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Joan Is Okay: A Novel
NEW YORK TIMES EDITORS' CHOICE • A witty, moving, piercingly insightful new novel about a marvelously complicated woman who can't be anyone but herself, from the award-winning author of Chemistry
LONGLISTED FOR THE ANDREW CARNEGIE MEDAL • "A deeply felt portrait . . . With gimlet-eyed observation laced with darkly biting wit, Weike Wang masterfully probes the existential uncertainty of being other in America."-Celeste Ng, author of Little Fires Everywhere
ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: The New York Times Book Review, The New Yorker, NPR, The Washington Post, Vox
Joan is a thirtysomething ICU doctor at a busy New York City hospital. The daughter of Chinese parents who came to the United States to secure the American dream for their children, Joan is intensely devoted to her work, happily solitary, successful. She does look up sometimes and wonder where her true roots lie: at the hospital, where her white coat makes her feel needed, or with her family, who try to shape her life by their own cultural and social expectations.
Once Joan and her brother, Fang, were established in their careers, her parents moved back to China, hoping to spend the rest of their lives in their homeland. But when Joan's father suddenly dies and her mother returns to America to reconnect with her children, a series of events sends Joan spiraling out of her comfort zone just as her hospital, her city, and the world are forced to reckon with a health crisis more devastating than anyone could have imagined.
Deceptively spare yet quietly powerful, laced with sharp humor, Joan Is Okay touches on matters that feel deeply resonant: being Chinese-American right now; working in medicine at a high-stakes time; finding one's voice within a dominant culture; being a woman in a male-dominated workplace; and staying independent within a tight-knit family. But above all, it's a portrait of one remarkable woman so surprising that you can't get her out of your head.
LONGLISTED FOR THE ANDREW CARNEGIE MEDAL • "A deeply felt portrait . . . With gimlet-eyed observation laced with darkly biting wit, Weike Wang masterfully probes the existential uncertainty of being other in America."-Celeste Ng, author of Little Fires Everywhere
ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: The New York Times Book Review, The New Yorker, NPR, The Washington Post, Vox
Joan is a thirtysomething ICU doctor at a busy New York City hospital. The daughter of Chinese parents who came to the United States to secure the American dream for their children, Joan is intensely devoted to her work, happily solitary, successful. She does look up sometimes and wonder where her true roots lie: at the hospital, where her white coat makes her feel needed, or with her family, who try to shape her life by their own cultural and social expectations.
Once Joan and her brother, Fang, were established in their careers, her parents moved back to China, hoping to spend the rest of their lives in their homeland. But when Joan's father suddenly dies and her mother returns to America to reconnect with her children, a series of events sends Joan spiraling out of her comfort zone just as her hospital, her city, and the world are forced to reckon with a health crisis more devastating than anyone could have imagined.
Deceptively spare yet quietly powerful, laced with sharp humor, Joan Is Okay touches on matters that feel deeply resonant: being Chinese-American right now; working in medicine at a high-stakes time; finding one's voice within a dominant culture; being a woman in a male-dominated workplace; and staying independent within a tight-knit family. But above all, it's a portrait of one remarkable woman so surprising that you can't get her out of your head.
Editorial Reviews
"Downright hilarious, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes as a coping mechanism. Wang masterfully balances the many terrors of [the] provocative questions about motherhood, daughterhood, belonging and the many definitions of ‘home.'"-The New York Times Book Review
"This is the first book I loved this year. . . . It's smart, heartfelt and insightful, and-I almost hate to say it-I literally laughed and cried."-Erin Sells, NPR
"Incisive yet tender, written with elegant style and delicious verve. Joan isn't just okay, she's wonderful. I could listen to her smart, witty voice forever."-Sigrid Nunez
"Joan . . . is solitary, literal-minded and extremely awkward-all of which contribute to the hilarity of this novel."-The New York Times
"A wry, wise, and simply spectacular book."-People ("Book of the Week")
"A smart, powerful, and very contemporary read that touches on the struggles shaping the very world we live in today."-Town & Country
"The uncomfortable humor and weird politics of family are front and center . . . all delivered with surprisingly caustic wit."-Esquire
"Unflinchingly, Joan Is Okay challenges some of our fundamental views on home, belonging, family. A smart, quietly engaging novel that is also warm and moving."-Ha Jin
"Wang has created a compelling character, utterly distinct, and the novel is carried by her dispassionate, clear-eyed, and often drily amusing narration. [The book's] powerful insights will resonate with many."-Claire Messud, Harper's
"Wang takes us into the heart of the matter: death, dysfunction, xenophobia, misogyny, and the chronic misapprehension that passes between people of good intentions. The miracle that emerges, then, is just how funny this book is, how compassionate and visionary."-Joshua Ferris
"I am staggered by Wang's humor, heart, and brilliance. I loved Joan and I am pressing this book into your hands."-Lily King...
