Friday, May 17, 1996
Discontinuous form of writing challenges the elitist
hierarchies
I used to wish the wound would heal quickly, so the pain would
stop. But I’ve come to accept this star-shaped scar in the middle
of my gut. Sometimes the star wraps its arms around my insides,
pressing my stomach into my lungs until I can hardly utter a sound.
These contractions are always unexpected, yet they are almost
familiar now. I’ve learned to live with unexpected pain. The scar
reminds me of what I have survived.
Picture bride. My great-grandmother landed in San Francisco in
1912 and married a man she had met once before. Stockton,
Sacramento, Modesto, Livingston, Cressey, Los Angeles  they
moved all over California, working as tenant farmers, legally
barred from owning land.
On Mother’s Day of 1942, my family was put on a bus with only
the possessions they could carry. They were not informed of the
bus’ destination, but they knew they had arrived when an armed
guard stopped the bus just outside a barbed wire enclosure. Welcome
to Heart Mountain, Wyoming.
I am Yonsei, fourth-generation Japanese American. For Japanese,
four is a bad luck number; one of the words which means "four" also
means "death." But death is merely the closing of a circle. My
great-grandmother’s name is my middle name, so maybe I was born to
end her silence, to close a circle which began four generations
ago.
A friend (I will call him "Ran Dyu") read my column two weeks
ago and asked why I "jump around" from one topic to the next when I
write. Ran also wanted to discuss my "use of poetic devices." I
said I didn’t know I had any. I’m not a poet; my family works with
food rather than words. Farmers, cooks, restaurant owners.
I didn’t mean to be so obstinate with Ran. But written language
is fearfully elitist. Because I am a student at UCLA and the Daily
Bruin publishes my columns, people see my fragmented sentences as a
stylistic choice. If my great-grandmother had written the way I do,
people would have thought she was just another dark, ignorant farm
worker.
Discontinuity. I have this friend who keeps getting stopped by
the police. They think he is a little too dark to be driving a BMW.
Meanwhile, Pete Wilson and the UC Regents say we’ve achieved a
"colorblind" society.
So what does it mean when I jump from one topic to the next,
seemingly unconnected?
Someone who read my column once e-mailed me asking for the
titles of books from which I gained knowledge of Asian American
history. I was sorry I couldn’t give her much. I learned my
family’s history through fragments of their memories. I listened to
the stories of survivors. Much of it has never been written down.
And the only common theme I can find is the discontinuous, chaotic
nature of the experiences of communities of color.
Written language is one of da massa’s tools. The established
rules of writing are constructed so as to reinforce the white
supremacist patriarchy. Poetry, short stories, novels, essays,
biographies, non-fiction. These are the master’s categories. Neat,
square boxes with even edges, equal sides. Writers of color try to
turn these boxes inside out. Form questions from answers. What
purpose (whose purpose) do these boxes serve?
What does it mean for me to write these columns after four
generations of enforced silence? I feel the eyes of my community
staring at me as I write each column. They are wondering if I will
be another Ward Connerly. Will I use my opportunity to let my
community’s issues be heard, or if I will turn my back and casually
raise the finger?
History is often written as a sequence of unfolding events with
a direction, goal, and meaning. Writing history in this way entails
the exclusion of women and people of color and thus creates a false
sense of continuity over time and space. Such continuity
discourages the reader from questioning hierarchies. It is
disempowering because it lulls us into believing that events are
inevitable. Disengaging us from the struggle.
But three pro-union housekeepers at the New Otani Hotel in
downtown Los Angeles have been fired for minor time card
infractions. In Amerikkka … with liberty and justice for all.
Is this column discontinuous because I am too lazy to write
transitions between my ideas or because we need to challenge the
dominant hierarchy? Well, Ran, I guess that is for you to decide.
Meanwhile, my scar is beginning to ache again, and I think I will
be standing alongside three pro-union housekeepers in the picket
lines tonight.
Shigemura is a third-year geography/environmental studies
student. Her column appears on alternate Fridays.