Donna Edwards
Associated Press
Ingrid Young’s future lay clearly in front of her: earning a Ph.D., marrying a fiancé, gaining tenure, and eventually retiring and dying of old age.
The title of her dissertation was, of course, the quintessential Chinese-American poet Zhou Xiaowen—though she was Taiwanese-American and had no real interest in his boring, straightforward style of poetry.
But when a wrench is thrown into the equation, Ingrid’s life enters a disorienting spiral that puts her ego into question.
Elaine Hsieh Chou’s debut, Lost, is funny from the start, and in the uncomfortable humor you at least have to laugh.
Take Ingrid’s fiancé Stephen, for example. In the paragraph that formally introduces him, the word “plain” is used six times, plus the synonym of plain twice, and finally, in the right light, he is likened to a sex offender. “But for Ingrid, he’s perfect.” And, honestly, Zhou made a good reason for it, which made their relationship even more interesting.
Well, maybe not perfect. But in Ingrid’s chaotic life, nothing is perfect. Her stressful habits — like itching her eczema-stricken ankles and taking antacids and allergy medicines like illicit drugs — are increasing at an alarming rate. But when a mysterious note is left in Zhou Xiaowen’s file, Ingrid thinks she may have found her ticket from paper hell.
Although the story begins in a hilarious and simple manner, the building and revealing of the mystery is dramatic. As Ingrid solves more of Zhou Xiaowen’s mysteries, her world expands, and she begins to confront her often submissive — if not complicit — role in racism. Everything so discreet in Ingrid’s life begins to change. Her dissertation, her rivalry with Vivian Vo, her friendship with Eunice Kim, her engagement with Stephen, and ultimately her understanding of herself.
“Lost” satirizes academia, PC culture, and every other topic it touches, leading to question the etymology of its title. The novel occasionally veers into the absurd, finding its way back to painful reality in dizzying but delightful oscillations. With chapter titles like “The Chaos in the Department of East Asian Studies,” Zhou doesn’t miss an opportunity for a dignified joke.
The novel often touches on other genres, embedded in college newsroom articles and transcripts of TV interviews. One such detour is an extended fever dream courtroom scene, written in a scripted style. It’s a sitcom that’s as quirky as a real dream, but beneath the humorous bizarre exterior is a heartbreaking analysis of Ingrid’s love life, including repressed memories, shame, painful self-reflection, and A comprehensive list of films depicting Asian women in questionable fashion over the past 100 years.
While you’ll never know how much fun this crazy ride is, “Lost Your Way” is a workshop full of lessons on race, gender, and culture, complete with a bibliography section and everything. Zhou apparently did her research.
