To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

Keep It Together, Keiko Carter, by Debbi Michiko Florence, follows the story of seventh-grader Keiko and her two friends as they navigate changes in family, friends, school, and romance.

What I liked:

• When I was Keiko’s age, I hardly read any contemporary fiction. I was deep in my SFF phase and spent hours buried in books by Robert Jordan and Michael Crichton. The few contemporary novels I recall reading were mostly for school (which probably did not help me develop any appreciation for the genre). I never felt any connection to those books. I remember reading a few of Yoshiko Uchida’s books, which I found in the school library, as well as leafing through Shizuko’s Daughter, by Kyoko Mori, but there was too large a gap between the lives of these characters and my own experiences. Although Keiko’s circumstances are somewhat different from my own, I wonder if having books like Keep It Together, Keiko Carter in middle school would have helped me understand why predominantly white contemporary children’s fiction failed to resonate with me. I’m happy for today’s kids, who have a vast selection of books by authors of color to choose from, including books set in the present day.

What I learned:

• I rarely read contemporary children’s fiction (yes, even now), so this may not be specific to Keep It Together, Keiko Carter, but I was fascinated by the plot structure. As always, I read the jacket copy before starting the book, and I could not tell at all where the story was going to go, other than that Keiko was likely to undergo some personal development. This is not a ‘bad’ thing, but rather encouraged me to pay close attention to the various story threads, as I tried to guess what Florence wanted the reader to think and feel.

Questions I had:

• How did fellow nikkei readers feel about this book? Specifically, how did nikkei readers close in age to Keiko and her friends feel about this book?
• How does Florence situate her work in the existing body of nikkei, especially JA, literature? As a community, how might we see the concept of ‘nikkei literature’ evolve as more nikkei writers venture beyond works centered on our histories?

Follow-up:

• I already ordered Just Be Cool, Jenna Sakai, so keep your eyes open for a future post!

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

The Perfect Sword, written and illustrated by Scott Goto, is told through the eyes of swordsmith’s apprentice Michio as he learns who is worthy of the ‘perfect’ sword.

What I liked:

• Goto’s illustration style is so interesting. For anyone who follows me on twitter, it’s well-documented that I read lots of manga and also a good number of English-language graphic novels. I’ve also observed many diaspora Asian creators discuss having their work rejected for being too ‘Asian.’ (This type of thinking needs to be eliminated from the publishing world.) As I read more work by Asian American graphic novelists, for example, I find myself studying character design choices in particular, and wondering what motivated each creator when finalizing their sketches. In Goto’s case, he tells us in his author’s note that while he did not choose to draw in a Japanese style, he used facial expressions and symbolism to bring his interpretation of ‘Japanese-ness’ to the story. I certainly noticed familiar imagery here and there in the book, but for me, the story felt more Japanese than the illustrations. Goto’s bright colors and big, bold use of line, as well as the shapes of his characters’ faces and bodies, reminded me much more of picture books by non-Japanese POC than Japanese picture books. This is not to criticize Goto; after all, every Japanese creator is entitled to their own interpretation of a ‘Japanese’ story. Rather, I appreciate Goto’s work for encouraging me to reevaluate my own assumptions about how a Japanese story should be visually depicted.

What I learned:

• I had never thought much about master/apprentice relationships in Japan versus other places until Goto pointed it out in his author’s note. It’s always fascinating to me when fellow Japanese people, nihonjin or nikkei, make a comparative statement about Japanese culture versus other cultures. Sometimes, I learn something completely new. Other times, it’s something I already know is specific to our culture. Most of the time, though, it’s something I already know, but perhaps have never consciously processed. I enjoy these moments, because it feels as though my worldview is being shaken up, in a good way.

