Lloyd Suh’s “The Chinese Lady,” the latest FSU/ Asolo Conservatory production, revolves around a nasty, racist chapter of America’s past. It’s an alternately hilarious and horrifying history lesson. It helps explain why Americans don’t know much about history. We don’t want to know. So, who’s that lady?

Her name was Afong Moy. And here’s her story.

Once upon a time in Massachusetts, the two Carne Brothers were partners in a Chinese import business. Along with importing Chinese vases, gongs and fans, they imported a Chinese lady in 1836. That “lady” was only 14 years old at the time. The brothers paid Moy’s father to bring her to America for a limited time — only two years. They claimed she’d be China’s cultural ambassador. 

But they lied. Once they got Moy to the U.S., she never came home. The little girl was here for a wicked marketing stunt, not international understanding. The brothers put Moy, played by Uri Zhang YueYing, in a pretty box resembling a giant diorama — and staged her new home with their Chinese imports. As they’d hoped, curious gawkers flocked to see this exotic, living curiosity from the Mysterious Orient. 

And paid handsomely for Chinese imports on their way out. While American gaped at her, Moy would smile and give a prepared speech. “Hello, my name is Afong Moy. I will be here for your education …” Her taciturn translator, Atung (HooMin Luke Choi), would turn her spiel into English; he’d also translate audience questions into Cantonese.

That routine continued for decades. The brothers toured Moy and her glass house around the U.S., paid no salary to Moy and Afong, and made significant sales. Until the orientalist craze died down after the Civil War. The Carne Brothers sold Moy and her gilded cage to P.T. Barnum. Moy remained in her pretty box for the rest of her life.

And now you know the rest of the story.

Suh’s play felt like a quirky comedy at first. I initially didn’t grasp that Moy was a virtual prisoner. Her prepared spiel sounds like she’s here by choice for a noble cultural exchange. But I gradually realized her pretty box was a cage. Moy’s a prisoner; that cage is not her choice. 

Why no escape attempt? It’s either because Moy can’t get out or she’s afraid of what’ll happen if she does. (Rumors of lynch mobs have reached her.) Moy knows she’s a second-class citizen in America. Her translator, Atung, feels like a third-class citizen. There’s some tension between them, maybe sexual tension. 

At the start of the play, Afong and Moy reenact Moy’s close encounter with President Andrew Jackson — who seems to have a foot fetish. The creep can’t get enough of Moy’s four-inch-long feet — the cruel result of foot-binding. It’s a cringe-inducing vignette, but not the last.

Moy slowly wises up — and learns enough English to read the news. She tells you about the opium wars, various massacres of Asian-Americans, the brutal exploitation of the Chinese labor on the railroads and the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. Between her truth bombs, there are hints of embryonic storylines. 

Moy’s getting sick of living inside a pretty box. Her bond with Atung is growing. He clearly loves her, but doesn’t say it. Moy just might get out of this place, maybe with Atung, maybe all by herself.

But those narrative hints dissipate like mist from a teacup. Atung just gets old and leaves. Any remaining plot threads go with him. Moy’s monologues continue after that. It’s powerful stuff from the playwright’s heart. As powerful as it is, the play’s not really a play anymore. But Suh still hits you in the gut.

Guest director Michelle Chan keeps her narrative cards close to her chest. The picture comes together in fragments, like a film of a broken mirror in reverse. The shattered story slowly clarifies. You don’t know what’s going on. Then you finally do.

YueYing and Choi are second-year FSU/Asolo Conservatory acting students. Their roles are tough, but they deliver strong performances. Moy and Agung are reserved at first. Each plays a part and doesn’t speak their mind. In their pressure cooker confinement, they can’t be their true selves. Despite that restriction, YueYing and Choi let you know how their characters feel.

“The Chinese Lady” unfolds in the Wagon Room of The Ringling’s Historic Circus Museum. That weird venue weirdly resonates with Suh’s play. Behind the stage, there’s line of huge freak show posters on the wall. Koo-Koo the Bird Girl! The Bearded Lady! P.T. Barnum made good money with these freaks; the Carne Brothers made good money with Moy. Their “Chinese Lady” ultimately wound up in P.T. Barnum’s museum of oddities and curiosities. Alive! Alive! Just another oddity.

I’m guessing that the flaws in the play’s dramatic structure were the playwright’s choice, not a mistake. Moy’s life was stolen; her memory was erased; she never even got a grave. Suh filled in the blanks of Moy’s erased history to a minimal extent. Out of respect, he didn’t pad out her story with scenes of imaginary escape attempts or doomed love. Suh stuck with the bare historical facts. With this story, the facts are tough enough.

I didn’t know Moy’s sad history before seeing this play. I’m not happy to know it now, but sad knowledge beats blissful ignorance. A loud minority now wants to delete the embarrassing chapters from American history books. In a democracy, that’s a bad idea.

I don’t know much about history, but I do know that.