The Many Daughters of Afong Moy

Afong Moy’s experience losing Yao Han establishes a pattern in which all the female characters hope for love that may never appear. The novel in fact begins on this note, though not with Afong: “Faye Moy signed a contract stating that she would never marry […] Faye thought that perhaps there should have been an exception made for older nurses” (3). Faye Moy desires to marry but has never realized this dream; now middle-aged, she considers much of her life wasted. In the doctrines of Buddhism, however, Faye finds a possible way of understanding her experiences. When trying to make sense of her life and of John Garland’s crash landing, she reflects that “there was something different about this one, a familiar feeling, like ci cang soeng sik—waking from a dream—though the Chinese version of déjà vu generally referred to two people who had met before” (13).

Ci cang soeng sik is related to reincarnation: People feel they have met before because they have met, albeit in a past life. To characters like Afong, however, the notion of reincarnation is not necessarily a comfort. Though she turns to reincarnation to explain the suffering she experiences, the lesson she draws is that she is being punished, essentially blaming herself for her own victimization and rationalizing the systemic misogyny and racism she endures:

For most of her childhood Afong thought that she must have been a horrible man in her previous life to have been reborn a woman. She must have been vehement to been forced to marry an old man whom she had never met, never seen, unable to forget the young man she cared for, dreamt about (30).

Shi, the monk Faye meets, offers an alternative understanding of Buddhist principles that echoes the novel’s interest in epigenetics. Shi instead stresses the idea of connectivity, describing each person as part of a larger whole, their actions (and, in the novel’s world, memories) extending far beyond their individual lives. This idea resonates with Faye, who concludes that her connection with John Garland, though seemingly brief, offered her a glimpse of something real and enduring: “Love was real. […] There was something and someone out there. There was more. […] [H]er mistakes, her heartaches, her regrets, all led her here, to the place where [John Garland] could find her” (288).

Sam’s explanation of the Buddhist principles he is named after anticipates many of Shi’s words. During their second date, Greta asked Sam where his name comes from and if it’s short for Samuel. He says:

It’s short for some Samsara. That’s the Sanskrit word for wander, but what it really means is rebirth. […] Samsara is also Dukkha […] which means suffering. It’s a karma thing. Sometimes we don’t get it right at this turn at bat. But there’s a lot to be learned along the way, especially by how we treat others. My parents always stressed that karma is transpersonal. It’s not about doing good or bad, making wise of [sic] foolish choices, for our own karmic benefit. It’s about how our choices can improve the quality of other people’s journeys. Our family’s, our children’s, our partners’, romantic or otherwise (184).

The principal Sam is describing applies directly to the text on a whole, which is not about punishment or even personal redemption. Rather, it considers characters’ individual lives in the context of an interpersonal web, suggesting that people can turn their own suffering into good for others. Dorothy in particular is working to heal her family legacy and make “choices to improve the quality of [Annabel’s] journey” (184). This is karma in action. It’s Greta’s response, however, that encapsulates the peace the novel locates in such teachings: “In that moment, Greta felt safe. No, she didn’t just feel safe. She felt strong. She felt in control something that she realized she’d never had enough of. She also felt grateful” (184).