Gao Named First Recipient of Harlequin Diverse Voices Scholarship
Ying Gao, MFA ’24 was very surprised upon learning that she was the first-ever Emerson College recipient of the Harlequin Diverse Voices Scholarship.
“It means a lot to me. English is not my native language. It’s kind of a challenge to write in English,” said Gao, who receives $2,000 thanks to the scholarship
Gao was a teacher before moving to the U.S. in 2014 from China, and has since written four novels in English, She now lives in Minnesota with her family, and recently graduated from the University of Minnesota at the age of 40.
Harlequin, a global publisher of romance, fiction, and nonfiction, created the scholarship this year for students enrolled in Emerson’s Popular Fiction graduate program. Scholarships are awarded by program faculty to students who bring diverse voices and stories to their writing and show exceptional talent and passion for a pursuing career in writing.
“Emerson College is thrilled to have been selected as a Harlequin Diverse Voices Scholarship institution. We designed our MFA in Popular Fiction Writing and Publishing with inclusion in mind,” said Kim McLarin, Interim Dean of Graduate and Professional Studies. “Fully online and asynchronous, it can be completed in as little as five semesters and is more affordable than many comparable MFA degrees. As a result, diverse aspiring writers from all over the world have joined our community, where the joys and challenges of crafting high-quality romance, sci-fi, fantasy, mystery, thriller, horror and young adult fiction are celebrated.”
Faculty reviewed writing samples submitted with admissions applications, and then determined Gao was the one. One faculty member said, “Gao, in addition to being a fluid and compelling storyteller of great depth, best represents the goals and ideals of this scholarship.”
The selection committee said, “In Ying Gao’s fiction the settings are vivid, the characters complex, the stakes high. Her voice is quietly penetrating, unafraid to dig into the dark spaces of the psyche and the heart in order to illuminate what it means to be human in this world. This is precisely the work of good fiction.”
Gao enjoyed writing romance stories in Mandarin, but for English, she prefers to write on more serious topics such as women’s fiction.
“I want people to know how the bottom class feels, and stories of women from a lower class and low-income families,” said Gao. “It reflects something about ordinary people’s lives and how they struggle, and how they try to get what they want.”
Her submitted work is about a very poor undocumented girl in China whose father disowned her because she wasn’t a boy.
“Under this circumstance, she tries to get more education and try to find true love. But finds that love hurts and there are disappointments,” said Gao. “Her pursuit of true love goes badly – and she is just 15 years older than her son. She becomes crazy, her husband locked her in a room for two years, she went into a mental hospital, then goes in treatment and plans to open book store or go to college.”
Despite just starting weeks ago at Emerson, Gao can share how the program has already helped.
“I love it. This is what I want. Especially the writing workshop. I submitted two chapters and I got a lot of very, very helpful suggestions,” said Gao. “If I didn’t attend Emerson I don’t know if I could figure out the correct editing I need.”
Gao also believes that this scholarship is just the beginning of great things to come.
“I went to two people in my 20s to ask them about my future. And one said I’d be really rich at 27, it’s 13 years later since I was 27,” joked Gao. “I hope this scholarship will get me good luck to get my goal of being a published writer.”
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Graduate and Professional Studies, School of the Arts, Students, Writing Literature and Publishing
This is published in Emerson Today.
Wandering Wonders: My Hilarious Evening at Wang Yujia’s Minnesota Orchestra Concert
Last year when I was looking for a job, I found a writer’s position opening at Minnesota Orchestra. As an admirer of the Minnesota Orchestra, imagining working with the musicians encouraged me to apply for the job. Therefore, I searched and watched videos on YouTube and got to know many conductors. With YouTube’s recommendation, I was led to a young conductor, and upon searching for his information, I got to know his girlfriend was from China, named Wang Yujia. That was my first time heard of Wang Yujia.
About one month ago, the Chinese social media Xiaohongshu kept notifying me about Wang Yujia. Most of the information and comments were about how she wore provocatively in her show and very few comments about her professionalism. At the same time, Minnesota Orchestra’s newsletter informed that Wang Yujia would play with them in Minnesota. I decided to attend this concert, to reward myself for my hard work.
