Grandpa Dragon raises his eyebrow at me, teasing. Curled up in the cool of our cave, I snuggle against his scaly chest and get ready to enjoy one of his stories.

“I almost left you where you were, a little girl, alone in the middle of nowhere, just old enough to stand up and fall back onto your bottom. Even then you were falling.”

His look is a little less teasing now. The lines around his eyes deepen. I pretend not to notice.

“But then I thought maybe you were in trouble, so I picked you up. And I am so glad that I did.” He lets out a gentle puff of air that ruffles my hair with its cool smell of fresh rain.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. I know he shouldn’t still be catching me.

“Bao, we need to talk about what happened today.”

I speak quickly before he can start: “Well, if you would let me come with you when you fly and if you would carry me on your back like you used to when I was little, then I wouldn’t fall because I’d be with you. And if you would teach me to make it rain, then I could help you.” I cross my arms, confident in my logic, and recall the moments just after my giant leap. Alive as the earth after a downpour. Until I knew I was falling. Until he caught me.

His voice is tired. “You have gotten too big for me to carry.”

“Well, then I’m old enough to help you.” I stretch myself tall like an adult dragon.

He crouches down and looks me level in the eyes. “Bao, you are not a dragon.” Of course I’m not. Everyone knows that.

“No, but,” I pause, suddenly less sure, “but you could teach me.”

“If a person could learn to be a dragon, then I’m sure you could.” His eyes laugh at the thought. “But you can’t learn to be something you aren’t. What if I had not been there to catch you? You were wrong to jump off the ridge yesterday. You were wrong to try to fly.” The laughter is gone. “And I was wrong to forget that you were a human.”

“That’s okay, Grandpa Dragon.” I comfort him, not entirely sure why he is upset.

“Oh, Bao, it is not okay. A dragon child learns to channel rivers, to corral the clouds, to live with other dragons. But a human child learns to grow things, to care for animals, to live with other humans.” He slumps back on his legs.

“I don’t need that stuff.” I squish the mud between my toes.

“Yes, you do. If you’re going to have a place in the world, you do. And if I’m any kind of parent, then I need to make sure you get it.” He straightens up. “I’m going to find you human parents to live with.”

“You what!?” I glare at him as he reaches out to hug me. Suddenly our rain-sweet cave is too small for the volcano howling inside me. I push his arms away and run.

Run out of our cave. Run down to the river. Run hard. Run harder. Ducks flush into the air as I crash toward them. They rush up like a thousand little dragons, together a darkening storm cloud. I throw stones hard into the sky after them. Pebbles rain into the water.

Plop. Plomp.

I sit down, heavy and worried. Worried that he might really want me to leave. Worried that I might never be able to rain anything but rocks. Worried that I might have hit a duck.

When I come home to our cave, tired but full of arguments, it is too late.

“Bao, I went into town. I put an advertisement in the newspaper. ‘Seeking loving family for young girl.’” Despite the dullness in his eyes, his voice is firm.

My shoulders slump involuntarily.

“You know I love you. And I will make absolutely sure that your new family does too.” He rests his cool claw on my hand, and for the first time, I notice some of the scratchy golden scales fading to silver around the edges.

“But how can you make sure they love me?” I fire back, trying to sound angry. My eyes are leaking, though, because I know it’s already decided.

He doesn’t say anything, but instead coils his body around me, wraps me in his gentle mist, as he did when I was little. I breathe deep his smell of wet, listen to his breathing, as constant as the current lap-lapping on the river’s edge, and am quiet. Rest. Snore.

Before I can convince Grandpa Dragon to retract his ad, Mr. and Mrs. Fen Fen arrive. And so do their children.

Mrs. Fen Fen, smelling of unbrushed teeth, introduces them: “This is our eldest, One. And our second child, Two. And here are Three, Four, Five, Six . . .” She continues as each gangly, grubby child raises its hand to be counted.

When called, Twelve sticks his tongue out.

Not sure how to respond, I step back. He steps back.

I hide my face in my hands and peek through my fingers. He covers his face with his hands.

I wave. He waves.

I smile. He crosses his eyes.

