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Beautiful Country: A Memoir
A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR • A NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLER • A TODAY SHOW #READWITHJENNA BOOK CLUB PICK • The moving story of an undocumented child living in poverty in the richest country in the world-an incandescent debut from an astonishing new talent
In Chinese, the word for America, Mei Guo, translates directly to "beautiful country." Yet when seven-year-old Qian arrives in New York City in 1994 full of curiosity, she is overwhelmed by crushing fear and scarcity. In China, Qian's parents were professors; in America, her family is "illegal" and it will require all the determination and small joys they can muster to survive.
In Chinatown, Qian's parents labor in sweatshops. Instead of laughing at her jokes, they fight constantly, taking out the stress of their new life on one another. Shunned by her classmates and teachers for her limited English, Qian takes refuge in the library and masters the language through books, coming to think of The Berenstain Bears as her first American friends. And where there is delight to be found, Qian relishes it: her first bite of gloriously greasy pizza, weekly "shopping days," when Qian finds small treasures in the trash lining Brooklyn's streets, and a magical Christmas visit to Rockefeller Center-confirmation that the New York City she saw in movies does exist after all.
But then Qian's headstrong Ma Ma collapses, revealing an illness that she has kept secret for months for fear of the cost and scrutiny of a doctor's visit. As Ba Ba retreats further inward, Qian has little to hold onto beyond his constant refrain: Whatever happens, say that you were born here, that you've always lived here.
Inhabiting her childhood perspective with exquisite lyric clarity and unforgettable charm and strength, Qian Julie Wang has penned an essential American story about a family fracturing under the weight of invisibility, and a girl coming of age in the shadows, who never stops seeking the light.
In Chinese, the word for America, Mei Guo, translates directly to "beautiful country." Yet when seven-year-old Qian arrives in New York City in 1994 full of curiosity, she is overwhelmed by crushing fear and scarcity. In China, Qian's parents were professors; in America, her family is "illegal" and it will require all the determination and small joys they can muster to survive.
In Chinatown, Qian's parents labor in sweatshops. Instead of laughing at her jokes, they fight constantly, taking out the stress of their new life on one another. Shunned by her classmates and teachers for her limited English, Qian takes refuge in the library and masters the language through books, coming to think of The Berenstain Bears as her first American friends. And where there is delight to be found, Qian relishes it: her first bite of gloriously greasy pizza, weekly "shopping days," when Qian finds small treasures in the trash lining Brooklyn's streets, and a magical Christmas visit to Rockefeller Center-confirmation that the New York City she saw in movies does exist after all.
But then Qian's headstrong Ma Ma collapses, revealing an illness that she has kept secret for months for fear of the cost and scrutiny of a doctor's visit. As Ba Ba retreats further inward, Qian has little to hold onto beyond his constant refrain: Whatever happens, say that you were born here, that you've always lived here.
Inhabiting her childhood perspective with exquisite lyric clarity and unforgettable charm and strength, Qian Julie Wang has penned an essential American story about a family fracturing under the weight of invisibility, and a girl coming of age in the shadows, who never stops seeking the light.