Questions I had:

• Does Goto have any plans to publish a Japanese edition of this book? It would be interesting to know how nihonjin readers respond.
• Did Goto have a specific audience in mind when he wrote this book? Also, did Goto hope to elicit a specific response from Japanese readers?
• How might Goto’s work be placed in dialogue with the work of, for example, Tonko House creators Daisuke ‘Dice’ Tsutsumi and Robert Kondo? Tonko House seems to have achieved notable popularity in Japan, perhaps more so than in the US. To me, the aesthetic of The Dam Keeper is recognizably Japanese, specifically nihonjin, rather than nikkei, based on its visual similarity to books and media marketed to nihonjin audiences. This does not preclude it from being nikkei, however. If a nikkei scholar wrote a comparative analysis on Goto and Tonko House in the context of nikkei art, what conclusions might be reached?
• Based on his biography, Goto is based in Hawaii. In Goto’s opinion, what, if any, major differences exist in the work of Hawaii-based nikkei creators, compared to mainland nikkei creators?
• On a non-Goto-related tangent, but on the topic of Japanese people in Hawaii, has any Japanese scholar (nihonjin or nikkei) analyzed the relationship between Japanese settler colonialism in Hawaii and the rise of the Japanese empire in the Pacific War era? I would be especially curious to read any analysis of Japanese visual culture(s).

Follow-up:

• I will definitely keep an eye out for more books by Goto, especially if they focus on Japanese culture.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

Displacement, written and illustrated by Kiku Hughes, chronicles the story of Hughes’s grandmother, Ernestina Teranishi, during her incarceration at Topaz.

What I liked:

• Hughes does an astute and gracious job of illustrating the experience of JA incarceration. The relatively simple shapes and restrained use of line seem to echo the quiet desolation and scarce resources of the camps. Hughes also uses facial expressions to great effect, illuminating her characters’ thoughts in many panels without overusing dialogue.
• The tender moments of friendship and queer love depicted in Displacement quietly but unmistakably highlight aspects of JA incarceration that may not always make it into so-called ‘mainstream’ JA-authored narratives. I appreciate Hughes’s contribution to diversifying the historical narrative and I hope to see an increase in queer-centered stories as more openly gay/queer nikkei creators find opportunities in mainstream US publishing.
• Hughes’s deepening relationship with her mother over the course of the book, as well as her description of her family’s research on the camps, provides a thoughtful, nuanced portrayal of intergenerational JA experiences. It is likely a familiar story for any JA who has ever tried to trace their family history. Although there are variations of this story in many JA books, Hughes’s honest, searching self-reflection throughout the process of learning about her family made her version particularly poignant to me. In fact, Hughes’s honesty throughout the story, including her straightforward admission of her lack of knowledge about the camps while she experiences the displacement, is one of my favorite aspects of this book. I would be interested in knowing if nikkei readers who are just learning about their own family’s experiences of JA incarceration find comfort in Hughes’s words, perhaps feeling Hughes has provided them with a space in which to be ignorant, confused, or upset, without fearing criticism.

What I learned:

• My own relatives were incarcerated as a family, so I had never really considered the experience of single young nikkei who were sent to camp with no familiar faces to support them. As Kiku herself wonders for a frantic instant in the camp, what happened to these young people when the camps closed? Did they find white sponsors and/or nikkei families willing to support them? Were there many instances of non-Japanese people of color stepping forward to support these individuals? I’ve added these questions to my running list for future TBR selections.

Questions I had:

• Hughes’s use of the ‘displacement’ phenomenon to place herself in her grandmother’s story was fascinating, especially given how the narrative remained firmly rooted in apparent historical realities, rather than becoming infused with an SFF flair. Although I love SFF, I’m not sure it is the best genre for depicting narratives of JA incarceration, and I appreciate how Hughes’s narrative and artistic choices kept Ernestina’s experiences grounded in a recognizable historical setting. How did Hughes come to this concept of displacement? In hindsight, is Hughes satisfied with her own choices?
• As a mixed nikkei person and, in her own words, white-passing, how does Hughes situate herself and her work in the existing body of nikkei literature? Specifically, has Hughes encountered any barriers in the nikkei community because of her appearance and/or background, or, conversely, does she feel certain opportunities were more easily accessible to her because of her appearance and/or background? Based on her experiences, how would Hughes describe the role of white privilege and/or the white default, as linked to the model minority myth, in contemporary nikkei communities? In her opinion, what more (if anything) might the nikkei community do to create safe and supportive spaces for mixed nikkei creators?

Follow-up:

• I would love to read more of Hughes’s work, especially any works pertaining to nikkei history.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

Ryka Aoki’s poems in Why Dust Shall Never Settle Upon This Soul illuminate, celebrate, mourn, and caringly affirm the experiences of trans people.

