https://qz.com/1271372/what-the-worlds-fascination-with-nushu-a-female-only-chinese-script-says-about-cultural-appropriation/
"When I was a university student in Beijing in the early ’90s, I stumbled upon an academic article by Zhao Liming, a professor at Tsinghua University’s Chinese language department, about a little-known script used only by women in a corner of the southern province of Hunan. Days after, I bought the small book she had written on the subject, Nüshu—A Surprising Discovery, and read it as fast as my eyes, and my Chinese reading skills, allowed. I was hooked: The word nüshu refers to a script used by women in Jiangyong—a small county in the province’s southernmost tip—to transcribe the local lingo. As soon as I could, I made the first of many trips there.
The largest number of nüshu practitioners used to live in the village of Shangjiangxu, where young girls exchanged small tokens of friendly affection, such as fans decorated with calligraphy or handkerchiefs embroidered with a few auspicious words. Some of the script’s usages were highly ritualized: Young girls were allowed to make a full-fledged pact of closeness with one other that they were “best friends”—jiebai zimei or “sworn sisters”—a relationship that was recognized as valuable and even necessary for them in the local social system. One’s “sworn sisters” could be a group of girls, or just a single BFF, in which case they would be called laotong, or “same”—a crazy-close friendship of the kind that most girls have in their teens. In old Jiangyong, sleepovers and fun among girlfriends were approved and supervised by the whole village.
Then, one of the girls’ aunts (on the father’s side, if possible) would listen to the friends making a formal vow of loyalty to one another and would teach them how to write nüshu. When they were older, and got married into other villages, the script would help them keep in touch. Other usages, like the “Third Day Letters,” were also ritualized: the area observed the marriage custom, common in other parts of southern China, of seeing the bride return to her home village three days after the wedding, moving permanently to her married home only once she got pregnant. In Jiangyong, the bride was awaited by her friends on the third day with little booklets written in nüshu, full of standard expressions of affection and good wishes.
Being girls, in rural China, they would very rarely be taught how to read and write anything else, so, sometimes, the most literarily inclined among them used nüshu to write down their daily thoughts. Another common genre was autobiographies, traditionally written by older women who wanted to leave a trace of their experiences. "
The largest number of nüshu practitioners used to live in the village of Shangjiangxu, where young girls exchanged small tokens of friendly affection, such as fans decorated with calligraphy or handkerchiefs embroidered with a few auspicious words. Some of the script’s usages were highly ritualized: Young girls were allowed to make a full-fledged pact of closeness with one other that they were “best friends”—jiebai zimei or “sworn sisters”—a relationship that was recognized as valuable and even necessary for them in the local social system. One’s “sworn sisters” could be a group of girls, or just a single BFF, in which case they would be called laotong, or “same”—a crazy-close friendship of the kind that most girls have in their teens. In old Jiangyong, sleepovers and fun among girlfriends were approved and supervised by the whole village.
Then, one of the girls’ aunts (on the father’s side, if possible) would listen to the friends making a formal vow of loyalty to one another and would teach them how to write nüshu. When they were older, and got married into other villages, the script would help them keep in touch. Other usages, like the “Third Day Letters,” were also ritualized: the area observed the marriage custom, common in other parts of southern China, of seeing the bride return to her home village three days after the wedding, moving permanently to her married home only once she got pregnant. In Jiangyong, the bride was awaited by her friends on the third day with little booklets written in nüshu, full of standard expressions of affection and good wishes.
Being girls, in rural China, they would very rarely be taught how to read and write anything else, so, sometimes, the most literarily inclined among them used nüshu to write down their daily thoughts. Another common genre was autobiographies, traditionally written by older women who wanted to leave a trace of their experiences. "
"I knelt to examine the floor, and there it was, in tiny writing, quite fresh it seemed, scratched with a pin or maybe just a fingernail, in the corner where the darkest shadow fell: Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
I didn’t know what it meant, or even what language it was in. I thought it might be Latin, but I didn’t know any Latin. Still, it was a message, and it was in writing, forbidden by that very fact, and it hadn’t yet been discovered. Except by me, for whom it was intended. It was intended for whoever came next.
It pleases me to ponder this message. It pleases me to think I’m communing with her, this unknown woman. For she is unknown; or if known, she has never been mentioned to me. It pleases me to know that her taboo message made it through, to at least one other person, washed itself up on the wall of my cupboard, was opened and read by me. Sometimes I repeat the words to myself. They give me a small joy. When I imagine the woman who wrote them, I think of her as about my age, maybe a little younger. I turn her into Moira, Moira as she was when she was in college, in the room next to mine: quirky, jaunty, athletic, with a bicycle once, and a knapsack for hiking. Freckles, I think; irreverent, resourceful.
I wonder who she was or is, and what’s become of her.
I tried that out on Rita, the day I found the message.
Who was the woman who stayed in that room? I said. Before me? If I’d asked it differently, if I’d said, Was there a woman who stayed in that room before me? I might not have got anywhere.
Which one? she said; she sounded grudging, suspicious, but then, she almost always sounds like that when she speaks to me.
So there have been more than one. Some haven’t stayed their full term of posting, their full two years. Some have been sent away, for one reason or another. Or maybe not sent; gone?
The lively one. I was guessing. The one with freckles.
You know her? Rita asked, more suspicious than ever.
I knew her before, I lied. I heard she was here.
Rita accepted this. She knows there must be a grapevine, an underground of sorts.
She didn’t work out, she said.
In what way? I asked, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
But Rita clamped her lips together. I am like a child here, there are some things I must not be told. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, was all she would say."
I didn’t know what it meant, or even what language it was in. I thought it might be Latin, but I didn’t know any Latin. Still, it was a message, and it was in writing, forbidden by that very fact, and it hadn’t yet been discovered. Except by me, for whom it was intended. It was intended for whoever came next.
It pleases me to ponder this message. It pleases me to think I’m communing with her, this unknown woman. For she is unknown; or if known, she has never been mentioned to me. It pleases me to know that her taboo message made it through, to at least one other person, washed itself up on the wall of my cupboard, was opened and read by me. Sometimes I repeat the words to myself. They give me a small joy. When I imagine the woman who wrote them, I think of her as about my age, maybe a little younger. I turn her into Moira, Moira as she was when she was in college, in the room next to mine: quirky, jaunty, athletic, with a bicycle once, and a knapsack for hiking. Freckles, I think; irreverent, resourceful.
I wonder who she was or is, and what’s become of her.
I tried that out on Rita, the day I found the message.
Who was the woman who stayed in that room? I said. Before me? If I’d asked it differently, if I’d said, Was there a woman who stayed in that room before me? I might not have got anywhere.
Which one? she said; she sounded grudging, suspicious, but then, she almost always sounds like that when she speaks to me.
So there have been more than one. Some haven’t stayed their full term of posting, their full two years. Some have been sent away, for one reason or another. Or maybe not sent; gone?
The lively one. I was guessing. The one with freckles.
You know her? Rita asked, more suspicious than ever.
I knew her before, I lied. I heard she was here.
Rita accepted this. She knows there must be a grapevine, an underground of sorts.
She didn’t work out, she said.
In what way? I asked, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
But Rita clamped her lips together. I am like a child here, there are some things I must not be told. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, was all she would say."
