To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

When the Cousins Came, written and illustrated by Katie Yamasaki, chronicles the adventures of Lila and her visiting cousins, Rosie and Takeo.

What I liked:

• I appreciate Yamasaki’s inclusive approach to portrayals of nikkei/Japanese people. For example, Rosie and Takeo appear to be Black, though Yamasaki never explicitly addresses race on the page, choosing instead to make her point through illustrations. Yamasaki takes it for granted that nikkei families can be multiracial and never offers the reader a moment to question otherwise.
• The bird’s eye illustration depicting Lila, Rosie, and Takeo looking at the firefly is adorable. I always enjoy unexpected perspectives, but I especially liked this illustration because it struck me as “cute” in a way I often associate with Japanese and other Asian aesthetics. Maybe fellow nikkei readers who grew up with a mix of Japanese and non-Japanese media will best understand this, but there are certain forms of “cute” which I see frequently in Japanese and other Asian art, but which rarely exist, or which are not deemed “cute” in non-Japanese and non-Asian art. (There is, of course, also plenty of variation in “cute” across Asian art.)
• Yamasaki’s book might be an effective tool for teaching Japanese students about nikkei/Japanese American life. I wonder if there is a Japanese edition, or a bilingual Japanese-English edition. (On a side note, how often are bilingual nikkei recruited to work on Japanese and/or English translations of children’s books intended for educational use?) Additionally, Yamasaki’s use of bright, warm colors and appealing character design remind me of what I loved best about the books the elementary school librarian read to us. I hope today’s educators have taken note of Yamasaki’s books (and books by people of color in general) as must-haves for their shelves.

What I learned:

• Are there actually nikkei/Japanese families where having “chopsticks” means having only disposable restaurant chopsticks, in cases where financial hardship is not the reason? It took me a bit to understand the illustration in this part of the book because it never occurred to me to think the red shapes on the table might represent the disposable chopstick wrappers. My family does save the disposable silverware from takeout, which we use for work lunches, picnics, road trips, and so on, but it would never occur to me to put out disposable chopsticks for houseguests. Fellow nikkei readers – do you keep disposable chopsticks in your house and/or do you know many other nikkei families who do so? If yes, when are the disposable chopsticks typically used?

Questions I had:

• As far as I know, Yamasaki does not identify as Black. How did Black readers – both Japanese and non-Japanese – feel about Yamasaki’s portrayal of Black characters?
• How do multiracial/mixed race readers, specifically mixed race nikkei readers, feel about the characters portrayed in this book? Do mixed race nikkei readers consider Yamasaki’s book to be “good” representation of mixed race nikkei?
• Who was Yamasaki’s intended audience for this book? Did Yamasaki envision any particular takeaway for her readers?

Follow-up:

• I would love to see Yamasaki create a graphic novel or comic. Fingers crossed!

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

In Village Scene/Village Herd, Yasuo Sasaki offers (sometimes tongue-in-cheek) commentary on various aspects of everyday life.

What I liked:

• Up to this point, the poetry I’ve read for Book Spotlight was written by poets for whom the craft of poetry seems to be a primary goal or theme of their lives – by which I mean, their “day” job is also closely related to poetry. I don’t know much about Yasuo Sasaki, but the note at the end of the book indicates he was a doctor. Stylistically, Sasaki’s poetry is strikingly different from that of other poets I’ve read. Since I’m not a poetry craft expert, I don’t know if this difference is a lack of technical skill (though for poets of color, the criteria for ranking “skill” seems to be deliberately and consistently fluid, especially in recent discussions), or if Sasaki’s personal style is simply far removed from other poets I’ve read, or if Sasaki’s poems were typical of the period in which they were originally published, or if there is some other reason altogether. At any rate, Sasaki’s style is a startling but refreshing change (for context, the last book of poetry I read is Lukao by Craig Santos Perez – which was amazing, I recommend it).
• The pun in the title is probably immediately obvious to most readers, but I didn’t notice it until I was sitting down to read the book. It made me laugh, as did Sasaki’s sly humor in many of his poems.
• Sasaki’s tone is very matter-of-fact, which strikes me as quintessentially Japanese American – though in Sasaki’s case, his topics and themes are definitely reflective of his generation. Although I wouldn’t say Sasaki’s book is perfect, I enjoyed it for what it is to me – a vivid example of one Japanese American writer’s perspective on life and a window into a previous time.

