The Obedient Child

<h4><strong>One woman's decision changed the course of her Ting family for generations</strong></h4><h3> </h3><p>When Chwen Erl got on a plane bound<strong> </strong>for the United States at the age of 19 not<strong> </strong>only had she never flown before she had<strong> </strong>never been outside of Taiwan. Having<strong> </strong>lived through the Japanese occupation<strong> </strong>of her country the second World War<strong> </strong>and then Chinese government rule she<strong> </strong>was no stranger to change. But with a<strong> </strong>dream of an American education and<strong> </strong>a scholarship to attend a university in<strong> </strong>Atchison Kansas she left behind her<strong> </strong>family and everything she knew and<strong> </strong>stepped into the unknown under a new name Joyce.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p>Years later a chance meeting with notable author Alan<strong> </strong>Drury sparked within Joyce Marleau a dream to write down her extraordinary<strong> </strong>life story in a book. <em>The Obedient Child</em> is the realization of<strong> </strong>that dream more than two decades in the making.</p><p><strong> </strong></p><h4><strong>Journey with Joyce through Asia and the United States in <em>The Obedient Child</em></strong></h4><p><br></p><p><strong>From the Introduction: </strong></p><p><strong> </strong></p><p>It was hot and humid that morning on the train.<strong> </strong>Hotter than I was used to. I had forgotten how hot Japan can be in the<strong> </strong>summer. But then again it could have just been nerves. It had been so<strong> </strong>long since I had seen any of these people over 40 years! How would they<strong> </strong>feel about me after all this time? What would we have to talk about?<strong> </strong>Would I even still be able to remember the language?</p><p><strong> </strong></p><p>The train stopped in front of a large department store. This was<strong> </strong>my stop. I knew if I cut through the basement then ran upstairs to the<strong> </strong>main street that I would be able to save myself some time and get to<strong> </strong>the meeting place quickly. I did not want to be late.<strong> </strong></p><p><strong> </strong></p><p>The basement was full of bolts of fabric and I was weaving in and<strong> </strong>out of them making pretty good time when all of a sudden something<strong> </strong>stopped me in my tracks. I had caught the tiniest whiff of a smell<strong> </strong>something familiar. I reached over and grabbed one of the bolts of<strong> </strong>fabric. It was an inexpensive roll of dyed cloth but the smell was so<strong> </strong>strong; that dye that chemical so familiar but I just couldn't place it.<strong> </strong>I leaned my head against a nearby pillar closed my eyes and reached<strong> </strong>back into my memory.<strong> </strong></p><p><strong> </strong></p><p>As I stood there with my eyes closed holding the fabric up to my<strong> </strong>nose a wave of emotions swept over me. I finally recalled what it was.<strong> </strong>This was the smell of my mother. This fabric used to make everyday<strong> </strong>common kimonos worn by Japanese women was also worn by my<strong> </strong>mother every time she took me shopping when we went on outings<strong> </strong>and when we met up with her friends who also wore these informal<strong> </strong>kimonos and smelled like this. I had to hold on to the pillar for balance<strong> </strong>as all of the memories came flooding back to my mind.</p>