Because I purchased the ticket in late time and could only afford the cheapest one, I let the ticket system choose seats for me. When walked into the hall, I got to know that my seat was on the third floor. It was too far that I couldn’t see the mumian on the platform clearly. Worse was that there was a rail in front of me, I could only watch the player on the left platform between the bars of the rail.
The old gentleman who sat by me was wise: he brought a pair of telescopes with him. As for me, I didn’t know classical music, even though I had taken a course on Music Appreciation in college, I couldn’t tell all the names of the instruments, no need to mention appreciating the music. But my neighbor was obviously an expert. He dressed in a vest. He echoed the rhymes with his hands, shoulders, and head. A satisfied smile hung on his face, the smile I have only seen on children who got their satisfied toys. After one piece of performance ended, he stood up, clapped the loudest, shouted “Oh–ho, whistled, and talked to himself, “Amazing, That’s amazing!” I asked him if he was a musician, and he said no, he plays a bit of Guitar. But he’s a fan of classic music. He said he was very excited about this concert because he had dreamed of these pieces of music to be performed. And today, Wang Yujia made his dream come true, and she made it so perfectly!
Wang Yujia wore a golden shinning short dress with tassels on the bottom. According to the audience on Xiaohongshu, she’s exposed her beautiful shoulders and back. She also wore high-heeled golden shoes. My neighbor said her heels were six inches high, and he also added, “You never know what she would wear until she shows up.” My neighbor is definitely Wang Yujia’s super fan!
After the concert ended, I went to my next step: looking for my parked car. I have no sense of direction. Without GPS, I can’t drive anywhere. But I was sure I could make it this time, because after parked my car, I took a photo of the parking number. But the aisles outside the concert hall were so alike, each one looked like the one I came in. I followed the biggest group of people turning right. Through the skyway, I got outside the door, but it didn’t look like the parking lot I parked my car. I walked upwards and, on the turning, I saw a young couple. The girl was from Asia––maybe because Wang Yujia was from China, I found many Asian audiences and heard many people speak Chinese. This couple seemed couldn’t find their car too. They kept going upward, I went down, along with the exit sign, and got out of the building. Standing by the street and trying to recall the road I drove through; I still couldn’t figure out the direction or which entrance I went in. And it was cold outside. I returned to the first floor of the building (it should be the Hilton Hotel), where I met the young couple again. The girl smiled at me. I said to them that I couldn’t find my car, and the young man said with an embarrassed smile, “Same here.”
I quickly climbed the stairs and walked through the skyway. While walking, I thought that it was a punishment for I left my husband and two kids at home, and I was alone to enjoy the musical night. (The truth is my kids and husband don’t like orchestra). Returning to the concert hall, I found no one was there. Standing there and hesitating for a while, I turned left. Luckily, a young man in a black suit and carrying a black backpack showed up. I ran to him. Getting close, I noticed he just put on lip balm––he must be an exquisite person who loves life. I asked him if he knew the parking lot. He said yes, I showed him my parking picture, he said he also parked in that area, and I needed to walk backward. How fortunate, or I would miss it again and waste time! He pressed the elevator button and asked me if I was there for the concert, I said yes and asked him the same question, he said he belongs to the New York Orchestra. I walked too fast and was too tired to ask him what instrument he was playing. When the elevator reached level 2, he held the door open and pointed to the parking lot, saying my car must be in that area. Then he wished me good luck. What a kind man! I could only say thanks again and again.
As expected, I found my car in two minutes.
To a person like me who is weak in operational ability, driving a car is a big challenge to me, the most difficult work in my life. I had spent five years, taking two times in traffic rule test and four times on road test to get my driver’s license. Driving into the city is always a challenge too. Without any surprise, I exited the wrong way last night, and it took me another eight minutes to reach the parking lot. I followed the signs in the parking lot, but I didn’t know why and how I drove out of the parking lot! I had to make a turn and reenter the parking lot. It was full of cars. I finally found a narrow space by the wall pillar. I thought my small car (2019 Chevrolet Spark) could make it––I chose this style for easy parking. It was a left parking space. To be honest, I haven’t done much parallel or backing parking because places I had been had wide parking lots. I started making a left turn a little bit early and then my car side hit the wall. I heard the scratching sound. I couldn’t make a reserve but to move forward and parked it awkwardly.