What I liked:

• Aoki’s voice and style are enjoyably colloquial and familiar. Although many of Aoki’s topics and experiences vary greatly from my own, the poems are extremely readable and I would not be surprised if readers of all backgrounds felt the same.
• I’m finding it difficult to articulate my thoughts on Aoki’s depiction of trans experiences in these poems, without falling into the trap of a cis person objectifying or projecting onto trans experiences, so I’ll merely say I deeply appreciate Aoki’s meditations on the everyday experience of being trans and I hope fellow cis nikkei readers will read Aoki as well.
• What is Aoki’s favorite donut? I also like donuts; I appreciated seeing donuts pop up in several of her poems. Has any nikkei scholar studied the relationship between food and nikkei identity formation? The other day, an Asian American colleague suggested boba is an identity marker for a certain demographic of Asian Americans. I had never heard this before, but it got me thinking about how individuals utilize specific foods to cultivate their image. For example, when nikkei writers talk about food and family history, certain foods tend to appear over and over. Practically speaking, these commonalities can probably be attributed to geographic and temporal factors, but from a creative standpoint, to what extent do nikkei writers utilize these commonalities to craft a specific narrative? From a different angle, I also think of foods which commonly appear in certain manga genres, usually to further a relationship between the main characters. Obviously, these two disparate discussions are much too broad for this post, but this is where my mind went while reading about Aoki’s donuts.
• I enjoyed Aoki’s foreword, particularly the section about the relationship between truth and poetry. I wonder if this is also why I gravitate toward reading poetry at times when I cannot handle reading a novel.

What I learned:

• What exactly does it mean to be nikkei in LA and/or SoCal? Is it going too far to suggest nikkei proactively define, to some extent, regional nikkei identities? While reading Aoki’s poems, I was very aware of Aoki’s experience of being trans in LA and of how intensely Aoki observes and responds to her surroundings. It would be interesting to read a book of poems written while Aoki is in a different city, perhaps somewhere like Tokyo, to see how much her content and style fluctuate in response to the environment.

Questions I had:

• How does Aoki situate herself and her work in the existing body of nikkei literature? Trans nikkei seem to be severely underrepresented in mainstream US publishing, within even the sparse field of contemporary nikkei writers, particularly novelists. (Note: This does not absolve me from not being more proactive in seeking out existing trans nikkei writers, in both mainstream and independent publishing.) Additionally, has Aoki encountered transphobia from other nikkei writers? Is nikkei literature as a whole a safe and supportive environment for trans and/or LGBTQIA+ nikkei writers? Are there steps the nikkei community can take to ensure more trans nikkei writers have the opportunity to break into mainstream publishing? I can think of rather more gay/queer nikkei writers (specifically, of gay/queer nikkei writers who do not also identify as trans) than trans nikkei writers, which makes me wonder to what extent trans nikkei writers encounter barriers within the nikkei community (and also outside the nikkei community) that gay/queer nikkei writers do not.
• Did Aoki envision a particular audience for these poems?

Follow-up:

• I’m looking forward to Aoki’s SFF novel, which releases this fall.
• I absolutely need to read more trans nikkei writers. No excuses.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

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.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

In A Nuclear Family, April Naoko Heck combines family history with personal memory to produce a set of poems as readable as it is intimate.

What I liked:

• Although ‘like’ may not be the most appropriate word, I always appreciate nikkei writers telling stories of their family experiences. In the case of wartime experiences and specifically Hiroshima, I wonder if ‘nikkei writers chronicling Hiroshima’ would be more effectively examined as a subset of ‘Japanese writers chronicling Hiroshima’ or as a subset of nikkei literature. My inclination is to say both analyses yield worthwhile results, but I also ask this question because I wonder how nikkei writers chronicling Hiroshima are most commonly evaluated and/or contextualized by readers, nikkei and non-nikkei.

What I learned:

• This may be more of a question than a lesson, but reading Heck’s poems caused me to consider whether Hiroshima and other specific aspects of the war loom abnormally large in nikkei writings on family history. On one hand, the sheer scope of the tragedy of Hiroshima might arguably guarantee its place of significance in wartime accounts. On the other hand, not all Japanese people were affected by Hiroshima to the same extent. Are there many nikkei writers who find themselves reflecting on Hiroshima, not because it was what they originally intended, but because of editorial pressure? I’m thinking here of the recent surge in nikkei-authored writings on JA incarceration. Although it is absolutely critical for JA writers to take the lead in documenting JA history, I wonder how many of these writers might have initially pitched a completely unrelated idea, only to be encouraged to pursue a ‘hot’ topic like JA incarceration instead. This is merely a guess; I hope this is not the case. I also differentiate this situation from one in which a JA writer starts out with one idea but in the process of refining their work and/or developing as a creator, realizes they have a crucial story to tell about Hiroshima or JA incarceration.