What I learned:

• The poem “Gunman” made me think about ongoing, state-sanctioned police violence against Black and Brown people. What would Sasaki have thought about the murder of George Floyd? What would Sasaki have considered the appropriate response of nikkei/Japanese American communities to movements like Black Lives Matter?

Questions I had:

• Would Sasaki have identified himself as a nikkei and/or Japanese American writer? If not, what kind of writer did he identify as? Did he envision his poems as having a place in nikkei and/or Japanese American literature? What opinion, if any, did he have of the concept of nikkei and/or Japanese American literature? How would he have felt about the currently ongoing movements to diversify literature and support marginalized writers?
• I tried to give Sasaki the benefit of the doubt in his jokes, because I know nothing about his personal life, but some of his poems made me wonder if he would be supportive of the currently ongoing movements for sex and gender inclusivity.

Follow-up:

• I need to read more books by nikkei writers of previous generations, particularly more books by nikkei writers working immediately before and immediately after JA incarceration, to expand my understanding of how trends in nikkei literature have developed over time. I want to say there is already a nikkei-authored book which examines the extent to which JA incarceration and/or the concept of “camp” shaped the subsequent trajectory of nikkei literature, but if not, I look forward to the day when a nikkei writer publishes one (as long as there is no white co-writer/editor – please let that trend die ASAP). I believe Asian American Writers Workshop did a roundtable discussion on their website where they interviewed a group of Asian writers about “camp,” but I do not think it was specific to nikkei writers and/or JA incarceration.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

The Palace of Contemplating Departure is a collection of poems both strikingly personal and quietly universal.

What I liked:

• I did not know much about Brynn Saito prior to reading this book and I still do not, but I enjoyed her poems and I am glad to know she is among the nikkei poets living and working today.
• The cover art (by Liang Wei, per the back cover of the paperback edition) is lovely and is one of the reasons I decided to buy this book on the spur of the moment. I was not sure if the empty boat indicated a journey about to begin, a journey ended, a journey cut short, or something else entirely, but I was fascinated by the potential myriad of meanings behind this image and bought the book thinking the poems inside must surely measure up. On a side note, who selects the cover art for poetry books? What are the qualities of a “good” cover for a book of poetry?
• Saito’s poems are conceptually fluid, one moment seeming to reflect on personal relationships, the next becoming a commentary on national and global inequities. Although I am still working out my own relationship to poetry, Saito’s poems exemplify one of the qualities I most admire in poets – the ability to meaningfully address a wide range of topics in very few words. When I was a student, I remember thinking it seemed unfair for professors writing history books to receive the same length sabbatical as professors writing a book of poetry, but I am beginning to understand why a poet would need every bit of this time.

What I learned:

• Saito is among the more socially engaged of the nikkei writers I have read. Her involvement with the Yonsei Memory Project is especially interesting and I am looking forward to learning more about it.

Questions I had:

• Is Saito religious, or are the religious references in her poems present for some other reason?
• Saito chronicles police brutality and writes of, “my country.” From the context and her naming of specific cities, I assume the country in question is the US, but in what sense does Saito utilize the word “my?” Saito’s biography indicates she is Korean and Japanese. Does she think of Korea or Japan as being “my country” in any form, or is “country” a metaphor for something else? How does Saito conceptualize the connection(s) between being nikkei and “American-ness?”
• Saito references Nagasaki, in what appears to be an acknowledgment of the bomb, though I am not sure why. Also, is there any connection between Saito’s many religious references and Nagasaki’s history with religious foreigners?
• How might we (nikkei readers) understand Saito’s poems on JA incarceration relative to other nikkei writers’ approaches? How does Saito envision her own work relative to existing nikkei literature? What does Saito see as the future of nikkei literature?