The light was dim last night, plus, I was in a hurry, so I didn’t pay more attention to the scratching. This morning when I checked my car. Oh my god, it was a big scratching and dent, right under the door. It reminded me of my dream one day ago: I dreamed that my nose was bleeding. I checked online the next morning, and it said, I needed to be careful because that meant bad luck and accidents may happen. I thought the scratch was the bad luck. Luckily, it was a small accident, and I didn’t hurt myself or other people or hit another’s car. I am a guru in persuading and comforting myself!
Suppose my dream would tell me this accident would happen, but I still would come to the concert. Art is a magic thing: it can help people build new, beautiful scenes. As for me, a drawing, a photo, a song, a piece of rhythm, a video, or even the views outside of my car window can make me think about my beautiful time in my youth and imagine beautiful future scenes. No need to mention this was an over two-hour concert. The music, performance, lights, and setting together create a brand-new world for me. Engaged in it, I felt peaceful, harmonious, romantic, and warm. At least, in those two hours, I have temporally forgotten my struggles and unhappiness in real life. I have regained confidence in life and re-established my hope.
This is published in the North Pine County News on April 3, 2024.
A kind gesture from my father for which I didn’t have to say thanks
Until I was 15, I lived in a remote village on a huge mountain in Guizhou Province, China, with my parents and two younger brothers. During the ’80s and ’90s, we lived in poverty. On our birthdays, we never had a birthday cake. Our gift was a hard-boiled egg. But when I turned 15, I got a special birthday gift: two plums.
There were three plum trees in front of my old house at the edge of a small, flat plain. During early June of the lunar year (August in the Gregorian calendar), ripe plums hung from the branches or rose through the leaves, shining in the sun.
The plums were big, with a layer of white fuzz that seemed like the frost that covers grass on an early fall morning. The sunshine turned one side of the fruit a light golden hue that faded gradually to green. The golden ones were the sweetest and most delicious. On each market day, my mom would sell the plums to earn extra money for us to buy pens and notebooks.
My two brothers and I climbed the trees as deftly as monkeys. I even could climb with a pair of slippers on! But I quit climbing trees when I went to middle school, and I started reading as a hobby.
At noon on my 15th birthday, my mom was napping and my brothers and father disappeared somewhere. The sun was tilted in the sky, and the shadow of our house’s eaves stretched across the yard. The breeze was gentle. The only sound was the song of one or two cicadas in the trees around the house.
As I always did, I sat on a wooden chair under the eaves, reading — “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon” on this day. I was too engaged in the novel to notice my parents’ movements around me. My father approached from the narrow road that connected to our yard, and my mother had gotten up and was sitting on a low chair to one side of the gate, across from me.
“Where have you been?” my mom asked my father. Her voice caused me to look up.
“Over there,” my dad answered with a mysterious smile. He was at the end of the road, in the bright sunshine.
I resumed reading. My dad said, “Ying, do you remember what day it is today?”
I shook my head no. My mind was full of Yu Jiaolong in the novel and her newborn baby.
“Your birthday,” my mom said, yawning. Sleep was still in her half-closed eyes.
“Oh,” I said, returning to my book.
“Here it is,” my dad said, stretching one hand to me.
Two big golden plums lay in the center of his palm. He had scratched off the white fuzz so that the fruit skins were smooth and shining.
I picked up the plums.
My brothers had climbed the plum trees every day without finding any over the past week. “These must be the last two,” my father said.
I split open the fruits, took out the stones, and put the flesh in my mouth: crisp, fresh, sweet mixed with a bit of sour. Today, I can still recall that taste. I have never found a plum as delicious. I didn’t say thanks to my dad, and my dad didn’t say “Happy birthday” to me.
This is how I get along with my parents. Most of my friends from my hometown have the same way of being with their parents — we have never said “I love you” or thank you to one another. No matter how big a mistake the parents made, they didn’t apologize to us, their kids. I have never held my mom’s or dad’s hands when we go out together. It is as if there is an invisible barrier between me and my parents.
In 2014 I moved to the United States and married not long after. To my surprise, I noticed that my husband always said thanks to his parents, something that where I am from was only expressed to and from guests. I noticed, too, that my husband and his parents always ended a phone call with “I love you,” loud and natural. On our son’s first drawing, my mother-in-law taught him to write “To mummy, love, Rang.” I can’t imagine what my hometown people would think of these declarations of affection, for where I come from, love can’t be expressed by words but through actions.