I duck behind Grandpa Dragon. The boy pinches one of his many siblings. Then one pinch leads to another, and the boy forgets me among the squeals and snarls of hair being yanked and fingers bent backwards.

Pulling away from the children, I listen as Mrs. Fen Fen wraps up her introductions, “And we will name this lovely little girl One Hundred, because she will be our one hundredth child.” Is she kidding?

“Thank you for taking the time to come . . .” Grandpa Dragon begins.

I interrupt, “I already have a name. It’s Bao.”

Grandpa Dragon gives me a stern look and continues, “. . . It’s so kind of you to come and meet Bao.” His moist breath washes over the nearest child, who seems startled, but not at all displeased by the freshness of it.

“Come here, my dear little One Hundred. Mommy wants to see you.” Mrs. Fen Fen wiggles her filthy finger at me. I don’t move. She doesn’t really think she’s my mommy, does she?

I look to Grandpa Dragon for help.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fen Fen, it was so good of you to come. I hope you can understand, but Bao really is one of a kind. I will not let her go like the spawn of a fish to fend for herself.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning against Grandpa Dragon as the Fen Fens leave. We watch as the parents lead the way in a huff and the children dally behind in a cloud of sniffles and shoves.

Next, Ms. Bu, with her tightly sewn lips and soap-scented hands, introduces herself as someone who loves children.

Thankful for her peppermint breath and remembering the nameless Fen Fen children I might have played with, I ask her to play puppets with me. She says, “No.”

I ask her to play hide and seek. She says, “No.”

I ask her to read me a story. She says, “No.”

“Ms. Bu, perhaps it would be a good idea for the two of you to get to know each other a bit,” Grandpa Dragon suggests.

“The little girl and I will have plenty of time to get to know each other. Today I am here to talk to you.” Her voice is dry and hard as she pulls each brittle word from her starched mouth.

Grandpa Dragon persists, his voice ready to overflow its banks, “Ms. Bu, perhaps you and Bao would like to go for a walk?”

“No.”

Grandpa Dragon looks over at me. I shake my head. No. She has made herself very clear, and I don’t want to play with her either. I gave them a try. Now I am done with these humans.

But Grandpa Dragon isn’t. The next day we go to see Mr. Luo Suo, who wrote a very long letter about vegetarian recipes, lawn care, his ex-wife, and his interest in meeting me. When the door opens to the thick smell of peanuts and salted snack foods, Mr. Luo Suo says, “Hello.”

Grandpa Dragon says, “Hello.”

He nudges me.

I say, “Hello.”

The man pruning a bush next door says, “Hello.”

Mr. Luo Suo nods to us, brushes past us, and walks over to where his neighbor is working. As we stand on the front porch, waiting to be invited into the house, the two men talk on and on and on. Chances of rain. Foggy last night. How’s the fishing? Caught a big one.

We sit down on the step to wait, Grandpa Dragon tired as a fall drizzle and me as unyielding as the winter soil. Can’t trust politicians. Shady group. Economy’s looking up . . .

Does Mr. Luo Suo remember we’re here? Grandpa Dragon meets my eyes and tips his head toward the walkway. Mr. Luo Suo isn’t about to pause long enough for us to politely make our excuses, so we just wave good-bye as we pass through his gate.

I try not to let my excitement show, but green shoots of hope tickle inside me. Grandpa Dragon was the one who gave up on Mr. Luo Suo first. He’s beginning to see it my way. I’m sure of it. He’ll stop this nonsense soon, and we’ll get down to the business of rain clouds and river depths.

But Grandpa Dragon isn’t ready to give up. On the way home, he stops at the newspaper office to place another advertisement. While he is there, he picks up a paper.

“Listen to this, Bao. Right here on the society page: ‘When Tao and Shu first saw each other, they were immediately overcome with love. At the place where the two women first kissed, a peach tree sprang from the ground, fully grown, and wrapped its branches about itself as though in an embrace.’” His voice picks up the momentum of a growing wave as he reads on, “‘This weekend, their wedding will be held under the branches of the blossoming tree.’