Editorial Reviews
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF 2021 BY The New York Times, NPR, Publishers Weekly, The Guardian, Good Housekeeping, She Reads, AND MORE
"Incredibly important, exquisitely written, harrowing. . . Beautiful Country tells [Wang's] story, well, quite beautifully. It is not only Wang's mastery of the language that makes the story so compelling, but also the passionate yearning for empathy and understanding. Beautiful Country is timely, yes, but more importantly it is a near-masterpiece that will make Qian Julie Wang a literary star."-Shondaland
"For fans of Angela's Ashes and The Glass Castle."-Newsday
"[An] exquisitely crafted memoir."-Oprah Daily
"A heartbreaking and intimate memoir... the storytelling from a young Qian's perspective is riveting."-Politico
"This unforgettable memoir is eye-opening to the nth degree."-Real Simple
"Elegantly affecting."-The Guardian
"A coming-of-age memoir about an undocumented Chinese girl growing up in New York's Chinatown, this lyrical book is full of small moments of joy, heartbreaking pain and the struggles of a family trying to survive in the shadows of society. It's a uniquely American story, and an essential one."-Good Housekeeping
"An astounding memoir from a debut author that you're not going to want to miss."-PopSugar
"[Qian Julie Wang] is remarkable, and her story is a must-read."-Alma
"A potent testament to the love, curiosity, grit, and hope of a courageous and resourceful immigrant child. Engaging readers through all five senses and the heart, Wang's debut memoir is a critical addition to the literature on immigration as well as the timeless category of childhood memoir."-Kirkus Reviews, *Starred Review*
"Extraordinary… With immense skill, Wang parses how her family's illegal status blighted nearly every aspect of their life . . .While Wang's story of pursuing the American dream is undoubtedly timeless, it's her family's triumph in the face of "xenophobia and intolerance" that makes it feel especially relevant today. Consider this remarkable memoir a new classic."-Publishers Weekly, *Starred Review*
"The writing is sparse, stylish, sometimes harrowing and sometimes humorous as she narrates experiences that are incredibly common but rarely captured with this level of artful control. It's shaping up to be one of the best memoirs of the year."-Bookpage, *Starred Review*
"[A] powerful debut. . . [Wang] movingly tells how undocumented families like her...
"Incredibly important, exquisitely written, harrowing. . . Beautiful Country tells [Wang's] story, well, quite beautifully. It is not only Wang's mastery of the language that makes the story so compelling, but also the passionate yearning for empathy and understanding. Beautiful Country is timely, yes, but more importantly it is a near-masterpiece that will make Qian Julie Wang a literary star."-Shondaland
"For fans of Angela's Ashes and The Glass Castle."-Newsday
"[An] exquisitely crafted memoir."-Oprah Daily
"A heartbreaking and intimate memoir... the storytelling from a young Qian's perspective is riveting."-Politico
"This unforgettable memoir is eye-opening to the nth degree."-Real Simple
"Elegantly affecting."-The Guardian
"A coming-of-age memoir about an undocumented Chinese girl growing up in New York's Chinatown, this lyrical book is full of small moments of joy, heartbreaking pain and the struggles of a family trying to survive in the shadows of society. It's a uniquely American story, and an essential one."-Good Housekeeping
"An astounding memoir from a debut author that you're not going to want to miss."-PopSugar
"[Qian Julie Wang] is remarkable, and her story is a must-read."-Alma
"A potent testament to the love, curiosity, grit, and hope of a courageous and resourceful immigrant child. Engaging readers through all five senses and the heart, Wang's debut memoir is a critical addition to the literature on immigration as well as the timeless category of childhood memoir."-Kirkus Reviews, *Starred Review*
"Extraordinary… With immense skill, Wang parses how her family's illegal status blighted nearly every aspect of their life . . .While Wang's story of pursuing the American dream is undoubtedly timeless, it's her family's triumph in the face of "xenophobia and intolerance" that makes it feel especially relevant today. Consider this remarkable memoir a new classic."-Publishers Weekly, *Starred Review*
"The writing is sparse, stylish, sometimes harrowing and sometimes humorous as she narrates experiences that are incredibly common but rarely captured with this level of artful control. It's shaping up to be one of the best memoirs of the year."-Bookpage, *Starred Review*
"[A] powerful debut. . . [Wang] movingly tells how undocumented families like her...
Readers Top Reviews
Nidhi Shrivastava
The parts of her early childhood dragged on, they are important for sure. I would have liked to know of her young adult and college years.
rn4kids
I️ read this book in 2 days, I️ could not put it down. It is eye opening for those who believe undocumented people live for free in the US. The struggles the author describes are real for undocumented and documented people in the country where streets are supposed to be paved in gold.
Joani
After hearing Ms.Wang give a sermon at Central Synagogue in NYC on Rosh Hashona I'll was enthralled by her story and passion do much that I couldn't be wait to order this book online. Thank you for so bravely and poignantly sharing yourself with us. May you go from strength to strength.