Questions I had:

• How does Heck situate herself and her work in the existing body of nikkei literature? Would Heck agree that there is such a thing as a uniquely nikkei and/or Japanese American poetry?
• Did Heck envision any particular audience for these poems?
• What, if any, differences exist between poems written to/for an audience, versus poems which are written with little to no thought of an audience, but which simply end up being made accessible to an audience?

Follow-up:

• I would enjoy reading any of Heck’s forthcoming work related to Japanese/Nikkei experiences.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

In Isako Isako, Mia Ayumi Malhotra considers an array of topics from Japanese/Nikkei history, drawing on both major historical events and intimate family narratives.

What I liked:

• The narrative ambiguity in Malhotra’s poems, while startling at first, ultimately led me to reexamine my understandings of memoir and history. I have previously discussed the politics (and problems) inherent to scholarly writings on history, specifically the notion of primary versus secondary sources, and the power dynamics involved in translation and transcription. Malhotra’s poems, however, push the discussion on primary sources a step further by forcing the reader to consider the many ways primary sources can be created and preserved. Through her poems, Malhotra, who was not present for some of the events she discusses, is generating a secondary source by documenting information provided by family members who were eyewitnesses. At the same time, for any present or future scholar who is studying examples of nikkei writers documenting their family history, Malhotra’s poems would constitute a primary source.

What I learned:

• Does Malhotra know Mariko Nagai? Reading the poems about Isako’s illness, I constantly thought back to Nagai’s Histories of Bodies. There are stories of illness and loss in every family, but the similarities between Malhotra’s and Nagai’s works made me consider how loss operates specifically in Japanese/Nikkei history and literature. Many major historical events are also defining moments of loss for someone who experienced that event, and events such as Hiroshima and JA incarceration are no exception. I also think here of Akiko Hashimoto’s The Long Defeat and Karen Inouye’s The Long Afterlife of Nikkei Wartime Incarceration. Seeing the titles side by side, I wonder if “long” is really a euphemism for “ongoing” or “perpetual” or something more permanent. Is it simply human nature to cling to and memorialize loss? I have not read widely enough in the literatures of other cultures to make an accurate comparison, but I do remember seeing a Korean writer (possibly Emily Jungmin Yoon?) note how the concept of han goes hand-in-hand with being Korean. I do not think loss operates in Japanese/Nikkei culture in exactly the same way, but I wonder if any Japanese/Nikkei writer has studied this idea already, specifically by analyzing examples from Japanese and Nikkei writing.

Questions I had:

• Why did Malhotra choose to write some poems in stilted English? I personally interpreted these sections as a shift in narrative voice, from Malhotra to someone whose primary language is not English. Is this other voice Isako? The book is dedicated to two Japanese women, neither of whom is named Isako. I read Isako as a stand-in for the Japanese women in Malhotra’s family, but I wonder if this is what Malhotra intended when she created Isako. I wonder, too, about how Malhotra wrote these sections – are they direct quotes (or quotes as she remembered or (re)created from real-life situations), or are they, too, a stand-in for how the women in Malhotra’s family spoke English? What does it mean for a native USian English speaker to (re)create dialogue spoken by members of their family whose primary language is not English? I’ve asked this question previously on this blog, but what is the relationship between this type of intergenerational memory and the documenting of history? From what I’ve seen, the JA community does a decent job of recognizing there is no “one true” historical narrative, instead focusing on the preservation of a collective memory from as many sources as possible. I personally believe there is a major difference between Malhotra, as a descendant of the people whose voices she appears to be documenting/remembering, creating and/or recording a transcription (in these poems or elsewhere), and a non-Japanese person (historian or otherwise) transcribing (usually in English) the words (in English or Japanese) of a Japanese person.
• Did Malhotra envision a particular audience for this book? What motivated her to write this book? How does she wish her work (and herself, as the creator of the work) to be situated in nikkei literature?

