‘Bad Bad Girl’ review: Gish Jen reconstructs her mother’s life

Trigger warning for any daughter who has ever had a fraught relationship with their mother: Gish Jen’s remarkable and heartbreaking latest book, “Bad Bad Girl,” may prompt a flood of feelings not felt since adolescence. This marvel of a mash-up — part novel, part memoir, part effort to reconnect with a dead parent who never uttered an “I love you” — has as many pain points as life lessons. Quite a few of the latter — mostly delivered in the form of Chinese proverbs — are dropped by the author’s parents, Chinese immigrants who met in New York as graduate students. Among the pearls of wisdom that stick with Jen, their eldest girl and a keen observer of her parents: “When you drink the water, remember the spring.”

In this, Jen’s 10th book, she wistfully, unsparingly commemorates that “spring” — a punishing mother she nevertheless credits for “biting my heel.” A master of the art of withholding when it came to praise or affection, her mother had no compunctions about delivering ego-shattering put-downs and physical punishments to Jen for being “too smart for her own good.” And yet, Jen writes: “I have thrived.”

Gish Jen has brilliantly structured “Bad Bad Girl” so that invented exchanges with her mother keep returning us not only to the relationship between mother and daughter, but to the present.

(Basso Cannarsa)

Still, she is not at peace. Even after her mother’s death in 2020 at 96, that censorious voice remained “embedded in my most primitive responses, in my very limbic system.” “You were a mystery Ma,” Jen writes. “Why, why, why were you the way you were?” The writer’s instinct kicks in: “If I write about you, if I write to you, will I understand you better?”

“Bad Bad Girl” constitutes a heroic effort to do just that. But soon after Jen embarks on that quest, she realizes that while many mothers want their daughters to show interest in them and listen to their stories, “they were not my mother.” Without much to go on in the way of shared memories or documentary evidence, Jen decides to recalibrate. Instead of writing a straight memoir, she’ll chronicle what she can and construct a fictional narrative around the rest. The result is a heart-piercingly personal work that also imparts universal truths about the immigrant experience — and what it is to be a daughter, a mother and a woman in a world where men are the more valued of the sexes. If there is such a thing as an intimate epic, this is it.

Jen’s mother Agnes — Loo Shu-hsin, as she was originally named — was born in 1925 Shanghai to a wealthy and prominent banker and his much younger wife. In Part I, we are introduced to the lush beauty and extraordinary privilege Agnes was born into, sequestered in a mansion situated in the “international” section of Shanghai, staffed by maids, cooks, nursemaids, chauffeurs and bodyguards. “Proper though she may have been,” Agnes’ mother “did smoke opium.” Apparently, it was good for cramps.

Agnes was the firstborn child, a disappointment in her gender. As tradition dictated, her placenta was hurled into the Huangpu River; when it floated away, it was deemed that she too “would be raised and fed, only to drift away.” Agnes’ mother never bonded with her daughter and showed her little attention except to object to her daughter’s clear intelligence and closeness with her nursemaid. (By age 6 and beginning to read, Agnes still hadn’t been weaned.) By contrast, her father delighted in his daughter’s zeal for learning. The prevailing view was that “to educate a girl was like washing coal; it made no sense.” Still, her father enrolled her in an elite Catholic school where she was nurtured by Mother Greenough, a nun with a doctorate. She praised Agnes for her intellect and encouraged her to be ambitious. After completing her undergraduate studies amid the Japanese invasion and World War II, in the fall of 1947, after peace had finally descended, Agnes declared her intention to leave for the United States to pursue a PhD. Her father embraced that decision, in part because the communist takeover loomed and he hoped at least his eldest child could escape what was to come. “My favorite daughter, so smart and brave,” he pronounces, as the ship she boards sets sail for San Francisco.

Jen has brilliantly structured “Bad Bad Girl” so that invented exchanges with her mother — post-death, printed in bold type and interspersed throughout — keep returning us not only to the relationship between mother and daughter, but to the present. That dialogue is conversational and often funny, in contrast to the unfolding chronicle of Agnes’ journey as a stranger in a strange land. She finds her new countrymen puzzling in nearly every way. For example, “That was how lonely Americans were,” she observes, “that they should not only feed their dogs but walk them every day, rain or shine.”

Initially, Agnes’ spirits are bolstered by her privilege and her parents’ checks. Soon after arriving in New York City to begin graduate school, though, the money stops coming. The communist takeover is complete and, as she gradually discovers through their letters, now they seek financial support from her. Agnes, who’s never boiled an egg, sets to work typing and translating for her still-rich Chinese classmates. She meets and marries fellow student Jen Chao-Pe, and together they move into a dilapidated walk-up in Washington Heights, where Agnes learns to scrimp and save and paint her own walls. Her husband teaches her to cook. When she gets pregnant with her son, Reuben, she is laid low and takes a temporary leave of absence from school. Soon she is pregnant with Lillian, later nicknamed “Gish” for the silent film actor, and motherhood overwhelms her. Three more children come. Of the five, Gish is her least favorite, a girl every bit as clever as she was — a reminder of what she’s permanently put on the back burner. Whatever maternal feelings she has for her other children are missing when it comes to Gish, who becomes her mother’s scapegoat and punching bag.

Miraculously, Gish appears to have been mostly a happy child who excels socially and academically. After being accepted to every university she applies to, she chooses Harvard. She attends graduate school at Stanford and begins to pursue a writing career. She meets her husband, David, to whom she’s been married ever since — for 42 years. They have a son, Luke, and a daughter, Paloma. Jen’s children know how difficult their grandmother has been, and Paloma offers this to her mother by way of consolation: “The effects of trauma can’t be washed away in a generation,” something she’s read in a book. “You can’t get rid of it all, but you did a good job,” she adds.

How rich this book is, and how humane. Unlike, for example, Molly Jong-Fast’s merciless “How to Lose Your Mother,” “Bad Bad Girl” doesn’t read like a hit job. It’s suffused with love and a desire to finally understand. “You shut me out the way you shut your mother out. … What was my crime?” Jen challenges her mother in one of their imagined exchanges. “You were a pain in the neck,” Agnes observes, in another.

“She does not say ‘I love you’ back; she never has,” Jen writes. She doesn’t put those words in Agnes’ mouth here, even when she has the chance. But Jen does venture this about her mother: “I like to think (she) would finally agree both that this book is a novel and that there might be some truth to it.” And then in their final imagined exchange: “Bad, bad girl! Who says you can write a book like that?” Jen laughs. “That’s more like it.”

Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.