This is a work of Creative Non-Fiction.
Written with candour, the author tells the
life story of a daughter born into a culture
that values sons. Shadowed by the stigma
of being deemed a “worthless daughter,” the protagonist
grapples with low self-esteem and a lack of confidence
in the absence of positive role models. Ashamed of her
roots, she is envious of others who are proud of their herit-
age. She seeks love and acceptance by gravitating towards
people as far as possible from the confines of her small,
oppressive family.
Sadly, it is only through abusive and toxic entangle-
ments—between daughter and mother, friends, lovers,
and spouses—that she runs away from, to discover bonds
that are precious and irreplaceable. Ultimately, the path
smooths to reveal the fragile yet resilient ties that define
us. It illustrates the power of relationships to fracture or
strengthen and their ability to transform the protagon-
ist in profound ways. Looking back, the author sees the
person she once was—someone else, someone distant,
unrecognizable, but not herself, in this memoir of a life.
This is a work of Creative Non-Fiction.
Written with candour, the author tells the
life story of a daughter born into a culture
that values sons. Shadowed by the stigma
of being deemed a “worthless daughter,” the protagonist
grapples with low self-esteem and a lack of confidence
in the absence of positive role models. Ashamed of her
roots, she is envious of others who are proud of their herit-
age. She seeks love and acceptance by gravitating towards
people as far as possible from the confines of her small,
oppressive family.
Sadly, it is only through abusive and toxic entangle-
ments—between daughter and mother, friends, lovers,
and spouses—that she runs away from, to discover bonds
that are precious and irreplaceable. Ultimately, the path
smooths to reveal the fragile yet resilient ties that define
us. It illustrates the power of relationships to fracture or
strengthen and their ability to transform the protagon-
ist in profound ways. Looking back, the author sees the
person she once was—someone else, someone distant,
unrecognizable, but not herself, in this memoir of a life.
February 1960
In the beginning, I was a single Lego piece.
—Author
How could I have known that my earliest memory
was the enormous wing I saw at the airport? It
wasn’t until many years later, when as an adult, I
tried to recall how far back my first memory went, that I
realized that was it.
I was four years old, and it was just before I walked into
the belly of the giant mechanical bird called an airplane.
My forty-six-year-old Grandma Jong had pointed out
planes to me as they flew overhead in Hong Kong, barely
skimming the tops of the high-rises we lived in. But to
see it so big and up close made a real impression upon me.
Grandma Jong and my father’s younger brother, Uncle
Wai, waited with me at Kai Tak Airport until it was time
for me to board. At the time I had felt a queasy knot in my
gut, but I knew there was no turning back—only a walk-
way straight ahead.
I had a name, but I was called “Annuii”, literally the word
for daughter in the Taishan dialect. I was born in the
British colony of Hong Kong in 1956. First-born to my
Mama, Shi-Na Chau, and my Baba, Bing Jong, I was also
the first grandchild to my paternal Grandma Jong. Every-
one who knew me saw the natural performer in me.
They told me stories of how much I relished the atten-
tion of a crowd when they gathered to applaud whilst I
sang and danced.
“Aww, Annuii’s not shy. Look at the way she laps up
the attention!”
Their comments fuelled the intensity of my moves.
Hungrily, I’d drain the chi from anyone who approached
me. I loved an audience.
Grandma Jong had a collection of black-and-white
photos of me which captured the exhibitionist that I was.
There was one of me lifting my dress above my waist to
show off my frilly panties. Then another photo of me per-
forming on top of the coffee table, with my mouth wide
open. In my hand was an empty toilet paper roll. I sang into
it while my eyes disappeared into em-dashes. It remained
forever as a blurred moment because I couldn’t stay still.
Shortly before I turned two, my parents emigrated
to Canada, leaving me under the care of Grandma Jong.
The photo taken the day my parents departed for Canada
showed my grandmother holding me as we waved farewell
to them. She was the obvious choice to raise me until my
parents sent for me when I was four.
Grandma Jong told me I was going away on an airplane
a few weeks before my flight. “Your Mama and Baba are
ready for you now. It’s time for you to join them in your
new home.”
“I don’t want to live with strangers,” I said. “I want to
stay here with you! Who will I sleep with if you are so
far away? You won’t be taking me to the playground any-
more?” I rattled off reasons I didn’t want to leave her. “I’m
scared of these people. I will miss you.” Usually, my whin-
ing worked on Grandma Jong, but this time, it did not. I
threw my small arms around her and cried.
Unfazed, she got up and said, “I want to show you
something.”
Grandma Jong went into the bedroom and brought back
a framed black-and-white photograph that had sat on top
of her dresser. We sat side by side and she dried my eyes.
“This is you sitting on your Mama’s knee and your Baba
standing behind, see? You don’t need to be scared. They
are your parents; you belong with them.”
“Why are you not coming?”
“Later, perhaps.”
“I belong with you. Don’t send me away. I will be all
alone without you.” I said with a sad pout while studying
the photograph.
Mama was pretty. Her skin was fair and pearlesque. I
had the same bold eyebrows framing a pair of dark brown
almond eyes. Instead of my mother’s small cupid bow lips
and her skin tone, I had my father’s full lips and his per-
petual olive-toned tan. Baba looked smooth and hairless.