Kimberly S. Byrne
Excellent read! It was one of those books that once finished, I did not want to start another books right away- so I could savor this one a little longer. The book is a must read for ANYBODY who is going to come in contact w children who are illegal or undocumented… really gives you a glimpse in to their world. And…. I have to say iT THE UNITED STATES CAN DO BETTER.
nancy kroneAHG
I purchased this book 5 min after I saw the author interviewed on the Today show, and I was enjoying it immensely. Until I got to the part where she mentions DaDa joins a gym. And then several pages later resumes talking about her struggles with never having enough to eat. I believe her—she couldn’t describe her hunger that well if she hadn’t experienced it. What I find difficult to correlate is there’s money for her father to join a gym, but not enough for her parents to keep her fed. Book returned.
Short Excerpt Teaser
How It Began
My story starts decades before my birth.
In my father's earliest memory, he is four years old, shooting a toy gun at nearby birds as he skips to the town square. There he halts, arrested by curious, swaying shapes that he is slow to recognize: two men dangling from a muscular tree.
He approaches slowly, pushing past the knees of adults encircling the tree. In the muggy late-summer air, mosquitoes and flies swarm the hanging corpses. The stench of decomposing flesh floods his nose.
He sees on the dirt ground a single character written in blood:
冤
Wrongly accused.
It is 1966 and China's Cultural Revolution has just begun. Even for a country marked by storied upheaval, the next decade would bring unparalleled turmoil. To this date, the actual death toll from the purges remains unspoken and, worse, unknown.
* * *
Three years later, my seven-year-old father watched as his eldest brother was placed under arrest. Weeks prior, my teenage uncle had criticized Mao Zedong in writing for manipulating the innocent people of China by pitting them against one another, just to centralize his power. My uncle had naïvely, heroically, stupidly signed his name to the essay and distributed it.
So there would be no high school graduation for him, only starvation and torture behind prison walls.
From then on, my father would spend his childhood bearing witness to his parents' public beatings, all while enduring his own humiliation at school, where he was forced to stand in the front of the classroom every morning as his teachers and classmates berated him and his "treasonous" family. Outside of school, adults and children alike pelted him with rocks, pebbles, shit. Gone was the honor of his grandfather, whose deft brokering had managed to shield their village from the rape and pillage of the Japanese occupation. Gone were the visitors to the Wang family courtyard who sought his father's calligraphy. From then on, it would just be his mother's bruised face. His father's silent, stoic tears. His four sisters' screams as the Red Guards ransacked their already shredded home.
It is against this backdrop that my parents' beginnings unfurled. My mother's pain was that of a daughter born to a family entangled in the government. None of her father's power was enough to insulate her from the unrest and sexism of her time. She grew up a hundred miles away from my father, and their hardships were at once the same and worlds apart.
Half a century and a migration across the world later, it would take therapy's slow and arduous unraveling for me to see that the thread of trauma was woven into every fiber of my family, my childhood.
* * *
On July 29, 1994, I arrived at JFK Airport on a visa that would expire much too quickly. Five days prior, I had turned seven years old, the same age at which my father had begun his daily wrestle with shame. My parents and I would spend the next five years in the furtive shadows of New York City, pushing past hunger pangs to labor at menial jobs, with no rights, no access to medical care, no hope of legality. The Chinese refer to being undocumented colloquially as "hei": being in the dark, being blacked out. And aptly so, because we spent those years shrouded in darkness while wrestling with hope and dignity.
Memory is a fickle thing, but other than names and certain identifying details-which I have changed out of respect for others' privacy-I have endeavored to document my family's undocumented years as authentically and intimately as possible. I regret that I can do no justice to my father's childhood, for it is pockmarked by more despair than I can ever know.
In some ways, this project has always been in me, but in a much larger way, I have the 2016 election to thank. I took my first laughable stab at this project during my college years, writing it as fiction, not understanding that it was impossible to find perspective on a still-festering wound.
After graduating from Yale Law School-where I could not have fit in less-I clerked for a federal appellate judge who instilled in me, even beyond my greatest, most idealistic hopes, an abiding faith in justice. During that clerkship year, I watched as the Obama administration talked out of both sides of its mouth, at once championing deferred action for Dreamers while issuing deportations at unprecedented rates. By the time the immigration cases got to our chambers on appeal, there was often very little my judge could do.
