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The Yellow Door, by Amy Uyematsu, is a collection of poems that tackles nikkei-ness, specifically Japanese American-ness, through the lens of Uyematsu’s own family histories.

What I liked:

• Uyematsu’s poems are surprisingly relatable. I say ‘surprisingly’ because it is rare for me to find so many familiar nikkei landmarks in a single work. Given some of the key differences between Uyematsu and me – particularly age (generation) and location (LA versus Bay Area) – I expected her poems to be more like the Little Tokyo articles I sometimes read on Discover Nikkei, with about half of the references things I can guess at but have no lived experience of. Although Uyematsu certainly references histories and experiences unfamiliar to me, the majority of her poems made me think, ‘Ah! I recognize that!’ as I was reading. The comfort I found in Uyematsu’s familiarity led me to consider the role familiarity (or relatability, or perceived familiarity or perceived relatability) plays in the assessment of ‘good’ literature. Many writers of color have already discussed the relationship between the concept of ‘universal’ appeal and the white default, so I’ll limit my thoughts here to how it applies specifically to nikkei literature as assessed by nikkei readers. What do nikkei assessments of nikkei literature indicate about the wider nikkei community? As nikkei readers, particularly those of us with multigenerational family histories outside of Japan (and more particularly, in historically white-dominant locations), to what extent do we distinguish between a white default lens versus a uniquely nikkei lens (is there such a thing?) when we read nikkei literature?
• Tanko Bushi! Admittedly, any nikkei work referencing Obon is likely to appeal to me, but it was especially fun to see Uyematsu shape the movements of Tanko Bushi into the lines of a poem.
• The story of Uyematsu’s grandfather is in many ways strikingly similar to my own grandfather’s journey. Of course, it was hardly an uncommon situation at the time, but there is something so comforting – so community-oriented? – about seeing someone else share a story that you instantly recognize, while knowing they understand what happened as well as you do.
• Unpronounceable names! When I recall my teachers taking roll, the only dread I remember feeling is having attention (real or perceived) called to me simply by my name being read. In retrospect, I have no idea if some of my fear was tied to an innate understanding that my name (family name) was difficult for non-Japanese people (yes, this includes both POC and white) to pronounce, or if I was too tied up in the terror of having attention called to my mere existence that I had no mental or emotional capacity to process the potential added terror of having my specific name. I do remember noticing the pause, but I’m not sure I ever understood or specifically dreaded the reason behind it. As far as pronunciation, to this day I find myself giving non-Japanese people the anglicized pronunciation and letting them feel good about themselves if they get it right. I rarely venture the actual pronunciation; even if asked, it becomes an internal back-and-forth of, is saying no (with any attendant consequences) worth the likelihood of the questioner feeling emboldened to ask more questions about my identity? Every person, especially every person of color (in the US), with a commonly mispronounced name (in USian English), has the right to decide for themselves how to act on this question.

What I learned:

• Although the term ‘yellow’ as racialized toward Asians carries offensive connotations for me, I also associate it more with a historic context, as I do with terms like ‘Oriental.’ It’s not a thought process I considered very deeply before reading Uyematsu’s poems, which demonstrate a fascination (fixation?) with yellow in its myriad forms and meanings.

Questions I had:

• What is Uyematsu’s connection to 3/11? Based on the poem with the brief reference, ‘Tohoku 2008,’ I assume she had some familiarity with the region before 3/11. The last time I visited my mother’s hometown, I took note of the tsunami warning signs, something I had never thought to do before, and anytime we passed by the ocean, I found myself calculating how far the waves would have to come before endangering any residents. Although I was not in Tohoku, thinking back on my actions makes me wonder in what ways 3/11 impacted the cultural consciousness of Japanese people worldwide.

Follow-up:

• I look forward to reading Uyematsu’s other books of poetry.