He had kind, but sad eyes. Someone painted red on all our
lips and a light brush of pink on our cheeks, and still, my
parents both looked serious while I looked stunned.
“See how you resemble them? You’re pretty like your
Mama, only you have darker skin like your Baba. Noble
ladies from the north had light fair skin, but ladies like
your mother stayed indoors, out of the sun and went to
school. Your father’s family and I worked outdoors, and
our skin grew dark from the sun.” My grandma pointed
to their features.
My Baba had gifted me a pair of full lips, which I con-
sidered my best feature. My expressive mouth, when
pouted slightly, meant I could either charm or scorn. I’d
learned that charm worked with Grandma Jong. I always
got my way. Although I was delicate in form, my attitude
exuded an inner strength which hid a streak of defiance.
Within days of departure, I felt an ominous dread. on the
day my grandmother dressed me for my trip, I noticed she
wore a grave face. She wasn’t herself. She straightened my
collar and buttoned my jacket. “It’s been two years since
you’ve seen your Mama and Baba. Do you know how
long that is?”
I shook my head as I brushed the wispy hair off my face.
“Well, you were just two years old then.” She put up
two fingers. She paused until she got my full attention,
then extended two more fingers. “Now you are four years
old, see?”
I nodded seriously to match her tone. She was trying to
hide her sadness, but I knew my grandma. She was usually
cheerful and open to my antics. Not today. “They sent for
you because you will start school in Canada soon. Won’t
that be exciting?”
I nodded again, this time enthusiastically. “Yes, I will
like that. Will I make friends?”
“Of course, you will make new friends. They will gather
around you when you sing and dance for them. You will
find a new audience.”
I perked up and gave her a wide grin.
Grandma Jong smiled fondly back at me, relieved that
I was satisfied and agreeable to going. She sighed and then
rested her eyes on me, dazed, perhaps pining for times
past.
I tugged at the hem of her tunic and signalled with my
index finger. Now a breath away from my grandmother’s
ear, I whispered, “I want you to come too.”
“Yes, I will, but not now,” she replied.
“When I get settled, I will send for you, just like how
Mama and Baba sent for me. But I will miss you. You will
come soon! I promise!” I quipped to make her feel better.
Grandma Jong’s parting words at the airport were, “Be
good, Annui! Be obedient to Mama and Baba. remem-
ber that!” I nodded vigorously and smiled up at her. All
the adults said the same thing. obedience was of utmost
importance to being a child.
She handed me to a tall, slender lady in a crisp uniform.
She was unlike anyone I’ve ever met and much like a man-
nequin in a department who magically came alive.
“This nice lady will stay with you until you see your
Baba and Mama.”
Grandma’s words were comforting and
gave me courage. I nodded to reassure her that I would be
alright. Baba’s younger brother, Uncle Wai stood by and
waited patiently while we said our goodbyes. He dried his
eyes, reaching forward to take his mother’s arm. Before she
turned away, Grandma Jong squeezed me hard. I pushed
away first, thinking that soon enough she would come
after me to Canada. I waved goodbye to them, thinking
about how fond I was of Grandma Jong. I was missing
her already and trying to act like a good girl, a big girl. I
choked back my tears before I turned onto the ramp and
disappeared into the boarding bridge.
Kintsugi is not an easy read. It’s not meant to be. It’s an honest, necessary, and deeply human story of Ming Louie Stein's own experiences as a child immigrant and her journey toward healing infuse the narrative with authenticity, depth and what it means to survive—and how survival is often the first step, not the last, on the path to healing. Her storytelling resonates with readers, offering a poignant reminder that our scars are not our shame; they are our story. And in the end, they make us stronger. Which is why I am happily giving this book a rating of 5/5 because it needs to be read. I offer some quote analyses below because it's my love language, but there are no explicit spoilers.
Set in 1960, Kintsugi narrates the story of a young girl who, at four years old, experiences the realities of growing up as a woman entrenched in intergenerational trauma; characterized by physical, emotional, and verbal abuse, she finds comfort at school through the support of teachers and friendships, but tends to withdraw when she returns home. The novel depicts a journey that is complex and realistic, emphasizing the human aspect of these experiences. Its focus extends beyond the theme of survival to include the ways in which survival is integrated into a narrative of strength. Each injury, setback and difficult moment becomes part of her kintsugi—the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, which highlights the cracks to create something unique. The story does not depict flawless victory but rather the gradual process of recovering from adversity and reconstructing one’s life. The protagonist does not receive immediate rescue or a simple resolution; she actively works toward her own well-being, and the process involves challenges and setbacks. This approach underscores the reality and resilience embedded in the narrative. The title, Kintsugi, reflects that theme of repair—broken, yet carefully mended with resilience and experience.