"This is the first book I loved this year. . . . It's smart, heartfelt and insightful, and-I almost hate to say it-I literally laughed and cried."-Erin Sells, NPR
"Incisive yet tender, written with elegant style and delicious verve. Joan isn't just okay, she's wonderful. I could listen to her smart, witty voice forever."-Sigrid Nunez
"Joan . . . is solitary, literal-minded and extremely awkward-all of which contribute to the hilarity of this novel."-The New York Times
"A wry, wise, and simply spectacular book."-People ("Book of the Week")
"A smart, powerful, and very contemporary read that touches on the struggles shaping the very world we live in today."-Town & Country
"The uncomfortable humor and weird politics of family are front and center . . . all delivered with surprisingly caustic wit."-Esquire
"Unflinchingly, Joan Is Okay challenges some of our fundamental views on home, belonging, family. A smart, quietly engaging novel that is also warm and moving."-Ha Jin
"Wang has created a compelling character, utterly distinct, and the novel is carried by her dispassionate, clear-eyed, and often drily amusing narration. [The book's] powerful insights will resonate with many."-Claire Messud, Harper's
"Wang takes us into the heart of the matter: death, dysfunction, xenophobia, misogyny, and the chronic misapprehension that passes between people of good intentions. The miracle that emerges, then, is just how funny this book is, how compassionate and visionary."-Joshua Ferris
"I am staggered by Wang's humor, heart, and brilliance. I loved Joan and I am pressing this book into your hands."-Lily King...
Readers Top Reviews
Michelle Matthews
I liked this book because the main character was odd and a little quirky. I found the general way she told the story interesting. And to see the world through the eyes of an Asian American experiencing her world of balancing American culture with her Chinese heritage insightful. Lots of micro aggressions to be experienced and while she code stitched... She didn't seem to fit in either space. I wanted more from the ending... I felt it left me hanging. #chellelynnreads
Joanne MerriamMic
As with her first book, this novel is beautifully told with insightful observations and many funny moments amidst the sadness of the main character’s loss of her father. The ending felt brief and insufficient to me, but nonetheless it’s well worth your time to read.
Rosemary BakerJoa
Incredibly beautiful story with warm, funny characters and an engaging storyline. I loved every minute of this book! Congratulations, Ms. Wang!
Ann S. EpsteinRos
Joan is Okay by Weike Wang is a case study of human connection and cultural heritage. The protagonist, Joan, is a physician and the daughter of Chinese immigrants. Coworkers, neighbors, and family members, notably her brother and sister-in-law, cannot understand why she has no desire to get married or have children. Even Human Resources at the hospital where she works forces her to take a six-week leave for the sake of her mental health, a requirement which is itself a source of stress. Some readers may find Joan odd or lamentable, but I identified with her self-contained contentment. While I can’t attribute this trait to my cultural background, the peculiarities of my own family taught me to depend on myself. Many readers can claim the same. Rather than being a defense mechanism, finding pleasure in one’s work or solitary pursuits can be a source of genuine satisfaction. Oddly, so-called loners are often more understanding of others’ needs for intimacy than vice versa. They can empathize with the socially connected and yet, like Joan, look at themselves and decide they are more than okay. They are thriving. As a novelist myself (see my Amazon author page www.amazon.com/author/asewovenwords), I admire Wang’s ability to render a seemingly distant person like Joan as a fully developed and wholly sympathetic character. Readers will also admire this sensitive and well-told portrait.
