Young Fu of the Upper Yangtze (1933)
China’s status as a global superpower has been so dominant and obvious during my lifetime that it’s hard to remember how quickly the People’s Republic ascended to greatness. 100 years ago, the country was fractured into regional governments, constantly shifting shapes and alliances until Chiang Kai-shek unified the country under his own control in the late 1920s. When Elizabeth Foreman Lewis wrote Young Fu of the Upper Yangtze, Kai-shek’s rise to power hadn’t yet been contextualized in the scope of modern history. China re-fragmenting into city-states and potentially splitting into distinct countries seemed just as likely an outcome as their empowered unification, though I don’t think anyone could have imagined exactly how radical a shift would take place by the end of the century.
That history is important when reading Young Fu, which takes place in then-autonomous Chungking (now commonly spelled Chongqing). Young Fu and his mother arrive in the city as refugees, fleeing the wandering armies who traveled the countryside in lieu of any unified Chinese military force. He’s constantly made fun of for his speech and dress, which reflect his poor agricultural upbringing, and though he’s a bright and talented kid, he’s always one step away from being swindled, cheated, or worse. The book allows us to see Chungking through an outsider’s eyes, and in this context, even though Young Fu is Chinese, the book largely reads as an immigrant’s story.
The eyes we’re actually seeing the city through, though, belong to a different outsider entirely. Elizabeth Lewis was an immigrant herself, having spent several years in China as a missionary and teacher before illness forced her to return to the United States. There’s something clever in the way she framed Young Fu, which lets her disguise her own surprised observations from real life as those of a more “authentic” character to the place. We’re obviously reading a Westerner’s interpretations of Chungking life in the early 20th century, but that perspective is translated via a Chinese youngster, which makes for a much more immersive experience. It’s a cool trick.
And unlike some other authors who’d won the Newbery by 1933, Lewis could write the hell out of a children’s book. The political turmoil of the time translates to a creeping sense of dread and danger throughout the book, especially whenever Young Fu has to interact with the military guard. Lewis never lets us forget the stakes—if Young Fu isn’t able to find a way to be successful in the city, there’s a real chance he and his mother will starve to death. This current of nervy, anxious energy propels the book forward, even when the individual chapters don’t feel particularly zippy.
The book is also structured marvelously, with each chapter serving as both a self-contained story (Young Fu is robbed and has to find a way to raise some fast money, Young Fu solves the mystery of stolen goods at work, etc.) while also building a natural through-line of Young Fu’s transition from boyhood to manhood. Most satisfying is the bond he forms with his master, a coppersmith who takes Young Fu on as his pupil and, eventually, a son. Lewis is able to avoid the pitfalls of episodic storytelling by using those individual episodes to teach valuable lessons that create a satisfying whole, something no other Newbery winner thus far has been able to pull off.
Young Fu isn’t a classic by any means, but it makes me a little sad that it’s not more widely known.