On the first day of the Chinese New Year, I video-chatted with my mom and dad. There was no “Happy New Year” uttered between us. I wanted to say something, but I was afraid they would consider me more of a guest than a family member if I did.
My parents and I will not change our habits of expressing love. But I have learned to say thank you, sorry, and “I love you” to my son, and I enjoy and appreciate his hugs and kisses.
NOTE: This essay is accepted, edited, and published in The Boston Globe Ideas section on June1, 2022.
Our beloved’s departure was not a heavy rain, but a persistent humidity
Last April, when Dad was diagnosed with leukemia, and the doctor said it was a moderate type and most patients could live over ten years, my brothers and I felt relieved. I had just become an American citizen and started applying for my American passport and planned to go back to celebrate Chinese New Year. Due to COVID, I hadn’t been to China for over four years. I was sure my dad would recover, and I imagined inviting him to the U.S. to see where I live, what I was doing, and to meet my friends and family here–he had never been here yet.
However, things didn’t go as well as the doctor said, Dad’s condition grew worse and worse. He quickly lost weight; he couldn’t walk or sit for long, and what he experienced was pain. I then got my passport and started to apply for my Chinese visa, but it was delayed because the Chinese embassy required my naturalization certificate, which the passport center would send back to me eight weeks after I received my passport.
My dad was sent to the emergency room. I talked to the agent who helped me apply for a Chinese visa, asking if I could send the paper later. I called the passport center, begging them to send me my naturalization paper. I asked my dad to wait for me. The Chinese embassy refused my request, stating that my passport alone couldn’t prove I am an American citizen. The American passport center didn’t promise when they could send back my naturalization paper; they just asked me to wait patiently.
But my dad couldn’t wait. Twenty days after being discharged from the emergency room, Dad passed away at noon here, midnight in China. Until the moment my mom told me, “Your dad is gone,” I still couldn’t believe my dad would die. I cried in the video to my dad, “Why didn’t you wait for me? You didn’t wait for me because you don’t love me!” I had nowhere to vent my anger, sadness, and regret; I could only do it toward my dad’s body through the video.
My brothers and mother had been there with my dad when he was sick, when he passed, and during the five days of his funeral. The guests and the atmosphere at the funeral helped them accept the fact that Dad was gone. I hadn’t been there, and I couldn’t get over it. I couldn’t believe it.
Mostly, I felt guilty and regretful, which changed my attitude toward life. I became lazy and felt life was meaningless. When I reached some of my goals or received some surprises in life, work, or study, I felt empty because the one with whom I liked to share those feelings was not there anymore. In the poor, remote village where I was born and grew up, my dad was the first person who thought education was important for both girls and boys, and I was the first one to continue my education after middle school and become a teacher, which encouraged other parents to send their girls to high schools or vocational schools. He always supported me, whether I quit my teaching job and moved to a big city, decided to marry my husband, relocated to the US, or attend college here. Now, he is gone; he didn’t see my graduation, and he didn’t even meet my daughter in person.
I read books about death and wished my dad was somewhere in heaven looking at me. I kept his photos on my bookshelf and in my wallet. Wherever I went and whatever I did, I talked to his photo. This comforted me a bit. Thinking about Dad made my heart sink. I miss Dad so much. I unconsciously think of him while doing dishes, driving, watching a show, or even during writing. Many mornings when I woke up, especially when I dreamed of him, I felt that he was still here—talking, laughing, sitting, standing, in no pain, and asking me not to be tired and to maintain my health. I wish the time from last April was a dream, and if this could bring Dad back, I’d like to delete this period from my life, even longer, I wouldn’t mind. I am willing to.
Yu Hua, the famous Chinese writer, said, “Our beloved’s departure was not a heavy rain, but a persistent humidity. I am forever trapped in this dampness.” Dad has been gone for nine months, and I still can’t accept this truth. The guilt, regret, and grief haven’t faded a bit. I don’t know when I will feel better, or if I ever will for the rest of my life. At this moment, as I write these words, my heart is in pain, the same as the moment Mom told me Dad was gone. Oh, so hard!
Ying Tao is the Editorial Assistant of the North Pine County News. She can be reached at 320-384-6188 or circulation@hinckleynews.com
This is published in the North Pine County News on May 24, 2024.
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