The Wangs vs. the World

The Wangs vs. the World

by Jade Chang


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For fans of Crazy Rich Asians: Meet the Wangs, the unforgettable immigrant family whose spectacular fall from glorious riches to (still name-brand) rags brings them together in a way money never could.

Charles Wang, a brash, lovable businessman who built a cosmetics empire and made a fortune, has just lost everything in the financial crisis. So he rounds up two of his children from schools that he can no longer afford and packs them into the only car that wasn’t repossessed. Together with their wealth-addicted stepmother, Barbra, they head on a cross-country journey from their foreclosed Bel-Air home to the Upstate New York retreat of the eldest Wang daughter, Saina. 
“Highly entertaining” (BuzzFeed), this “fresh Little Miss Sunshine” (Vanity Fair) is a “compassionate and bright-eyed novel” (New York Times Book Review), an epic family saga, and a new look at what it means to belong in America. “When the Wangs take the world, we all benefit” (USA Today).

A New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice
An October 2016 Indie Next Pick
A PopSugar Best Book for Fall
A BuzzFeed Incredible Book for Fall
A Nylon Amazing Book for Fall
A Bustle Book for Your Fall TBR List
A Millions Most Anticipated Book
A Frisky Book to Read for Fall

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781328745538
Publisher: HMH Books
Publication date: 06/06/2017
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 152,931
Product dimensions: 5.20(w) x 2.90(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

JADE CHANG has covered arts and culture as a journalist and editor. She is the recipient of a Sundance Fellowship for arts journalism, the AIGA Winterhouse Award for design criticism, and the James D. Houston Memorial Scholarship from the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley.

Read an Excerpt

Bel-Air, CA
Charles Wang was mad at America.
      Actually, Charles Wang was mad at history.
      If the death-bent Japanese had never invaded China, if a million ​— ​a billion ​— ​misguided students and serfs had never idolized a balding academic who parroted Russian madmen and couldn’t pay for his promises, then Charles wouldn’t be standing here, staring out the window of his beloved Bel-Air home, holding an aspirin in his hand, waiting for those calculating assholes from the bank ​— ​the bank that had once gotten down on its Italianate-marble knees and kissed his ass ​— ​to come over and repossess his life.
      Without history, he wouldn’t be here at all.
      He’d be there, living out his unseen birthright on his family’s ancestral acres, a pampered prince in silk robes, writing naughty, brilliant poems, teasing servant girls, collecting tithes from his peasants, and making them thankful by leaving their tattered households with just enough grain to squeeze out more hungry babies.
      Instead, the world that should have been his fell apart, and the great belly of Asia tumbled and roiled with a noxious foreign indigestion that spewed him out, bouncing him, hard, on the tropical joke of Taiwan and then, when he popped right back up, belching him all the way across the vast Pacific Ocean and smearing him onto this, this faceless green country full of grasping newcomers, right alongside his unclaimed countrymen: the poor, illiterate, ball-scratching half men from Canton and Fujian, whose highest dreams were a cook’s apron and a back-alley, backdoor fuck.
      Oh, he shouldn’t have been vulgar.
      Charles Wang shouldn’t even know about the things that happen on dirt-packed floors and under stained sheets. Centuries of illustrious ancestors, scholars and statesmen and gentlemen farmers all, had bred him for fragrant teas unfurling in fresh springwater, for calligraphy brushes of white wolf hair dipped in black deer-glue ink, for lighthearted games of chance played among true friends.
      Not this. No, not this. Not for him bastardized Peking duck eaten next to a tableful of wannabe rappers and their short, chubby, colored-contact-wearing Filipino girlfriends at Mr. Chow. Not for him shoulder-to-shoulder art openings where he sweated through the collar of his paper-thin cashmere sweater and stared at some sawed-in-half animal floating in formaldehyde whose guts didn’t even have the courtesy to leak; not for him white women who wore silver chopsticks in their hair and smiled at him for approval. Nothing, nothing in his long lineage had prepared him for the Western worship of the Dalai Lama and pop stars wearing jade prayer beads and everyone drinking goddamn boba chai.
      He shouldn’t be here at all. Never should have set a single unbound foot on the New World. There was no arguing it. History had started fucking Charles Wang, and America had finished the job.
America was the worst part of it because America, that fickle bitch, used to love Charles Wang.
      She had given him this house, a beautiful Georgian estate once owned by a minor MGM starlet married to a studio lawyer who made his real money running guns for Mickey Cohen. At least that’s what Charles told his guests whenever he toured them around the place, pointing out the hidden crawl space in the wine cellar and the bullet hole in the living room’s diamond-pane window. “Italians don’t have nothing on gangster Jews!” he’d say, stroking the mezuzah that he’d left up on the doorway. “No hell in the Old Testament!”
      Then he’d lead his guests outside, down the symmetrical rows of topiaries, and along the neat swirls of Madame Louis Lévêque roses until he could arrange the group in front of a bowing lawn jockey whose grinning black face had been tactfully painted over in a shiny pink. He’d gesture towards it, one eyebrow arched, as he told them that the man who designed this, this house destined to become the Wang family estate, had been Paul Williams, the first black architect in the city. The guy had built Frank Sinatra’s house, he’d built that ridiculous restaurant at LAX that looked like it came straight out of The Jetsons ​— ​stars and spaceships, and a castle for Charles Wang.
      Martha Stewart had kvelled over this house. She’d called it a treasure and lain a pale, capable hand on the sleeve of Charles Wang’s navy summer-silk blazer with the burnished brass buttons, a blazer made by his tailor who kept a suite at the Peninsula Hong Kong and whose name was also Wang, though, thank god, no relation. Martha Stewart had clutched his jacket sleeve and looked at him with such sincerity in her eyes as she’d gushed, “It’s so important, Charles, so essential, that we keep the spirit of these houses whole.”
It was America, really, that had given him his three children, infinitely lovable even though they’d never learned to speak an unaccented word of Mandarin and lived under their own roofs, denying him even the bare dignity of being the head of a full house. His first wife had played some part in it, but he was the one who had journeyed to America and claimed her, he was the one who had fallen to his knees at the revelation of each pregnancy, the one who had crouched by the hospital bed urging on the birth of each perfect child who walked out into the world like a warrior.
      Yes, America had loved him once. She’d given him the balls to turn his father’s grim little factory, a three-smokestack affair on the outskirts of Taipei that supplied urea to fertilizer manufacturers, into a cosmetics empire. Urea. His father dealt in piss! Not even real honest piss ​— ​artificial piss. Faux pee. A nitrogen-carrying ammonia substitute that could be made out of inert materials and given a public relations scrubbing and named carbamide, but that was really nothing more than the thing that made piss less terribly pissy.
      The knowledge that his father, his tall, proud father with his slight scholar’s squint and firmly buttoned quilted vests, had gone from quietly presiding over acres of fertile Chinese farmland to operating a piss plant on the island of Taiwan ​— ​well, it was an indignity so large that no one could ever mention it.
      Charles’s father had wanted him to stay at National Taiwan University and become a statesman in the New Taiwan, a young man in a Western suit who would carry out Sun Yat Sen’s legacy, but Charles dropped out because he thought he could earn his family’s old life back. An army of well-wishers ​— ​none of whom he’d ever see again ​— ​had packed him onto a plane with two good-luck scrolls, a crushed orchid lei, and a list of American fertilizer manufacturers who might be in need of cheap urea.
      Charles had spent half the flight locked in the onboard toilet heaving up a farewell banquet of bird’s-nest soup and fatty pork stewed in a writhing mass of sea cucumber. When he couldn’t stomach looking at his own colorless face for another second, he picked up a miniature bar of wax-paper-wrapped soap and read the label, practicing his English. It was a pretty little package, lily scented and printed with purple flowers. “Moisturizing,” promised the front, “Skin so soft, it has to be Glow.” And in back, there was a crowded list of ingredients that surprised Charles. This was before anything in Taiwan had to be labeled, before there was any sort of unbribable municipal health department that monitored claims that a package of dried dates contained anything more than, say, “The freshest dates dried in the healthy golden sun.”
      Charles stood there, heaving, weaving forward and back on his polished custom-made shoes, staring cross-eyed at the bar of soap, trying to make out the tiny type. Sweet almond oil, sodium stearate, simmondsia chinensis, hydrolyzed wheat proteins, and then he saw it: UREA. Hydroxyethyl urea, right between shea butter and sodium cocoyl isethionate.
Urea on a pretty little American package!