Follow-up:

• Eventually, I would like to read Saito’s other book, Power Made Us Swoon.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

Histories of Bodies is a collection of poems contemplating the many forms of loss.

What I liked:

• In my reflections on Nagai’s other works, I have been thinking of her as a nikkei writer, in spite of the fact that she appears to spend the majority of her time in Japan and, from what I gathered by reading Irradiated Cities, moves fairly easily through Japanese society. It is not that spending time in Japan or fitting into Japanese society are qualities mutually exclusive to being nikkei, but as I look at the breadth of Nagai’s works, I see a very different way of (potentially) being nikkei, compared to the majority of nikkei writers published in the US. I raise this point because some of the forms of loss Nagai touches upon in Histories of Bodies, particularly forms of loss linked to family members, made me think of loss, both physical and geographic (and chronological? linguistic? cultural?), as it is addressed by other nikkei writers. Many diaspora writers (including nikkei writers), dwell on themes of memory, identity, and the search for both in their works. Loss is also present, but when I compare Histories to works by other nikkei writers, I feel that Nagai positions herself as looking back in these poems, whereas other (but not all) nikkei writers anchor themselves firmly in the present and utilize looking back as a means of moving forward.

What I learned:

• It seems self-evident to say there are many forms of loss, but in reading Nagai’s poems, I found myself forced to contemplate exactly what forms loss might and does take. For example, Nagai’s contemplation of her mother’s body might function simultaneously as a “looking back” (after an assumed death) but also a “viewing in the moment,” a perception of infinitesimal but inexorable loss happening right before one’s eyes. Although the topic is not exactly uplifting, I appreciate Nagai’s thoughtful approach and I think it is worthwhile for us as nikkei writers to consider how Nagai’s poems might influence our perceptions of our own experiences.

Questions I had:

• In certain genres, are emerging writers encouraged to produce intensely personal/autobiographical pieces for their debut/early works? This does not apply simply to nikkei writers, but is a trend (is it a trend?) I have noticed with writers of color. I have never attended a writing workshop, but I wonder if it is also reflective of the types of narratives writers are encouraged (or feel themselves obligated?) to craft in a formal academic setting. At any rate, Histories, which is so far the earliest of Nagai’s works I have read, felt far more intimate and personal than her other works. I am actually glad I read Nagai’s other works first, since as a standalone, the poems in Histories were not as compelling to me as, for example, her work in Irradiated Cities. Taken together, I find I appreciate the intensely close-up emotions of Histories as a counter to the broadly sketched (but also close-up, in their own way) concepts underlying Nagai’s later works. I wonder, too, about the use of first/early works as a biographical foundation of sorts for writers working in certain genres, a sort of means to take that first decisive step in declaring yourself present. Do writers of color specifically feel a pressure (or are they encouraged by others – and are the others also people of color?) to establish themselves in this particular way, or in any particular way?

Follow-up:

• I believe Nagai’s next work is coming out in 2021 or 2022 and I am definitely looking forward to it!

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

Irradiated Cities is a collection of poems exploring the (concept of) aftermath of catastrophic events in four cities.

What I liked:

• Nagai’s poems are incredibly readable (and I say this as someone who has no aspirations to be a poet or any formal training in the mechanics of poetry). Although I often sense a great depth of emotion in the poems I read, most of the time I also feel a distance between myself (as the reader) and the poet. I do not know if this is always intentional on the poet’s part, or if it simply means my personal experiences are too far removed from the experiences which form the core of the poet’s work. This is not a “bad” thing, per se, but something I have always thought about when I consider what the poet might have wanted readers to experience. Irradiated Cities provided a very different reading experience – and this is where I’m particularly interested in knowing how other Japanese/nikkei readers reacted. Although I am separated from the events discussed in Irradiated Cities by several degrees, I felt incredibly moved by the emotions and experiences underlying Nagai’s poems, and I could not tell if this was a common reaction for any reader who identifies as Japanese, or if it was more specific to my family’s experiences.
• I appreciate Nagai’s reference to the commercialization/presentation/preservation of Hiroshima and the politics therein. The last time I was at the peace park, I remember looking around and wondering how many of the people there had actually come to pay their respects/hold remembrance, versus for some other reason. I remember looking at the strings of cranes brought by various Japanese students on school trips and thinking about how the war is (or might be, or is not) taught in Japanese schools. My mom was with me and noted some of the differences in the peace park site (apparently, the museum was significantly remodeled and the contents changed) from the last time she visited. It’s not my place to criticize how Japan chooses to portray Hiroshima’s history, but I would certainly agree that the topic is worth consideration by those who do have a direct stake in it. For nikkei like myself who are not direct descendants of hibakusha, I think it is useful to consider why we choose to visit sites of devastation in Hiroshima (or Nagasaki, or Fukushima) and what it means for us to do so.

What I learned:

• One thing which was constantly on my mind as I read Irradiated Cities, especially as I read the Fukushima poems, was the idea of 余計なお世話. Since I grew up with Japanese parents, specifically a 日本人 parent, I already understand this way of thinking as second nature. Over the years, especially in my interactions with non-Japanese/non-Asian people, I’ve come to realize this concept is not common across all cultures, at least not in the same way. (Of course, it also manifests differently among 日本人, but that is a discussion for another time.) I was in college when 3/11 happened and I remember being asked (in retrospect, I don’t recall if I was randomly asked, or if nikkei students were being asked specifically) to participate in a student-produced video, intended to be a source of support for Japanese students who were studying abroad on our campus. I remember not really wanting to participate, but not feeling like I could say no, either. Looking back, I realize I was reluctant to take part because the intent behind the video made me uncomfortable. I never found out if any of the students were personally affected by 3/11 (here meaning, they were from Fukushima, or lost someone they knew), but for anyone who may have been, I would think trying to muster the grace to respond (in a way acceptable/intelligible to USian students) would be extremely difficult under the circumstances. Of course, I could be wrong. I never found out how the video was received, so it could be that the students were happy and grateful. Or maybe some were and some were not. I share this story because it strikes me as one example of what was repeated the world over when 3/11 happened, and what Nagai highlights in her poems – an outpouring of support for Japan, but with a rather limited understanding of what the people of Fukushima actually needed or wanted. As Nagai says, when catastrophe strikes, sometimes there is no “after,” especially for the people directly involved.

Questions I had:

• Now that I have read Nagai’s work in three rather distinct subject areas – JA incarceration (Dust of Eden), Japanese imperialism in China (Under the Broken Sky), and nuclear catastrophes in Japan (Irradiated Cities), I’m curious about her focus as a scholar. Her “day” job appears to be as a professor at Temple University Japan. I’m currently reading Histories of Bodies, another collection of poems by Nagai, which appears to focus on loss, on a more personal/individual level. It seems to me that Nagai’s interest is in how people (specifically Japanese people?) respond to trauma, specifically their emotional responses, and in this concept of “aftermath.” Her period of focus appears to be predominantly the WWII era. What drew her to these topics? How does she envision her work fitting into the existing bodies of scholarship and literature?
• How might we (Japanese/nikkei people, in our various communities and spaces and identities) consider Nagai’s work in relation to works like Akiko Hashimoto’s The Long Defeat and Karen Inouye’s The Long Afterlife of Nikkei Wartime Incarceration? (Interesting, both titles use “long.” Do we mean “in perpetuity” when we say long?) What happens if we put Nagai’s work in conversation with Brandon Shimoda’s work on memory and JA incarceration? As time progresses and more years intervene between the present and these historic events, are we seeing a shift in analytic focus? What happens when the chroniclers of events are no longer the eyewitnesses, or when the eyewitnesses we knew are no longer with us, and we are left with their memories, or our impressions of their memories?

