The Obedient Child

When Chwen Erl got on a plane bound for the United States at the age of 19, not only had she never flown before, she had never been outside of Taiwan. Having lived through the Japanese occupation of her country, the second World War, and then Chinese government rule, she was no stranger to change. But with a dream of an American education and a scholarship to attend a university in Atchison, Kansas, she left behind her family and everything she knew and stepped into the unknown under a new name, Joyce.

Years later, a chance meeting with notable author Alan Drury sparked within Joyce Marleau a dream to write down her extraordinary life story in a book. The Obedient Child is the realization of that dream, more than two decades in the making.

From the Introduction:

"It was hot and humid that morning on the train. Hotter than I was used to. I had forgotten how hot Japan can be in the summer. But then again, it could have just been nerves. It had been so long since I had seen any of these people, over 40 years How would they feel about me after all this time? What would we have to talk about? Would I even still be able to remember the language?

The train stopped in front of a large department store. This was my stop. I knew if I cut through the basement, then ran upstairs to the main street, that I would be able to save myself some time and get to the meeting place quickly. I did not want to be late.

The basement was full of bolts of fabric, and I was weaving in and out of them, making pretty good time, when all of a sudden something stopped me in my tracks. I had caught the tiniest whiff of a smell, something familiar. I reached over and grabbed one of the bolts of fabric. It was an inexpensive roll of dyed cloth, but the smell was so strong; that dye, that chemical, so familiar, but I just couldn't place it. I leaned my head against a nearby pillar, closed my eyes, and reached back into my memory.

As I stood there with my eyes closed, holding the fabric up to my nose, a wave of emotions swept over me. I finally recalled what it was. This was the smell of my mother. This fabric, used to make everyday common kimonos worn by Japanese women, was also worn by my mother every time she took me shopping, when we went on outings, and when we met up with her friends who also wore these informal kimonos and smelled like this. I had to hold on to the pillar for balance, as all of the memories came flooding back to my mind."