Follow-up:

• Does Malhotra have any plans to write a book of essays or a memoir? It would be fascinating to see her explore the ideas from Isako Isako in prose.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

海岸線にいる生き物たち, created by Cindy Mochizuki, is inspired by her childhood trips to the seashore.

Note: I read the Japanese edition of this book. I do not know if there is an English edition currently available.

What I liked:

• My inner art historian loved the presentation of this book. The inky, blue, black, and gray illustrations on the clean white pages – specifically, the deceptive simplicity of the images, perhaps evoked by their relatively small size compared to the vast expanse of the background – lent a dreamlike quality to the story.
• Similarly, Mochizuki’s abstract, largely unidentifiable (though this may be a lack of knowledge of ocean creatures on my part) creature depictions might represent the shifting realities of our dreams. I also wonder if memory or nostalgia is meant to be depicted as a form of dreaming. Mochizuki dedicates the book to her father, the person who took her to the seashore to look for ocean creatures. When we as creators draw upon our past experiences to inform our present work, is this a form of dreaming? Of course, this is not to say dreaming is the only possible lens through which to view this book, but I’m fascinated by the possible interplay amongst dreaming, memory, and (re)telling or (re)creating narrative. What are the implications for, say, documenting JA community history? Kiku Hughes explores this notion in Displacement and Brandon Shimoda frequently references dreams in his writings – what other examples exist in nikkei literature and arts?
• In a more general sense, family and family-related things (memories of family, family traditions, family foods, family history, etc.) are especially predominant in diaspora Asian (specifically Asian American, in my experience) work. Within these works, how might we, as diaspora Asian/Asian American audiences, consider the role of language? Language can be variously a privilege/advantage and a disadvantage, depending on the situation. In Mochizuki’s case, she clearly is at ease within Japanese as a language. How might this book have turned out differently if Mochizuki was not fluent in Japanese? What is the relationship between language and memory in Asian diaspora spaces? I often come across diaspora Asians who say they once knew their cultural language as a child, but have forgotten it as an adult. What does it mean for a diaspora Asian creator to (re)create a memory based in a language they no longer remember? Are there connections between this type of creation/documentation and common practices utilized for oral history recordings?

What I learned:

• Mochizuki is based in Canada, but has also worked in Japan, and appears to move fluidly between cultures and languages. Her process in creating this book, as well as the aesthetic of the final product, reminded me very much of processes and aesthetics I identify more with nihonjin rather than nikkei. At the same time, Mochizuki’s collaboration with Canadian students (as described in her author’s note at the end) is not something which could have happened in Japan – but does the fact of this collaboration automatically render this project a nikkei rather than nihonjin project? (It would, however, be possible for a nihonjin artist to collaborate with Canadian or other non-Japanese students.) Personally, I feel Mochizuki’s project could be displayed in a museum inside or outside Japan (in other words, could be described as both OR either a nihonjin or nikkei project), without seeming out of place, and it is this quality which makes me wonder if Mochizuki’s work is an example of a ‘global nikkei aesthetic’ (see below for details). I would consider this distinct from, for example, an artist like Kusama Yayoi, whose work has a global reach and appeal, but who seems to be considered predominantly a nihonjin artist by nihonjin and nikkei alike.* That said, I can’t speak for the flip side of the equation – maybe Mochizuki’s work, even if entirely presented in Japanese, with what appears to me to be a nihonjin aesthetic (a nihonjin-passing aesthetic?) informed by nihonjin(-esque) logics, would still be considered predominantly nikkei work by nihonjin audiences? Sometimes, it seems to me that nikkei creators, no matter their background or skill set, are measured by their perceived ability to emulate nihonjin behaviors and standards, by nihonjin audiences.

Questions I had:

• Is there an anthology of nikkei scholars sharing their thoughts on a global nikkei aesthetic? Or aesthetics? I’m not sure if this is an existing field of study, but if not, I imagine it will be in the future. Personally, I don’t envision a global nikkei aesthetic as a singular style, but rather an inclusive study of how Japanese artists inside and outside Japan exchange, expand, and invent aesthetic notions based on their relationships to and/or understandings of ‘Japanese-ness.’ I need to check my TBR again to see if I’ve already come across a relevant book.

Follow-up:

• I would love to see Mochizuki produce more books!