A Readerrachelkra
I have mixed feelings about this book. The writing is good and interesting. The character was generally interesting. I appreciated gleaning a better understanding and clearer perspective of some of the root conflicts that come with being a child of immigrants. The protagonist honestly seemed to be on the spectrum, so void of ability to understand basic human connections. I feel like there could have been clarity in that and expected it at some point in the book. I did keep waiting for more to happen, and I think the whole covid aspect of the novel was very rushed through, like, hmmm, we've got to touch on this so shove a little bit in, but it was done super ineffectively. Just weirdly. And then the ending. I mean it is a pet peeve of mine when authors pad books to make them long enough, and I hate when an author just comes up with a rushed ending that doesn't feel genuine, but this is the first time I felt like the author just hit a wall and gave up writing. My husband was falling asleep as I was reading the book last night, presuming there was much more in the novel, and when I realized the last sentence I read was literally the last sentence of the book, I blurted out WTAF?, waking him up. I mean it was a downright bizarre ending to a novel. It was as if I was driving down a highway, no traffic in sight, when suddenly you have to slam on your brakes because the road is closed, no warning. Would I recommend this book? Hard to say. I guess if you read my review and still want to read it, go for it. But forewarned is forearmed.
Short Excerpt Teaser
When I think about people, I think about space, how much space a person takes up and how much use that person provides. I am just under five feet tall and just under a hundred pounds. Briefly I thought I would exceed five feet, and while that would've been fine, I also didn't need the extra height. To stay just under something gives me a sense of comfort, as when it rains and I can open an umbrella over my head.
Today someone said that I looked like a mouse. Five six and 290 pounds, he, in a backless gown with nonslip tube socks, said that my looking like a mouse made him wary. He asked how old I was. What schools had I gone to, and were they prestigious? Then where were my degrees from these prestigious schools?
My degrees are large and framed, I said. I don't carry them around.
While not a mouse, I do have prosaic features. My eyes, hooded and lashless. I have very thin eyebrows.
I told the man that he could try another hospital or come back at another time. But high chance that I would still be here and he would still think that I looked like a mouse.
I read somewhere that empathy is repeating the last three words of a sentence and nodding your head.
My twenties were spent in school, and a girl in her twenties is said to be in her prime. After that decade, all is lost. They must mean looks, because what could a female brain be worth, and how long could one last?
Being in school often felt like a race. I was told to grab time and if I didn't-that is, reach out the window and pull time in like a messenger dove-someone else in another car would. The road was full of cars, limousines, and Priuses, but there were a limited number of doves. With this image in mind, I can no longer ride in a vehicle with the windows down. Inevitably I will look for the dove and offer my hand out to be cut off.
-
My father's stroke was fatal, having followed the natural course of a stroke of that magnitude to its predictable end. Usually people die from complications and I was grateful he hadn't. Complications would've angered him, actually, to have died not from a single blow but from a total system shutdown, which was slower, more painful, and revealed just how vulnerable a person could be. Months prior, he had complained of headaches and eye pressure. I told him to get some tests done and he said that he would, which meant he wouldn't. In China, my father ran a construction company that, in the last decade, had finally seen success. He was a typical workaholic and for most of my childhood, adolescence, adulthood, not often around.
When I got the news, I was in my office at the hospital, at work. My father had tripped over a bundle of projector cords during a meeting and bounced his head off a chair. As my mother was explaining-either the fall triggered the stroke or the stroke triggered the fall-I asked her to put the phone next to his ear. He was already unconscious, but hearing is the last sense to go. Given the time difference on my side, only morning in Manhattan since I was twelve hours behind, my father was still en route to the meeting that by my mother's accounts was meant to be ordinary.
I asked my father how his drive was going and if he could, just for today, take a few hours off. He obviously didn't reply, but I said either way this went, I was proud of him. He had never planned to retire and remained, until the very end, doing what he loved.
Chuàng, I said into the phone, and raised my fist into the air.
After my mother hung up, I sat there for a while, not facing the computer, and that was my mistake.
Having seen my fist go up, the two other doctors in the office asked whom I'd been talking to and what was that strange sound I just made. I said my father and that the sound was closer to a word but the word meant nothing.
