 A Thousand Pieces of Gold tells the true story of a Chinese-American pioneer's experiences as a slave and free woman in the West. And I wrote the book because I think that the woman Leluna Thuy was an extraordinary person and also because her life reveals a little-known aspect of American history. In the 19th century, long after the Civil War, long after emancipation, Chinese women were auctioned off as slaves in San Francisco and forced to work as prostitutes throughout the West. Ironically, that's the very reason that the book's being challenged over and over again. And every time it happens, I feel that these women who had no voice when they were alive are having their voice taken away from them again. And so I'm very grateful to the teachers and librarians who fought and continue to fight against banning not just this book, but any book. And I'm also grateful to the San Francisco Public Library for its stand on censorship and for raising awareness regarding censorship with programs like this. And I'm very grateful to all of you for demonstrating by your presence that you care about this issue. The section that I'm going to read takes place in a San Francisco auction room right after Lelu's arrival from China. Those with contracts come over to this side. Those without go stand on the platform, an old woman in black lacquer pants and jacket directed. Lelu held out her papers. The old woman took them. She pushed Lelu in the direction of the women with contracts, without contracts. No, I belong over there, Lelu said, trying to take back the papers. The old woman snorted, what a bumpkin you are. Those papers were just to get you into the country. They have to be used again. But don't argue, girl. You're one of the lucky ones. The old woman pointed to the group with contracts. Their fates have been decided. It's prostitution for them. But if you play your cards right, you may still get the bridal chair. A shocked murmur rippled through the room. One woman took a paper from an inner pocket. I have a marriage contract, she said, not what you suggest. And I and I, those around her echoed. The old woman took the contract. The paper crackled as she spread it open. Read it, she ordered. The young woman's lips quivered. I can't. The old woman jangled the ring of keys at her waist. Does anyone here read? The women looked hopefully at each other. Some shook their heads. Others were simply silent. None could read. Then I'll tell you what your contracts say. For the sum of your passage money, you've promised the use of your bodies for prostitution. But the marriage broker gave my parents the passage money the young woman persisted. You fool. That was a procura, not a marriage broker. She pointed to the thumbprint at the bottom of the paper. Is that your mark? Sobbing quietly, the young woman nodded. Well then, there's nothing more to be said, is there? Yes there is, a girl said boldly. I put my mark on one of those contracts and I knew what it was for. Her face reddened. I had to. So the old woman hands on hips prompted. The contract specifies the number of years. Five in my case. So take heart sisters. Our shame will not last forever. What about your sick days? What do you mean the girl asked? The contract states that your monthly sick days will be counted against your time. Two weeks for one sick day. Another month for each additional sick day. But that means I'll never be free. Exactly. Like a stone dropped in a pond, the words started wave after wave of talk and tears. Keep crying like that, the old woman shouted. And by the time your owners come to get you, your eyes will be swollen like toads. What difference does it make a voice challenged? Depending on your looks, you can be placed in an elegant house and dressed in silks or jewels or in a bagno. Bagno? On your way here, you must have seen the doors with the barred windows facing the alleys. But perhaps you didn't hear the chickens inside, tapping and scratching the screens, trying to attract a man without bringing a cop. Cry, make yourself ugly. You'll be one of those chickens, charging 25 cents for a look, 50 cents for a feel, 75 cents for action. Listening, Lulu realized that she'd been duped by the procurus, the talk of freemen whose dreams could never be hers. For the gold mountains that they described was not the America she would know. This, the dingy basement room, the splinted boards beneath her feet, the auction block, this was her America.