother, who often hid scraps of meat beneath mounds of rice, which my po po ate furtively. With this upbringing, Po Po loathed the patriarchy, and she longed to take the Sor Hei vows and join a Celibate Sisterhood; these were communities where women rejected marriage and pooled their wages (from silk reeling) to collectively become independent. By the time Po Po was born in about 1930 (female births were not recorded), the Great Depression had crushed the silk-reeling industry. To survive, most Celibate Sisters had migrated to places like Hong Kong and Singapore, working as amahs, while their sisterhoods progressively closed down. Still, Po Po admired them fiercely, and from her, I became captivated with this movement.

Set the stage for us, please. When did the Guangxu Emperor reign, and what was going on in China at that time?

The 1800s was a time of upheaval for China: the increasing dominance of Western influences challenged traditional cultural norms. Of all the changes, the anti-foot-binding movement—a campaign to abolish a practice that could be traced back to the tenth century—was perhaps the most significant. In Little Flower and Linjing’s world, almost all women, except those from the poorest families, had golden lilies. In the marriage stakes, golden lilies were the mark of a respectable woman: they trumped beauty, a rich dowry, and even bloodline. In historical Western sources, foot binding was largely portrayed as cruel and barbaric; therefore the successful crusade to end this practice was celebrated as an indisputable triumph. But I suspect the reality was far more complex for women who lived through those times.

In The Lotus Shoes, Little Flower is forced to unbind her golden lilies because Linjing, her mistress, will keep her natural feet. Their dynamics allow me to explore the nuanced motivations behind a mother’s decision to bind her daughter’s feet. The Lotus Shoes also examines the consequences of the anti-foot-binding movement; whilst it is, of course, liberating for women to have natural feet, at the time, those who were the first to relinquish this tradition paid an immense cost. Women like Little Flower and Linjing would have suffered censure and faced uncertain futures—their marriage prospects, along with their social standing, were greatly diminished by the well-intended activism of modernity.

Little Flower is only six when we meet her, but it’s a consequential moment for her. What is happening to her?

In late nineteenth-century China, most girls from farming families, like Little Flower, would start foot binding at around six or seven years old. Girls from genteel families who didn’t need their labor around the house or the farm would start the process at three or four. A pair of perfect golden lilies would attract a favorable marriage, often above their natal family’s economic status. Little Flower’s mother starts binding her feet when she is only four, to ensure she has the best chance to marry well later in life. Little Flower’s hopes are dashed when her father dies, plunging the family into destitution. Little Flower’s mother is forced to sell her into slavery. Even so, her mother does her best to search for the best position possible for Little Flower—as a lady’s maid to Linjing, she thinks her daughter will be spared the hardships that befall other slaves. Most of all, she hopes Little Flower’s bound feet will still secure a good marriage for her when she comes of age. But Linjing’s father insists that her feet remain unbound. Since it’s unacceptable for a maid to have golden lilies when her mistress has big feet, Little Flower is forced to unbind her feet. With her one hope for freedom stolen, Little Flower must navigate another route to liberty.

Foot binding acts as an important status symbol for the characters in this novel. At six, Little Flower already has bound feet, but not all the female characters do. Why did you decide to focus on that as an ongoing motif?

As noted above, bound feet played a pivotal role in a Chinese woman’s identity. Over the years, as a reader, I’ve come across various stories about foot binding but none that explores the consequences of the anti-foot-binding movement, at least not at a personal, intricate level. I wanted to give voice to the women who were at the forefront of this immense social upheaval, so I focused on this theme in The Lotus Shoes.

The other major character is Linjing Fong. Tell us about her, as a personality, and the role she plays in your novel.

Linjing is proud, impatient and entitled. Her privileged birth prevents her from developing empathy for others, especially Little Flower, who she considers to be a useful tool. Despite Linjing’s many flaws, I have a lot of sympathy for her too—in a world where bound feet are indispensable for almost all women, Linjing’s lack of them makes her feel inadequate. She also craves affection and approval from her mother but nothing Linjing does seems to be good enough. There is no doubt that Linjing could and should be kinder to Little Flower, but she is definitely not beyond redemption.