“Isn’t that something? Magic. Real love. Like families should have. We should go find them. They’re the ones for you. I can tell.” His eyes glint. Mine glower. How could I have been so wrong about how close he was to giving up?

“I don’t think so. Magic and true love is all make believe.” I try to sound as if I know what I am talking about. I can tell from his look that I am not making a very strong case. So I change my tactic, unwilling to give up that easily. “We shouldn’t go now anyway. You would surprise them. And some people are scared when dragons show up uninvited. Even old and nice ones like you.” As the words come out of my mouth, I know it is no use. We’re off to see these magic women.

By the time we get to their house, Grandpa Dragon has thought about what I said. He doesn’t knock on their door. Instead, we peek in through their window.

I see a soft, strong woman, standing among trays and trays of tiny, baby silkworms, turning them toward the light so that they stay just the right temperature. She feeds them chopped mulberry leaves, and the rhythm of their munching mouths is musical. Matching their melody, she sings them a lullaby. I hum along.

Then another woman enters the room. She has a big laughing face and her fingers are purple from dye.

“I brought some new colors home today, Tao. I thought you might want to embroider your wedding dress,” Shu says with a smile and opens her bag to show Tao the colorful balls of silk thread. What beautiful colors! My eyes pop. Startling pink-orange of morning light. Deep white-yellow of the afternoon sun. Thoughtful blues of dusk.

“Your threads are beautiful. If we had a child, I would embroider her clothes with them.” Tao puts her arms around Shu and hugs her. I imagine their arms around me.

Grandpa Dragon taps my elbow and whispers, “We should head home.”

We are quiet as we walk along the road. Grandpa Dragon pauses now and then to rest. I stop now and then to catch crickets.

“Do you like them?” Grandpa Dragon breaks our silence, his moist breath rolling over me.

“Yes, but I love you,” I reply quickly.

“And I love you too. But this is the right family for you.” Of course, he is right. He usually is. “Tomorrow I will go and talk to them.” His voice is heavy. I take his claw in my hand. Squeeze.

And so on Saturday, only a few days after we peered through their window, Grandpa Dragon and I join a festive crowd of friends, family, and onlookers at the wedding. Tao and Shu stand under their peach tree, strung with lanterns, and promise to love each other. Their families beam, their ancestors smile, and their friends cheer. We watch and wait. I chew my fingernails, and Grandpa Dragon reminds me not to. Grandpa Dragon wrinkles his brow, and I remind him not to.

Amid the feasting and joy, guests come forward to honor the brides and present gifts: poems, sweets, pots and pans. Grandpa Dragon kisses me gently on the cheek and walks with me to the place where Tao and Shu are standing.

“Tao, Shu, this is Bao, my child.” He hesitates. “Your daughter.”

He gently pushes me forward and then steps back into the crowd of onlookers. For a moment I am alone, and then the women wrap me in their arms, as strong as silk and as soft as the morning mist. Inside I tickle with the colors of a dew-bright morning. I look over my shoulder at Grandpa Dragon, who smiles and nods at the tree above us, where the blossoms have ripened into fuzzy pink fruit as full and warm as my heart.

Now I live with Momma Tao and Mommy Shu in our house on the edge of town. Sometimes Grandpa Dragon stops by, and we go for a walk by the river, just the two of us. I tell him about the silk that Mommy Shu is teaching me to make, whisper grey the color of rain clouds, or sing him a silkworm lullaby. He tells me stories about when he was younger, like the story of how he found me or how we found my moms.

Appendix

Chinese Dragon

This ilustration painted by Vicky Yuh, a high-school-aged artist in Santa Cruz, California.

The dragon is an important character in Chinese mythology. He is a kind and helpful creature, in charge of guarding gods, emperors, and treasures. He also has a strong connection to water and is responsible for deepening rivers and seas, as well as controlling the wind and rain.

He can fly without wings, change shapes, and disappear. Physically, he has the head of a camel, the ears of a cow, the neck of a snake, the eyes of a demon, the horns of a stag, the belly of a clam, the claws of an eagle, the feet of a tiger, and the scales of a carp.

