The Paper Daughters of Chinatown - Heather B. Moore Page 0,2

blow—playing her desperate lone hand, she reduced the traffic by about one-half.”

—Will Irvin, San Francisco Chronicle, 1907

April 1895

Donaldina Cameron leaned her head against the cool glass of the window as the train slowed to a stop, its whistle mimicking the call of a mournful dove—deep and melancholy—a fitting echo of her life over the past few years. With no husband, no employment, and no parents to watch over, she felt as stagnant as a warm pond on a lazy summer day.

Death and loss had been a repeated pattern, and she’d been forced to piece together quilt squares of her life that didn’t quite match. Since the death of her father, and then her failed engagement to George Sargent, Donaldina—or Dolly, as most people called her—didn’t fit in with life at her family’s ranch. Not anymore, not with her siblings all marrying, raising children, and moving on with their lives.

And now, here she sat, the lone passenger in a train compartment.

She refocused her gaze outside the series of square windows as the landscape came into view. Gone were the curved green hills and budding trees of her home in the San Gabriel Valley, now replaced by the ghostly outlines of buildings as the San Francisco fog clung to its final moments before giving way to the midday sun.

Donaldina tucked her stitching sampler into the small carpetbag next to her on the velvet-covered bench, then smoothed her hands over her black voile skirt. She was ready. Perhaps she could do this. Maybe.

She had agreed to teach for one year at a Presbyterian mission home, and she was not a woman to go back on her word, especially after what Mrs. Mary Ann Browne had shared with her. Mrs. Browne, the mother of one of Dolly’s dear school friends, Evelyn, served as the president of the board of the mission home. Dolly and Evelyn had lost touch the past couple of years, but Mrs. Browne had unexpectedly visited the Cameron family that month. She’d described in great detail her life in San Francisco as she and Dolly rode together in a buggy from church to the Cameron ranch.

Dolly hadn’t admitted her desperation to do something, to be someone, at the time. Instead, her curiosity only grew. What did she want to do with her life? At twenty-five years old, Donaldina Mackenzie Cameron had passable talents, enjoyed her family, and loved the peaceful life on the ranch where she’d been raised. But she couldn’t very well live on charity with one of her married sisters. So where was her place in the world?

Mrs. Browne told Dolly about a woman named Margaret Culbertson who worked at the mission home, teaching and caring for young Chinese girls who had been rescued.

“Rescued?” Dolly had questioned.

“Yes,” Mrs. Browne said, lowering her voice, although only the birds and sunshine were within earshot, “from the brothels of Chinatown.”

The words sent a rash of bumps across Dolly’s arms, as if she’d stepped into an underground cellar. Of course, she knew that women of the night existed—not that she’d seen any, in her recollection, but she wasn’t completely naive. Still, she tried not to look so shocked at the subject matter. “And . . . Miss Culbertson helps these women? How?”

“Women and girls,” Mrs. Browne corrected. “Some of the girls are as young as eight or nine. They’re brought over from China by highbinders, promised a good life and marriage in America, yet the promises are lies. These young girls are sold as domestic slaves or forced into prostitution.”

Dolly held very still, her mind trying to process what Mrs. Browne was saying. The warm sun and fragrance of apple blossoms seemed incongruent with the woman’s words.

“When the girls are brought to the mission home, they’re often sick and afraid,” Mrs. Browne continued, seemingly oblivious to Dolly’s mounting dismay. “They come with scars and bruises, and they know little of kindness. They cower at sudden noises or swift movements. But they are hungry to learn. Miss Culbertson teaches them English, along with how to cook, how to sew, how to pray, and how to hope.”

“Hope,” Dolly echoed in a whisper.

Mrs. Browne’s nod was emphatic. “I saw the beautiful cushions you embroidered, Dolly. You’re a natural seamstress. And you are outgoing, friendly, resourceful . . . come to San Francisco. Teach sewing to the Chinese girls in the mission home. We desperately need help from capable women like you.”

Would Dolly be successful in teaching? Could she truly make a difference in the lives of