The relationship between these two girls is further complicated by Little Flower’s gift for embroidery. What can you say about that?

In China, as with most other cultures, women’s experiences were not well documented. To navigate this limitation, I searched for traces of their lives in alternative sources. For example, The Way of Embroidery, published in 1821, instructed women to “find a quiet, clean, and bright corner as unsullied as the embroiderer’s mind.” It also viewed embroidery as “a moral cultivation for women on par with masculine pursuits like literature and calligraphy.” In terms of artifacts, historical photographs contain images of antique embroidered shoes stitched onto tasseled silk mats. These tiny display shoes were presented to guests during weddings as proof of a bride’s prowess in needlework. These different historical sources demonstrate the important of embroidery to women of the Qing dynasty, especially in the marriage market.

Given the above context, Linjing’s color blindness, which robs her of the skills needed in excel in embroidery, would have been a huge blow to her sense of identity and self-worth. In essence, Little Flower possesses all the qualities that Linjing wants for herself, creating immense jealousy and rivalry between them. This is the engine that drives the story.

Slavery is another important theme in this book. Could you talk a bit about that and why you wanted to explore it here?

Slavery was practiced throughout Chinese history, but it isn’t widely known amongst westerner readers, so I wanted to explore it in The Lotus Shoes. The practice of slavery was also closely linked to a patriarchy that favored boys: the majority of children sold into domestic servitude were girls. A family would only consider selling a son if they had no other option: boys were highly valued, but girls were considered superfluous because they couldn’t carry on the family name. Often, when a girl came of age (usually around eighteen), she’d have a chance to “marry out,” meaning her owner would release her if she could secure a marriage proposal. Since bride prices were common during that time, the groom’s family would presumably have to pay a lump sum to buy her freedom.

From my research, I found several accounts where a slave-maid preferred to stay with her mistress for life, rather than enter an arranged marriage. Those examples prompted me to think about the unique relationship between a mistress and her maid. Like Little Flower and Linjing, those complex bonds would occasionally mimic the intimacy of sisters, but I believe such bonds rarely flourished due to the seismic imbalance of power between their social standings. The need for equality is central: until Linjing treats Little Flower with respect, genuine friendship reminds out of reach—a universal theme that is as relevant today as it was in 1800s China. In the absence of a balance of power, no two people can establish a truly meaningful relationship, be that between friends or lovers.

Are you already working on a new novel?

I have almost finished the third draft of my next novel—the story has two interwoven perspectives and timelines.

In 1906 Shanghai, amber-eyed Scarlet is the daughter of a Chinese woman and an English physician. Aside from her unusual eye color, Scarlet feels as plain as a sparrow with little hope of inspiring romantic love. Though her heart yearns for passion, to avoid disappointment, she is determined to channel all her energy into a midwifery career and devote her life to help other women. But Fate has other plans for Scarlet.

A century earlier, beautiful and sweet-tempered Jiayi is a scullery maid on the Gu Estate in Cloud Mountain, a remote village in central China—her one wish is to be chosen as a concubine for the handsome and accomplished Qilong, the heir. Heaven seems to answer her prayers when she becomes his “Little Wife,” an ambiguous position in the household, but Jiayi, naively, believes it’s a trial phase before he marries her. Life feels too good to be true and Jiayi thinks her future is set, but Destiny is a cruel jester.

Scarlet and Jiayi’s lives will intersect in an unexpected way, forcing them to make daunting choices as they grapple with faith and doubts. Their story echoes gothic classics like Jane Eyre and Rebecca.

Thank you so much for answering my questions!

Jane Yang was born in the Chinese enclave of Saigon and raised in Australia, where she grew up on a diet of superstition and family stories from Old China. Despite establishing a scientific career, first as a pharmacist and later in clinical research, she is still sometimes torn between modern, rational thinking and the pull of old beliefs in tales passed down through the family. She lives in Australia with her family.

Photograph © Jane Yang. Reproduced with permission.