Address the following in a written essay: Discuss the role names and naming plays in "A Pair of Tickets." You may look at the character names, the names of places, or the naming of items (some in Chin

Address the following in a written essay:

Discuss the role names and naming plays in "A Pair of Tickets." You may look at the character names, the names of places, or the naming of items (some in Chinese while others in English) in your response. If you desire, you may compare the importance of names in this piece to Kawabata's "The Grasshopper and the Bell Cricket" from our previous reading.  

Make an argument regarding the true reason Jing-Mei goes to China. Do her reasons change as the story unfolds?

Analyze the photographs in Tan’s “A Pair of Tickets.” What do they represent? Do photographs represent the same things each time they are mentioned in the story? How does the setting influence the significance of the photographs?

Essay Guidelines:  

Must be formatted according to current MLA standards (Left name block, double space, page numbers, etc.). Use Times New Roman 12 pt font.  

Submit as a Word or PDF document only.  

Must be a minimum of 700 words and no more than 900 words.  

Must include a clear thesis statement in your introductory paragraph.  

Use essay formatting, including an introduction paragraph, body, and conclusion. Each point in your body must point back to and support your thesis statement.  

Utilize 1-2 secondary literary scholarly source(s).  

Must contain two (2) direct quotes, summaries or paraphrases from each poem.  

Must contain two (2) direct quotes, summaries or paraphrases from your secondary source(s).  

Quotations must be no longer than 2-3 lines. 

A PAIR OF TICKETS BY AMY TAN

The minute our train leaves the Hong Kong border and enters Shenzhen, China, I feel different. I can feel the skin on my forehead tingling, my blood rushing through a new course, my bones aching with a familiar old pain. And I think, My mother was right. I am becoming Chinese.

“Cannot be helped,” my mother said when I was fifteen and had vigorously denied that I had any Chinese whatsoever below my skin. I was a sophomore at Galileo High in San Francisco, and all my Caucasian friends agreed: I was about as Chinese as they were. But my mother had studied at a famous nursing school in Shanghai, and she said she knew all about genetics. So there was no doubt in her mind, whether I agreed or not: Once you are born Chinese, you cannot help but feel and think Chinese.

“Someday you will see,” said my mother. “It’s in your blood, waiting to be let go.”

And when she said this, I saw myself transforming like a werewolf, a mutant tag of DNA suddenly triggered, replicating itself insidiously into a syndrome, a cluster of telltale Chinese behaviors, all those things my mother did to embarrass me—haggling with store owners, pecking her mouth with a toothpick in public, being color-blind to the fact that lemon yellow and pale pink are not good combinations for winter clothes.

5

But today I realize I’ve never really known what it means to be Chinese. I am thirty-six years old. My mother is dead and I am on a train, carrying with me her dreams of coming home. I am going to China.

We are going to Guangzhou, my seventy-two-year-old father, Canning Woo, and I, where we will visit his aunt, whom he has not seen since he was ten years old. And I don’t know whether it’s the prospect of seeing his aunt or if it’s because he’s back in China, but now he looks like he’s a young boy, so innocent and happy I want to button his sweater and pat his head. We are sitting across from each other, separated by a little table with two cold cups of tea. For the first time I can ever remember, my father has tears in his eyes, and all he is seeing out the train window is a sectioned field of yellow, green, and brown, a narrow canal flanking the tracks, low rising hills, and three people in blue jackets riding an ox-driven cart on this early October morning. And I can’t help myself. I also have misty eyes, as if I had seen this a long, long time ago, and had almost forgotten.

In less than three hours, we will be in Guangzhou, which my guidebook tells me is how one properly refers to Canton these days. It seems all the cities I have heard of, except Shanghai, have changed their spellings. I think they are saying China has changed in other ways as well. Chungking is Chongqing. And Kweilin is Guilin. I have looked these names up, because after we see my father’s aunt in Guangzhou, we will catch a plane to Shanghai, where I will meet my two half-sisters for the first time.

They are my mother’s twin daughters from her first marriage, little babies she was forced to abandon on a road as she was fleeing Kweilin for Chungking in 1944. That was all my mother had told me about these daughters, so they had remained babies in my mind, all these years, sitting on the side of a road, listening to bombs whistling in the distance while sucking their patient red thumbs.