Stein doesn’t just tell us her story—she bares a soul, hers and those of the women who came before her. It’s a memoir, yes, but it’s also a quiet act of defiance: a woman putting her pain on the page, unflinching, unapologetic and painfully real. At its core, Kintsugi is about what happens when trauma is normalized, when suffering is silenced, and when generations of women are taught that survival means swallowing your own voice. It’s a story of a young girl who grows up in a home where love and violence are indistinguishable, and who eventually finds the strength to break that cycle—piece by piece, like the Japanese art of kintsugi, repairing what is broken with gold. I loved how she introduces us to her beginning. This quote
"I had a name, but I was called 'Annuii'"
— is deceptively simple yet deeply poignant. It immediately hints at a loss of identity. The narrator has a name—her unique identity—but she’s already reduced to a role, “Annuii,” the generic word for “daughter.” This is a subtle but powerful commentary on how culture, family expectations and/or gender norms can erase the individuality of a person, especially a young girl in a traditional setting. She situates herself in a specific place and time: Hong Kong, 1956—a British colony steeped in colonial tensions and layered identities. That alone adds complexity. She’s not just a daughter; she’s a first-born daughter in a Chinese family living under British rule, carrying the weight of cultural expectations and colonial backdrop. That’s a lot for a child—and we feel it in the few sentences. Stein doesn’t overcomplicate it. The language is simple, direct. She’s telling it straight, showing us readers in the details. There’s no literary flourish to hide behind. It feels like she’s inviting us into her story without pretense. That transparency makes readers trust her, and that trust is essential in a memoir.
Moving on, she overhears her mom and auntie speaking while working. This scene isn’t just a casual family chat—it reflects the past hurts and hopes that have been carried from one generation to the next. The mother shows us her fears for her daughter being “too bold,” a reflection of herself she doesn’t like. That fear of boldness, especially in girls, speaks to cultural expectations: be quiet, be obedient, stay small. The mother’s whisper to Auntie is loaded: she’s projecting her own struggles onto her child, perhaps trying to control what she couldn't control in herself. From the narrator’s point of view, there’s a raw honesty:
“Too bold? I had been timid as a mouse around her.”
This is child logic and it’s so real. She can’t see how her mother’s fears aren’t based on who she is now, but on who her mother thinks she might become. This gap—between how a child sees herself and how adults label her—creates tension and injustice. That’s why the reader feels for the child so intensely. She’s trying to make sense of adult expectations that don’t make sense. This moment has a lot going on underneath the surface. It's more than just a talk between grown-ups. It’s about power, gender expectations, family history and the silent rules we absorb as children. Stein captures this dynamic without overexplaining. The dialogue is natural, the emotions are layered and the child’s perspective is sharp but limited, which makes it all the more poignant.
A major component of autobiographical writing is being able to connect the personal with universal. And I find that one of the most striking aspects of Stein’s storytelling is how she layers that personal pain within a larger cultural and historical context. We see this in the haunting recollections from the prominent women in her like, like that of her maternal grandmother:
“In 1895, I turned five. The early 1920s marked the end of the Qing Dynasty, bringing the end of foot binding. I was one of the last women in China with bound feet.”
This isn’t a dry history lesson. It’s a living, breathing voice telling us what it felt like to be a girl in a system that prized smallness, submission and ornamental skills over education and agency. The grandmother’s list of accomplishments—embroidery, tea ceremonies, playing the zheng—paints a picture of a woman skilled and capable, yet denied the power that should have come with it. It’s a snapshot of a time when women were both celebrated for their talents and imprisoned by the very systems that taught them those talents.
That sense of being trapped by tradition is a thread that runs throughout Kintsugi. Stein writes of her mother’s rage at being forced into an arranged marriage with a man she saw as her intellectual inferior:
“I was better and smarter than this boy. I was smarter than most boys. I was better than them.”
Her mother’s words are heartbreaking because they’re so familiar. They echo across generations of women who knew they were capable, yet were told their value lay only in obedience, in their ability to stay small, to accept, to serve. The quiet fury of Stein’s mother—her foot-stomping, her protests, her resentment—rings true for so many readers who have watched their mothers and grandmothers try to push back against systems too big to break. It also offers us a new perspective of the mother asides from the one we knew earlier.
One of the most devastating moments in Kintsugi is when young Stein, terrified and bruised by her mother’s violence, reaches out to her Auntie Eng for help:
“My Mama scared me, she hurt me.”
But instead of protection, she gets rationalization:
“Were you naughty? It’s normal to get spanked.”
This is the quiet, corrosive power of cultural norms: they teach us to minimize pain, to call abuse discipline, to silence those who speak out. The quote by Mokokoma Mokhonoana captures this perfectly:
“We are often blind to the fact that our situation is not as bad as we think, until it gets worse.”
That’s exactly what happens. Stein’s mother rationalized her own suffering—until it spilled over into her relationship with her daughter. The cycle continued, and it took an act of quiet rebellion—naming the pain, telling the story—to begin to break it.
That’s why Kintsugi: A Woman is more than just a story. It’s a testament to survival—not just the survival of one woman, but of generations of women whose voices were silenced, whose pain was dismissed and who were told, over and over, that obedience was the only path to safety. It’s a book that asks us to see the cracks, to question the stories we’ve been told about family, love, and tradition, and to recognize that healing doesn’t happen by pretending everything is fine—it happens when we acknowledge the pain, fill the cracks with gold and make something stronger than what was broken.