Gish Jen fans can take some comfort when they finish one of her books: the characters can reappear in the next one they read.
The protagonist of her 1996 novel, “Mona in the Promised Land,” about the daughter of Chinese immigrants who converts to Judaism, first appeared as a baby in Jen’s 1991 debut, “Typical American.” A character from her 1999 collection of short stories, “Who’s Irish,” Duncan Hsu, takes center stage in a story in her latest book, “Thank You, Mr. Nixon,” which will be published by Knopf on Tuesday.
“It’s not like I sit down and say, well, what are they doing now?” Jen said. “I am interested in people who change. I myself have changed a lot.”
Jen, 66, the daughter of Chinese immigrants, is the author of nine books and often explores the intergenerational dynamics of Chinese-American families in her fiction.
Her nonfiction books, including “The Girl at the Baggage Claim” and “Tiger Writing,” deal with what Jen sees as the fundamental difference between the “independent self” fostered by highly individualistic societies in the West, and the “mutual dependent self’ that is often found in Asian cultures. “Because I have an interdependent side — it’s not all of me, but part of me — I feel an obligation to share what I know,” she said in a video interview this month.
The title story of “Thank You, Mr. Nixon” takes the form of a light-hearted letter to the former president—who in this scenario is in hell—by a woman he met during his visit to China in 1972. Interconnected in others stories, some written during the pandemic, others in previous years, readers meet a woman studying immigration law, and in a later story, one of her clients.
Jen discussed how China has influenced her work, what she got out of writing nonfiction, and why it’s important, even in fiction, to get the facts straight. These are edited excerpts from the conversation.
Tell me about the timeline of this book and how it fits into the rest of your body of work.
I had gone to China in 1979 to visit family, and interestingly, although I was not a writer at the time, I was taking extensive notes. The idea of becoming a writer had never occurred to me, but I think there was the writer in me.
I went back to teach in 1981, teaching mining engineers in Shandong. And then I went to Iowa, right after that, so I went pretty much straight from China to Iowa for my MFA
When I was writing I didn’t think I was trying to capture history or anything like that – it was just there.
Then I sat down during Covid and looked at some older stories, and you could see things happening. History is always there – we’re not aware of it of course, nobody thinks, “I can only have this because Nixon went to China.” (laughs) Now is the time to reflect on what has happened, especially as we enter a new phase in our relationship with China.
You have written about how the independent and interdependent aspects of yourself interact. How do you see that relationship affecting your writing style or your preoccupations as a writer?
I am an economic and efficient writer. But in my own work I did not notice the economy. It was a professor of Chinese literature who noticed it, and as soon as he said it I was like, but of course. The Chinese like extreme economics – they are very good at short text and leave a lot out.
I realized that for whatever reason – even though I was born in the United States, I only speak English, I’m full, unquoted, American – that aesthetic has stuck with me, just as interest in mixed tone and interest in subtlety is stayed with me. But it’s interesting to see these cultural relics, and if I could explain to you where I got that from – well, that would be a different book.
What kind of stories did you hear from your family when you were growing up?
It was quite a project to settle in the United States, and there wasn’t much time for storytelling. I can’t remember a minute of my childhood doing anything but getting through the day. My parents were not autobiographical ghosts – in the world you and I inhabit, it’s very important to tell yourself so that others can get to know you. But for them there was a privilege of the unspoken – if something is important, you certainly don’t talk about it. It’s the exact opposite of how it works here.
I did try to get some stories out of my mother though. She didn’t say much. But now and then she said more than she meant.
Many writers, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, resist the expectation of being “spokespersons” for the community they appear to represent. But you, at least in your nonfiction, seem more than willing to take on this explanatory role.
I think some people are afraid that if you take on this role, whether as a non-fiction writer or as some sort of “cultural ambassador,” it will stick. But I feel more comfortable with it.
I’m also established as a fiction writer – if my first book had been non-fiction I don’t know if I could have moved so easily. I came out of writing non-fiction, not with the feeling of being stuck, but with a feeling of freedom. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons I wrote ‘The Resisters’. I went in a very different direction. And now here I am, back in an area that may seem clearer to Gish Jen. Then we’ll see what happens next. So I think the non-fiction helped me as a writer.
Many of your stories revolve around the differences in perspectives between generations – including how they view class and race. Do you ever worry about how your characters will be received by readers, especially at a time of increasing violence against Asian Americans?
One of the problems facing minority writers is: how many writers are there? If it’s you, you need to be pretty careful. As times change and there are more voices, you can relax a little. But there’s still a little voice in the back of my mind that says, “I’ll continue with what I feel to be true, but I also need to know how to read it, and I need to disarm the reader if I can.” My humor is an important part of that.
Now there is enough that we can write whatever it is that we have to write. Some of it will be flattering and some of it will be unflattering, but it will all be completely human.
Your new book spans the 1970s to the present. How do you see this book fitting with other stories about the time it spans?
While it’s fiction, there’s a lot that is factually correct, and I feel a responsibility, especially when I’m talking about arenas where there isn’t a strong record, that if I was there, it’s important to get the facts straight : were there mosquito nets or no mosquito nets? Were the ceiling fans spinning or not?
I try to capture those facts as best I can. But in the end I see all those facts – all the good work of journalists and historians – I see them as the strings of the piano. Their job is to make the strings and make sure they are in tune. My job is to make the music.