My colleagues didn't know I spoke Chinese, and I wanted to keep it that way to avoid any confusion. But the word did mean something, it had many different definitions, one of which was "to begin."
It was late September, and my female colleague Madeline was teasing my male colleague Reese about summer, which was his favorite season so he was sad to see it go.
Only little girls like summers, Madeline said to Reese, little girls in flower crowns and paisley dresses.
Reese was a six-two, 190-pound all-American guy who went on casual dates with lots of women but flirted with only Madeline at work. I'm madly in love with you, he would say to her, in front of other colleagues like me, and Madeline would either ignore him completely or relentlessly try to get him back. Madeline was a five-seven, 139-pound robust German woman with a slight accent. She has had the same software engineer boyfriend for seven years,...
Today someone said that I looked like a mouse. Five six and 290 pounds, he, in a backless gown with nonslip tube socks, said that my looking like a mouse made him wary. He asked how old I was. What schools had I gone to, and were they prestigious? Then where were my degrees from these prestigious schools?
My degrees are large and framed, I said. I don't carry them around.
While not a mouse, I do have prosaic features. My eyes, hooded and lashless. I have very thin eyebrows.
I told the man that he could try another hospital or come back at another time. But high chance that I would still be here and he would still think that I looked like a mouse.
I read somewhere that empathy is repeating the last three words of a sentence and nodding your head.
My twenties were spent in school, and a girl in her twenties is said to be in her prime. After that decade, all is lost. They must mean looks, because what could a female brain be worth, and how long could one last?
Being in school often felt like a race. I was told to grab time and if I didn't-that is, reach out the window and pull time in like a messenger dove-someone else in another car would. The road was full of cars, limousines, and Priuses, but there were a limited number of doves. With this image in mind, I can no longer ride in a vehicle with the windows down. Inevitably I will look for the dove and offer my hand out to be cut off.
-
My father's stroke was fatal, having followed the natural course of a stroke of that magnitude to its predictable end. Usually people die from complications and I was grateful he hadn't. Complications would've angered him, actually, to have died not from a single blow but from a total system shutdown, which was slower, more painful, and revealed just how vulnerable a person could be. Months prior, he had complained of headaches and eye pressure. I told him to get some tests done and he said that he would, which meant he wouldn't. In China, my father ran a construction company that, in the last decade, had finally seen success. He was a typical workaholic and for most of my childhood, adolescence, adulthood, not often around.
When I got the news, I was in my office at the hospital, at work. My father had tripped over a bundle of projector cords during a meeting and bounced his head off a chair. As my mother was explaining-either the fall triggered the stroke or the stroke triggered the fall-I asked her to put the phone next to his ear. He was already unconscious, but hearing is the last sense to go. Given the time difference on my side, only morning in Manhattan since I was twelve hours behind, my father was still en route to the meeting that by my mother's accounts was meant to be ordinary.
I asked my father how his drive was going and if he could, just for today, take a few hours off. He obviously didn't reply, but I said either way this went, I was proud of him. He had never planned to retire and remained, until the very end, doing what he loved.
Chuàng, I said into the phone, and raised my fist into the air.
After my mother hung up, I sat there for a while, not facing the computer, and that was my mistake.
Having seen my fist go up, the two other doctors in the office asked whom I'd been talking to and what was that strange sound I just made. I said my father and that the sound was closer to a word but the word meant nothing.
My colleagues didn't know I spoke Chinese, and I wanted to keep it that way to avoid any confusion. But the word did mean something, it had many different definitions, one of which was "to begin."
It was late September, and my female colleague Madeline was teasing my male colleague Reese about summer, which was his favorite season so he was sad to see it go.
Only little girls like summers, Madeline said to Reese, little girls in flower crowns and paisley dresses.
Reese was a six-two, 190-pound all-American guy who went on casual dates with lots of women but flirted with only Madeline at work. I'm madly in love with you, he would say to her, in front of other colleagues like me, and Madeline would either ignore him completely or relentlessly try to get him back. Madeline was a five-seven, 139-pound robust German woman with a slight accent. She has had the same software engineer boyfriend for seven years,...