Jade Chang: How Life Finds Its Way into Fiction

When I was an editor at Goodreads, one of my jobs was to gather member questions for author Q&As. After sorting through thousands of queries I can say with a certain amount of authority that readers want to know one thing about fiction: Did any of it actually happen?

When it comes to The Wangs vs. the World, my first impulse was to say that all of it is emotionally true, and none of it actually happened. But that's not quite accurate, either.

In a way, every page is full of things that actually happened. There are small moments that I witnessed — like the man on a skateboard pushing another man in a wheelchair down the sidewalk — that became things the family sees on their road trip, and ideas that I discussed with my friends that became part of the Wang siblings' discussions.

And though my father never made (or lost!) a cosmetics fortune, my parents' shared backgrounds are the same as the one that I've given the Wangs. They come from families who for generations owned vast swathes of land, then lost it all during the Japanese invasion and the rise of Communism. That loss is the driving force of this story — it's a desire to recover his family's lost ancestral land that keeps Charles going after the collapse of his company.

But in many ways it wasn't my family's distant past that influenced the story as much as the just-departed present. When I'm asked about the three Wang children, and why they experience so little angst in pursuit of their artistic dreams — Saina is an artist, Andrew is an aspiring stand-up comic, Grace is a style blogger — I usually say that it's because I grew up in a San Fernando Valley that was very mixed, where a strong percentage of my classmates were Korean, Indian, Persian, where many of the people who were not recent immigrants from Asia or the Middle East were Jewish or Mormon or Jehovah's Witnesses. When everyone's an outsider, the term no longer carries any weight.

But it's equally true that I was able to write the characters that I did because of the lives that my parents modeled. There's a checklist for what we think of as typical Asian parents, and in some ways they filled a lot of the boxes — straight A's were expected, as were high SAT scores and college attendance, at home only Mandarin was spoken — but that was the extent of it. When we were kids, my sister and I joked that there should be a warning sign on our front door: "You Are Now Entering an Absurdist Household." Until very recently I thought that every family that didn't hate each other spent most dinners trying to make each other laugh. Turns out, they don't.

My parents were hippies who came to America in the '70s because it seemed like an adventure — my father had shoulder-length hair and a corresponding mustache and a purple dashiki-style shirt that made an appearance in almost every photograph. His favorite band at the time was Creedence Clearwater Revival, and he was getting a graduate degree in mass communications, back when that was still a thing. My mother somehow ended up with a degree in nuclear medicine, but she is also a pianist and a painter.

The thing is, this story seems atypical only because it does not get told to a wider audience; I can think of countless examples of immigrant parents whose interests were equally varied. To me, one of the essential truths of The Wangs vs. the World is that it is about immigrants who see themselves as being central to the story of America. And I was able to write it because that is the life that I have lived.

So did any of it actually happen? No. And yet, yes.

Jade Chang

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