The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan Review

It’s rare to see a book about Chinese people, by a Chinese person (I'm mostly talking about Memoirs of a Geisha being written by a white man), be so mainstream. I was extremely excited to dive in, and had expected it to become a new favorite immediately. But as I read it, I turned page after page in utter disappointment at my realization that this book is a pure agglomeration of stereotypes of Chinese immigrant parents and their children. This book is a thinly veiled trauma dump, bursting at the seams with anger, pain, and frustration. The title containing joy and luck is an ironic touch.

But after a bit more research as I considered the best and most diplomatic way to word my frustration with this book, it turns out that Amy Tan suffered many of the afflictions that she bestows upon her four daughter characters in this collection of mini stories/vignettes. My disappointment was with the plethora of black-and-white and one-faceted views and depictions of a complex familial and societal dynamic. However, I realized my frustration was less with Tan—whose prerogative it is to write whatever story she wishes, especially because it is representative of her experiences and her mother’s experiences. I do think that making the four daughters and mothers basically the same person was a bit overkill, but that’s beside the point. Ultimately, I was most frustrated with the level of fame that this novel achieved. Why was it that America latched onto this story that solely represents the trauma, wrongs, shortcomings, regrets, and anger of this group—and champions it as representation? Not once does it discuss the joy, celebration, and rich culture of Chinese in America or in China. It was exhausting for me to read—not because of the complex narrative (I’m all for representation and honesty, even if it is negatively directed towards minority groups), but because of the hatred these women have towards each other, their daughters, even their supposed “friends." The mothers and daughters spend most of their waking hours and energy comparing themselves to one another or being jealous or petty. It felt stereotypical in the worst ways. 

Overall, it made me reflect on the ways in which we as a society take pleasure in immersing ourselves in the pain and trauma that minority groups face rather than the positive celebration of their unique-ness through media. I have a theory that it makes one feel more in tune with the group, like facing the racism and ugliness is brave and helps one become more knowledgeable. I don't think this urge or tendency necessarily comes from a bad place either. It's like what Roxane Gay discusses in Bad Feminist, her collection of essays on feminism and its intersection with other social issues or topics. There is an essay that discusses how America seems to latch onto these accounts of traumatic experiences of black people, such as in The Help and how appalling Gay found the book and movie's success. I personally believe in representation that humanizes the groups that are so often stereotyped, sharing the positive and special traits or experiences of the people rather than indulging in what often comes off as one-dimensional trauma porn.