And it was only this year that someone found them and wrote with this joyful news. A letter came from Shanghai, addressed to my mother. When I first heard about this, that they were alive, I imagined my identical sisters transforming from little babies into six-year-old girls. In my mind, they were seated next to each other at a table, taking turns with the fountain pen. One would write a neat row of characters: Dearest Mama. We are alive. She would brush back her wispy bangs and hand the other sister the pen, and she would write: Come get us. Please hurry.

10

Of course they could not know that my mother had died three months before, suddenly, when a blood vessel in her brain burst. One minute she was talking to my father, complaining about the tenants upstairs, scheming how to evict them under the pretense that relatives from China were moving in. The next minute she was holding her head, her eyes squeezed shut, groping for the sofa, and then crumpling softly to the floor with fluttering hands.

So my father had been the first one to open the letter, a long letter it turned out. And they did call her Mama. They said they always revered her as their true mother. They kept a framed picture of her. They told her about their life, from the time my mother last saw them on the road leaving Kweilin to when they were finally found.

And the letter had broken my father’s heart so much—these daughters calling my mother from another life he never knew—that he gave the letter to my mother’s old friend Auntie Lindo and asked her to write back and tell my sisters, in the gentlest way possible, that my mother was dead.

But instead Auntie Lindo took the letter to the Joy Luck Club and discussed with Auntie Ying and Auntie An-mei what should be done, because they had known for many years about my mother’s search for her twin daughters, her endless hope. Auntie Lindo and the others cried over this double tragedy, of losing my mother three months before, and now again. And so they couldn’t help but think of some miracle, some possible way of reviving her from the dead, so my mother could fulfill her dream.

So this is what they wrote to my sisters in Shanghai: “Dearest Daughters, I too have never forgotten you in my memory or in my heart. I never gave up hope that we would see each other again in a joyous reunion. I am only sorry it has been too long. I want to tell you everything about my life since I last saw you. I want to tell you this when our family comes to see you in China. . . .” They signed it with my mother’s name.

15

It wasn’t until all this had been done that they first told me about my sisters, the letter they received, the one they wrote back.

“They’ll think she’s coming, then,” I murmured. And I had imagined my sisters now being ten or eleven, jumping up and down, holding hands, their pigtails bouncing, excited that their mother—their mother—was coming, whereas my mother was dead.

“How can you say she is not coming in a letter?” said Auntie Lindo. “She is their mother. She is your mother. You must be the one to tell them. All these years, they have been dreaming of her.” And I thought she was right.

But then I started dreaming, too, of my mother and my sisters and how it would be if I arrived in Shanghai. All these years, while they waited to be found, I had lived with my mother and then had lost her. I imagined seeing my sisters at the airport. They would be standing on their tiptoes, looking anxiously, scanning from one dark head to another as we got off the plane. And I would recognize them instantly, their faces with the identical worried look.

“Jyejye, Jyejye. Sister, Sister. We are here,” I saw myself saying in my poor version of Chinese.

20

“Where is Mama?” they would say, and look around, still smiling, two flushed and eager faces. “Is she hiding?” And this would have been like my mother, to stand behind just a bit, to tease a little and make people’s patience pull a little on their hearts. I would shake my head and tell my sisters she was not hiding.

“Oh, that must be Mama, no?” one of my sisters would whisper excitedly, pointing to another small woman completely engulfed in a tower of presents. And that, too, would have been like my mother, to bring mountains of gifts, food, and toys for children—all bought on sale—shunning thanks, saying the gifts were nothing, and later turning the labels over to show my sisters, “Calvin Klein, 100% wool.”

I imagined myself starting to say, “Sisters, I am sorry, I have come alone . . .” and before I could tell them—they could see it in my face—they were wailing, pulling their hair, their lips twisted in pain, as they ran away from me. And then I saw myself getting back on the plane and coming home.

After I had dreamed this scene many times—watching their despair turn from horror into anger—I begged Auntie Lindo to write another letter. And at first she refused.

“How can I say she is dead? I cannot write this,” said Auntie Lindo with a stubborn look.

25

“But it’s cruel to have them believe she’s coming on the plane,” I said. “When they see it’s just me, they’ll hate me.”

“Hate you? Cannot be.” She was scowling. “You are their own sister, their only family.”

“You don’t understand,” I protested.

“What I don’t understand?” she said.

And I whispered, “They’ll think I’m responsible, that she died because I didn’t appreciate her.”

30

And Auntie Lindo looked satisfied and sad at the same time, as if this were true and I had finally realized it. She sat down for an hour, and when she stood up she handed me a two-page letter. She had tears in her eyes. I realized that