*I chose Kusama Yayoi as an example because I saw her work on display when I visited a museum of contemporary art on my most recent trip to Japan and incidentally, while reading Mochizuki’s book, I thought of that same museum because I could easily envision Mochizuki creating an installation there. I imagine this book would be projected on a screen (sort of like a giant e-reader), to be manipulated freely by the viewer, in a setting designed to look like the seashore. There might be ocean sounds playing in the background, maybe even sand and shells scattered underfoot. Additionally, there might be physical copies of this book lying at intervals, sometimes half-buried in the sand, available to be perused at will, etc. I am not an installation artist, but I feel this sort of arrangement would have fit perfectly into that museum.

To learn more about Book Spotlight, read this.

Okorijizō, written by Yamaguchi Yūko and illustrated by Shikoku Gorō, is based on the true story of ojizō-san in Hiroshima.

*Note: All romanization choices are my own, as I read the original Japanese edition of this book. I’m not sure if there is an English translation. In keeping with Japanese language conventions, the author’s and illustrator’s names are written last name-first name.

What I liked:

• To be honest, this book has sat in my TBR for close to five years. My mom and I visited Hiroshima Peace Park while we were in town seeing my cousin and this book was one of the items I picked up from the museum gift shop. It seems strange to think of a gift shop there, but maybe not (see my post on Mariko Nagai’s Irradiated Cities for additional thoughts on this topic). I finally sat down to read it because I needed to clear a spot on my bookshelf and I was pleasantly surprised when I realized it was based on a true story. It may have been advertised as such in the gift shop, but I don’t remember – I think I picked it up because I liked the illustration of ojizō-san on the cover.
• For any fellow nikkei readers who decide to read this book, don’t miss the author’s note at the end! Yamaguchi’s account of her personal experience of the bomb, her nostalgia for the ojizō-san, and the remarkable story of their journey from Hiroshima to Matsuyama lent the book a sense of gravitas which I wouldn’t have felt otherwise.
• Probably all Japanese readers are familiar to some extent with the human stories of Hiroshima – specifically, the catastrophe of the bomb and the aftermath (I recommend Akiko Hashimoto’s The Long Defeat for more on Japanese war memory), but personally I can’t say I’d spent much time thinking about the non-human things affected by that day. I’ve always liked ojizō-san and keep an eye out for them when I’m roaming around Japan – I remember a childhood book (should I reread it for Book Spotlight?) about the gratitude of ojizō-san bestowed upon a kind old man for his gift of straw hats. That said, ojizō-san are one of those aspects of Japanese-ness which I suppose I’ve always taken for granted. I would never have anticipated finding a book linking them to Hiroshima.

What I learned:

• Are there any rules – formal or informal – for Japanese creators telling stories about 原爆, and if so, how have these rules changed over time? Do expectations differ for creators with a direct personal connection (hibakusha, or descendants of hibakusha) versus other creators? Yamaguchi indicates her book had relatively humble origins, but is this the case for most books in this genre? I find myself more and more interested in the politics of 原爆 storytelling in Japan, specifically with regard to how we as nikkei readers might relate these works to our own narratives of JA incarceration.
• This book also led me to consider what culturally-specific trauma might look like for Japanese people, both nihonjin and nikkei. What does it mean to use “trauma” as a framework for analyzing events like Hiroshima and JA incarceration? How might we consider trauma in relation to the push-and-pull of moving forward and looking back? If a group of nihonjin and nikkei youth met today to discuss difficult topics such as 3/11 and Black Lives Matter, what ideas would be exchanged?

Questions I had:

• Is there an international organization – probably a nonprofit – dedicated to cross-cultural education in the form of books? I’m thinking specifically of picture books, though other types of books would work, too. For example, a teacher in the US would trade picture books about the Underground Railroad, written and illustrated by Black creators, to a teacher in Japan, who would respond with books about the bombing of Hiroshima, written and illustrated by Japanese creators. No doubt a number of schools have created such programs on a smaller scale, but it would be wonderful if there was an internationally supported, centralized organization with the resources to ensure access for any school or educator wanting to participate.

Follow-up:

• As much as I need to expand my knowledge of Japanese wartime history as part of my ongoing personal mission to understand what nikkei-ness means to me, it is difficult for me to read about Hiroshima. So, while I’m definitely interested in reading more Japanese authors’ portrayals of this period, it may not be any time soon.

• I would love to see these ojizō-san for myself the next time I’m in Japan, provided they are still on that mountaintop.

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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!