In May 2016, just shy of eight thousand days after I first landed in New York City-the only place my heart and spirit call home-I finally became a U.S. citizen. My journey to citizenship was difficult to the very end: torrential r...
My story starts decades before my birth.
In my father's earliest memory, he is four years old, shooting a toy gun at nearby birds as he skips to the town square. There he halts, arrested by curious, swaying shapes that he is slow to recognize: two men dangling from a muscular tree.
He approaches slowly, pushing past the knees of adults encircling the tree. In the muggy late-summer air, mosquitoes and flies swarm the hanging corpses. The stench of decomposing flesh floods his nose.
He sees on the dirt ground a single character written in blood:
冤
Wrongly accused.
It is 1966 and China's Cultural Revolution has just begun. Even for a country marked by storied upheaval, the next decade would bring unparalleled turmoil. To this date, the actual death toll from the purges remains unspoken and, worse, unknown.
* * *
Three years later, my seven-year-old father watched as his eldest brother was placed under arrest. Weeks prior, my teenage uncle had criticized Mao Zedong in writing for manipulating the innocent people of China by pitting them against one another, just to centralize his power. My uncle had naïvely, heroically, stupidly signed his name to the essay and distributed it.
So there would be no high school graduation for him, only starvation and torture behind prison walls.
From then on, my father would spend his childhood bearing witness to his parents' public beatings, all while enduring his own humiliation at school, where he was forced to stand in the front of the classroom every morning as his teachers and classmates berated him and his "treasonous" family. Outside of school, adults and children alike pelted him with rocks, pebbles, shit. Gone was the honor of his grandfather, whose deft brokering had managed to shield their village from the rape and pillage of the Japanese occupation. Gone were the visitors to the Wang family courtyard who sought his father's calligraphy. From then on, it would just be his mother's bruised face. His father's silent, stoic tears. His four sisters' screams as the Red Guards ransacked their already shredded home.
It is against this backdrop that my parents' beginnings unfurled. My mother's pain was that of a daughter born to a family entangled in the government. None of her father's power was enough to insulate her from the unrest and sexism of her time. She grew up a hundred miles away from my father, and their hardships were at once the same and worlds apart.
Half a century and a migration across the world later, it would take therapy's slow and arduous unraveling for me to see that the thread of trauma was woven into every fiber of my family, my childhood.
* * *
On July 29, 1994, I arrived at JFK Airport on a visa that would expire much too quickly. Five days prior, I had turned seven years old, the same age at which my father had begun his daily wrestle with shame. My parents and I would spend the next five years in the furtive shadows of New York City, pushing past hunger pangs to labor at menial jobs, with no rights, no access to medical care, no hope of legality. The Chinese refer to being undocumented colloquially as "hei": being in the dark, being blacked out. And aptly so, because we spent those years shrouded in darkness while wrestling with hope and dignity.
Memory is a fickle thing, but other than names and certain identifying details-which I have changed out of respect for others' privacy-I have endeavored to document my family's undocumented years as authentically and intimately as possible. I regret that I can do no justice to my father's childhood, for it is pockmarked by more despair than I can ever know.
In some ways, this project has always been in me, but in a much larger way, I have the 2016 election to thank. I took my first laughable stab at this project during my college years, writing it as fiction, not understanding that it was impossible to find perspective on a still-festering wound.
After graduating from Yale Law School-where I could not have fit in less-I clerked for a federal appellate judge who instilled in me, even beyond my greatest, most idealistic hopes, an abiding faith in justice. During that clerkship year, I watched as the Obama administration talked out of both sides of its mouth, at once championing deferred action for Dreamers while issuing deportations at unprecedented rates. By the time the immigration cases got to our chambers on appeal, there was often very little my judge could do.
In May 2016, just shy of eight thousand days after I first landed in New York City-the only place my heart and spirit call home-I finally became a U.S. citizen. My journey to citizenship was difficult to the very end: torrential r...
