Friday, May 31, 1996
Instances of pain and injustice have inspired action
It was a surprise. For the Los Angeles Police Department,
anyway. A nondescript truck simply stopped in the middle of the
intersection. Two graffiti artists jumped off the truck and sprayed
a demand for justice over life-size pictures of the three pro-union
housekeepers who had been fired from the New Otani Hotel. Then
about 50 of us marched into the intersection to handcuff ourselves
to the truck.
The police took forever to book us because they wanted to use
the opportunity to train new police officers. But I met some
interesting people as we waited in the paddy wagon  a
professor who teaches environmental justice courses at USC and a
mother and daughter who both work at Dodger Stadium. It was like a
cocktail party, except with plastic handcuffs and no drinks. And
the element of struggle, which is part of our everyday lives.
The funny thing is that I used to think civil disobedience was a
relic from the ’60s, gone with Gandhi and the Civil Rights
Movement, and no longer practiced except by a few aging hippies.
The struggle, if it existed at all, seemed far away. Another place,
another time maybe.
Do you know I feel like I’ve been through about seven lifetimes?
Seems like just the other day I was humming along with Janet
Jackson on the radio and wondering why she was crooning, "Let me
take you on an ice capade." It wasn’t until later that I realized
she was saying "escapade." And I’d been singing the wrong lyrics
all that time.
When I was growing up, I thought that my cousin Jason was the
smartest person in the whole wide world. He could solve the hardest
math problems. He could remember obscure facts. He wanted to be a
scientist when he grew up.
You know something funny? In St. Louis the barrios are called
ghettos. If the neighbors are poor but white, it’s a working class
neighborhood; if they’re poor people of color, it’s a ghetto. So I
guess it was a ghetto, where Jason grew up.
As he grew older, Jason began high school at a special "magnet"
school, finished high school early, took the SAT. A perfect score
of 1600. A National Merit Scholar. A scholarship ticket out of the
ghetto landed him at USC. He was the only Asian from the
ghetto.
I remember something he told me while he was in college. He said
that he couldn’t concentrate in his classes because they were all
taught by "luxury automobiles." Mercedes Benz in one class, he
said. Infiniti taught another. And his history class was taught by
a Rolls Royce. Maybe he just didn’t know how to deal with the
People of the Mercedes Benzes. A fish out of water, he swam back to
the ocean, dropped out of school.
I had the strangest dream a few weeks ago. In the dream, I was
rushing through my house to gather everything I might need. As if
in preparation for an oncoming tornado. My stomach tensed as I
realized my newly divorced parents were going to have a "talk"
about who would pay the taxes for the previous year. I didn’t know
when Dad was coming, but I had to get out of there before he
arrived and the fighting began. I wondered if he would kill my
mother and if I should hide somewhere in the house so that I could
call 911 if she got hurt.
For many years, my father controlled my mother, my sister and me
with his rage. I cannot understand how he can feel that he has done
nothing wrong. I only know that his addiction to violence distorts
his perception. It used to distort mine, too.
If I could only be prettier or thinner or smarter, I used to
think. If I could just handle things better, he wouldn’t erupt. It
was easier to blame myself than to admit that he was out of
control.
For such a long time, I believed that violence was simply a
personal experience, an unexplainable phenomenon unconnected to my
community. But domestic violence is a political issue and needs to
be recognized as an integral part of a racist, homophobic,
patriarchal, capitalist system. In telling these personal stories,
I am not asking for sympathy. I am calling for struggle.
So what does it all mean? Often I hear people speaking of
sexism, racism and homophobia as if the problem is just about hurt
feelings. As in, "He called me a gook. That really hurts my
feelings." Those of us who actively protest racism are seen as
"oversensitive." Similarly, I’m sure some folks who read this
column are thinking that I should see a psychologist to deal with
this pain, or that writing is good "therapy" for me.
After the divorce, my mother decided to become a sheet metal
worker. It’s a male-dominated, blue-collar field, and my mother is
an apprentice. See, the problem is not catcalls or sly comments
from male bosses. The sheet metal workers’ union regulates and
anyway, my mom is not easily intimidated. Apprentices are assigned
to a different foreman every few months, but most foremen assign my
mother the "Vanna White" tasks  standing at the foot of the
ladder, handing men tools, things like that. The male apprentices
are gaining experience and building skills. My mother isn’t.
Oppression, not hurt feelings. Domestic violence (like racism)
is about maintaining hierarchies. Keeping us down.
Tonight I am going to a rally for Thai garment workers who were
enslaved in an El Monte sweatshop. I’ll be giving a statement of
solidarity on behalf of Concerned Asian Pacific Students for Action
because once again, it’s time to jump into the struggle.
Shigemura is a third-year geography/environmental studies
student.