Sericulture
Southern China is famous for developing sericulture, the process of making silk. More than two thousand years ago, people from many other parts of the world began traveling along the Silk Road in order to trade with China for silk. At this time, because silk was so valuable to the region, it was illegal to teach foreigners how to make silk or to give them the silkworms they would need. Things have changed now, and many different parts of the world make silk, though it remains an important part of Chinese culture.

Silk comes from a small, blind, flightless moth. Like butterflies, which start out as caterpillars, these moths start as tiny worms. The people who care for them must feed them around the clock and keep them in a quiet, warm room so that they can grow. After the worms have gained enough energy from eating, they start building their cocoons. They are kept warm and dry in their cocoons for eight or nine days, and then the tiny filaments, or threads, that make up the cocoon are unwound. Each cocoon produces between six hundred and nine hundred meters of filament. (That is about half a mile!) Several filaments are twisted together to make thread. Lastly, the threads are woven into fabric.

While silk is now made primarily in industrial settings, originally families made it in their homes. As a result, many women came to play key roles in sericulture. In fact, according to legend, a woman is even responsible for the discovery of silk. Empress Xi-Ling-Shih supposedly discovered the silkworm and invented the loom more than four thousand years ago. Traditionally, every spring the Empress of China would hold a ceremony in which she would officially welcome the silk season.

The Golden Orchid Society

This ilustration painted by Vicky Yuh, a high-school-aged artist in Santa Cruz, California.

Hundreds of years ago, in southern China, villages celebrated the marriages of two women. These same couples often welcomed young orphaned girls into their homes and raised them as their children.

History shows us that in Guangdong, China, same-sex families were once a thriving part of the community. The Golden Orchid Society was a group of women who promised not to have sexual relations with men. Women chose to join the society for lots of different reasons, one of which was a desire to marry a woman. Though the society gained a large following during the late Qing dynasty, which lasted from 1644 until 1911, it may have started much earlier.

The courtship and marriage of two women in the Golden Orchid Society were similar to those of other couples in China at the time. If a woman wanted to marry another woman, she would offer the woman and her family gifts, such as tea and wedding cakes. If the woman accepted the presents, then the couple was engaged. For the wedding ceremony, the women probably wore traditional red Chinese wedding veils and changed their hairstyle from long braids, which were worn by single women, to buns, which were worn by married women. During the actual ceremony, the couple not only promised to be faithful to each other but also honored their ancestors and parents.

Once married, the women lived together and cared for each other and their families. In a journal written in 1937, a traveler describes “two women [who] dwell together, always existing as if they were one woman. They are as close as a stalk of grain coming through a stone.”

Custom also allowed the couple to adopt and raise orphaned and abandoned girls. These girls were loved by their mothers, as well as by their grandparents, aunts, and uncles.

In most cases, everyone lived happily. But sometimes things did not work out for the couple. Perhaps they would fall out of love. Or the parents of one woman would try to get her to marry the man they had chosen to be her husband when she was a little girl, according to the tradition of arranged marriage.

If a woman in the Golden Orchid Society were to leave her wife or be unfaithful, then the society members would publicly shame her. The public humiliation hurt not only the woman but also her family. The fear of this humiliation was so strong that even extended families, which may not have originally supported same-sex marriage, would often encourage the women to live happily together.

In ancient China, same-sex marriage was also understood by one of the major religions. Buddhists believe in reincarnation, which is the idea that when someone dies, his or her spirit returns to the world in a new body, as another person or animal. Buddhists also believe that once a couple is married, they are destined to love and marry each other again in each of their lives. Therefore, if a man and a woman are married in one life, and then come back in their next life as two women, they are destined to marry again as two women. Since Buddhism offered a reasonable explanation for same-sex marriages, many people accepted them.

Clearly, in parts of ancient China, love between women and their ability to affectionately raise children were understood and acknowledged. Same-sex families thrived then, as they do today.

Information for this essay from Passions of the Cut Sleeve: The Male Homosexual Tradition in China, by Bret Hinsch. Berkeley; University of California Press Ltd, 1990.

Copyright © 2006 Rene Ohana. All rights reserved.