Golden Lilies

by Iris Yang, graduating in '23 October 27, 2021

Untitled photo by Michelle Sze, Del Norte High School '21

Grandmother Honor: Prestigious. Anachronistic. I have spent the past forty years in the upstairs room of my husband’s house, leaving only to visit my natal home a few times a year. I help my daughter-in-law sew bandages in preparation for my granddaughter’s foot binding. Soon her feet will be small, the most desired golden lilies, and will bring great pleasure for her future husband. The lattice window is my only connection to the world. I look out to see houses filled with women sewing in the upstairs room just as I am doing. A towering oak stands right outside the window, watching over us from one generation to the next. On one of the top branches, a mother bird is building a nest for her chicks. She will care for and nurture them until they grow strong enough to leave the nest, just as we prepare our precious daughters during their borrowed time with us. Our job as mothers is to pave a way for a better future for our girls until they find their own path and a new family. My heart aches, remembering the screams of pain and agony from the girls as their feet are bound. Without golden lilies, they will not marry into a family with prestige and security. Instead, they will live a life of toil and poverty.

Mother Love: Unconditional. Boundless. It is now time for me to bind my daughter’s feet, just as my mother had done for me. On the seventh month of my daughter’s seventh year of life, when the moon fills to the brim with a shimmering glow, we will begin. I have been preparing for the big day, sewing bandages, but also priming my mental state for this excruciating and contradictory event, one that would determine the destiny of my daughter’s life. I think back to the first days of my own foot binding. The forced bending of each toe, the breaking of each bone, the begging of my plea to stop, the silence of my mother. Each scream only hastened the movement of her wrapping the binding around my feet while she ignored my screeches of agony. Tighter and tighter until I was consumed by a tunnel of darkness. The wrapping and unwrapping of old and new bindings went on for months until the deformed feet healed. Each day, not wanting to disobey the words of my mother, I paced back and forth across the room hundreds of times. I recall the unwrapping of my bindings, filled with bright yellow pus from my infected feet and the aroma of rotten egg saturating the room. Yet I continued to follow and listen to my mother’s every command, hoping that my feet would become perfect lilies, an asset necessary for the bargain of a promising marriage to a noble man. My worth as a daughter would increase with golden lilies. I would no longer be worthless and viewed as someone who was merely a waste of food and space. I look out the lattice windows, trying to blink away the painful memories and finding comfort in knowing how proud my parents were when my foot binding turned out perfect. I look up to see the family of birds. I was astounded to see the mother push one of her chicks out of the nest, but to my relief, moments before it hits the ground, the baby spreads its wings and flaps into the air.

But I am a mother. I worry for my daughter, no matter how “useless” her life is to me. I am weak. I cannot bear to see her experience the same torture. I see the Westerners coming into the cities, the women’s feet big and chunky. But their families are prosperous, living in luxurious homes, having servants and bountiful food. The women fight to end our traditional practice. I yearn for their ideas to spread. I do not think I can bear the blame for making the wrong decision that will destroy her life. Daughter Conformity: Strict. Suffocating. Stuck in the same room every day, waiting for the epoch of pain and supposed honor - foot binding. Mother tells me that this is how I will get a desirable husband, bring honor to my natal family, and establish my prestigious status in my future home. I find no excitement sitting in one room for the rest of my life, barely able to even walk down the stairs. My only source of happiness will come from the small lattice window in the corner of the upstairs room. Through the tiny holes, I am supposed to see the rest of the world. I let my imagination run wild, through the alleys and streets of each town, through the banks of the rivers, through the green meadows of the surrounding hills. An oak tree grows on the other side and the skyline extends behind it, filled with communities of houses nestled between the rolling hills. Today, I spot a nest of small blue and white birds in the tree. The mother forces her baby out of the nest. He falls out, dropping closer and closer to the ground until it learns to spread its wings and flutter awkwardly through the air. Soon, I am sure, the baby will be soaring in the sky, gliding freely, and leaving the chaos below. Mother tells me that my feet must be bound, that the pain will lead me to glory. But I remember the screams I have heard from the other girls. Their squealing of toes being broken and bandages being wrapped are fresh in my mind. How can my mother force me through all this pain when it will never bring me happiness? I do not want a room with a view. I do not want to imagine the beauty behind the skyline. I do not want this blinded filial duty. I want to be free, even if it means giving up my life...