Follow up:

• I will definitely be keeping an eye out for whatever Nagai publishes next. I’m finding that I never know quite what to expect from her work, which keeps things interesting!
• I have Displacement by Kiku Hughes in my TBR and I’m looking forward to examining how Hughes’s portrayal of JA incarceration through the lens of family history parallels/diverges from/builds on the work of the writers discussed above.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, click here.

In Under the Broken Sky, sisters Natsu and Asa Kimura must make the long trek to safety after Japanese rule in Manchuria comes to an end.

What I liked:

• It took me a long time to read this book. At first, I thought the book was simply not to my liking, but when I finally picked it up again, I realized my discomfort with the subject matter had more to do with my feelings about Japanese-ness and what it means to be nikkei. Having now finished the book, I would definitely recommend it to fellow nikkei readers who enjoy stories that encourage self-reflection.
• Nagai’s verses are incredibly readable and I am amazed at the vivid scenes she is able to paint with just a few words. Although I have never envisioned myself as any kind of poet, reading Nagai’s work, not to mention nikkei poets like Kenji Liu and Brandon Shimoda, has taught me a lot about ways of interacting with language(s).* Most novelists probably already know this, but I think there is much (for us) to learn by studying the work of poets. (On a side note, I also find myself thinking about the role of poets in Marjorie Liu and Sana Takeda’s Monstress.)
• I would like to read this book in Japanese – if Nagai herself is the one to write it! The style choices of fellow bilingual nikkei/Japanese writers are always fascinating to me, especially choices pertaining to translation. In this instance, I am curious to see how Natsu’s personality comes across in Japanese.

What I learned:

• I really don’t know much about Japanese settler colonialism (is ‘settler colonialism’ still the term if the context is not US history?) in Asia, and I still don’t, but reading this book has motivated me to revisit the academic portion of my TBR, with an eye to how broadening my understanding of this area of history may influence my ever-evolving views on what it means to be Japanese.

Questions I had:

• In the afterword, Nagai links her work to refugee crises around the world, and ends with the line, “Nobody chooses to be a refugee.” I appreciate and respect the feelings behind this statement and I always like to see authors who are in touch with current events. That said, I’m curious about the context here. It seems to me there is a certain flattening of nuance happening, but I also wonder if I could be mistaken, because it seems odd that a poet of all people would skip over this deliberately. In this story, Natsu and Asa are very obviously settlers. They refer to themselves as such and they call their hometown a settlement. It is clear they do not understand settler colonialism/Japanese imperialism in the same way the original Chinese residents of Manchuria do. As Nagai writes, many Japanese settlers in this period did not understand their role in the displacement of local populations (I need to look into this more – would it not be fairly obvious that you are moving into land, especially agricultural land, that was lately occupied by someone else? Was this a willful lack of understanding, or were these settlers, perhaps because of their origins in rural Japan, truly so much out of touch with the larger picture of Japanese imperialism? How much “innocence” can be claimed here?). Natsu and Asa, and the other settlers fleeing Manchuria, undergo many horrible experiences and some do not survive. As a reader, it is not difficult to sympathize. However, does/should this sympathy take the same form as sympathy for, say, residents of Palestine? How about immigrants from Latin America? Nagai herself references 3/11 as another source of refugees. It seems she wishes to make a broader point about the treatment of refugees across the globe, which is certainly valid. As a US citizen, I understand how remaining ignorant of immigrant crises at this time is an especially shameful privilege. Still…I think it is possible to draw attention to refugee crises without necessarily erasing the different circumstances which cause certain groups to become refugees.
• If a Japanese or nikkei writer wanted to write about refugees, without being a complete cultural/ethnic outsider, what scope of experience is available? Nagai tells us she thought of this story while watching a program about the ethnically Japanese, culturally Chinese descendants of Japanese settlers returning to Japan from China in search of long-lost relatives. She also has a personal connection to the topic via her uncle, who was drafted and imprisoned in Siberia. Personally, I’m quite glad to see Nagai, a Japanese writer (and with a personal connection!), be the one to discuss this weighty topic. It would also be interesting to read work by Chinese writers who were witnesses or descendants of witnesses to Japanese imperialism in Manchuria. I raise this point because, in thinking about how Nagai linked her specific work to broader refugee issues, I wondered how many other ways a Japanese or nikkei writer could do this without, as previously stated, writing from the perspective of a complete outsider. Stated another way, in what contexts can Japanese or nikkei writers responsibly participate in ongoing dialogues about refugee crises? For example, some nikkei activist groups have been protesting the immigrant detention centers, drawing a direct link between these centers and the incarceration of Japanese Americans during the war. This seems to me to be a form of allyship. Does Nagai accomplish the same thing in her book, by linking the historic experiences of Japanese settlers to the present-day experiences of refugees around the world?
• I also think of 火垂るの墓. It has a similar theme – spotlighting the experiences of Japanese children during the war – but a different context. In both cases, it is not hard for the audience to sympathize with the plight of children who are victimized by circumstances beyond their control or understanding. However, what happens beyond that? Should we (Japanese, non-Japanese?) interpret 火垂るの墓 as a poignant symbol representing the perceived victimization of Japan at the end of the war? Is it an anti-war message? Does it condemn Japanese imperialism by pointing to what happens to those left at home? Is it ambivalent – both pro- and anti-Japan at once? The same questions can be applied to Under the Broken Sky. To be clear, I am not at all stating Nagai has a pro-Japan stance on the war. Rather, I am curious about the role that works like these play in shaping our understandings of Japanese-ness, particularly Japanese-ness as it relates to the war. How might these works fit in with Akiko Hashimoto’s analysis in The Long Defeat? (Read my post on Hashimoto’s book here.) How does Nagai herself see her work fitting into the existing literature and media about Japan at war?
• Is there a Japanese translation of this book? If so, how has it been received by nihonjin readers? I keep going back to Nagai’s statement that this book began while she was watching television. From my experiences in Japan and talking to my nihonjin family and friends, and even more specifically, watching television with nihonjin family and friends, I have given a lot of thought to how “fads” or “special interests” operate in Japanese society. I think of Japanese-Chinese people coming to Japan, looking for their relatives, and how Nagai writes that often, there is no one to greet them, because it is a one-sided search. This is similar to discussions I have had with my nihonjin friends, when they tell me nihonjin who immigrated to the US or elsewhere may have been erased from the family registry or simply forgotten. One person’s lifelong search is another person’s…dinnertime entertainment? This is not to say there are no nihonjin interested in making these connections – there are plenty. However, the medium (or intervention?) of television to accomplish or draw attention to these searches is certainly thought-provoking. How does the commercialization of these searches in Japanese media fit in with Hashimoto’s theories on Japanese war memory?
• I often think, in writing my analyses of books pertaining more specifically to nihonjin than nikkei experiences, about the line between what is relevant to me, in the capacity of my identity and experiences, versus what simply becomes passing judgment on matters that have nothing to do with me. Being nikkei is, like other diaspora identities, nebulous, and defined differently by different people. I’m still not sure what to use as the arbiter of “did-I-cross-the-line-or-not,” but I like to think that, for as long as I continue seeking the answer, I will continue to learn.
• A technical note – who determined the use of italics in this book? Certain words in Japanese and Chinese are italicized, but at times, so are phrases in English to indicate speech or emotion. I’m particularly curious because the novel is written in verse and I wonder, in a medium where individual words, line breaks, punctuation, etc., each carry so much weight, how much control did Nagai have over italicization?

Follow-up:

• I have been a fan of Mariko Nagai for several years now and I’m looking forward to reading some of her books of poetry.

*While I’m on the subject of poets, Chen Chen is also a wonderful person to follow online.