Phil picked up Emi’s typewritten sheet. “Admit it: there’s nothing out there about us.”
“O.K., then,” Emi countered. “We’re going to have to write it ourselves.”
Harriet flipped through Capital and whined, “I don’t know if I can read this.”
“What do you mean?” Phil’s voice rose as he pointed to Marx. “The revolution is inside that book!”
Harriet and Jane, sitting on either side of Phil, both jumped.
Frank said, “I liked the idea of doing oral histories, going out with a tape recorder and collecting stories. That was Jane’s idea.”
Jane looked away and shrugged shyly, pressing her knees together and shrinking into the couch.
Frank caught sight of Henry Moriuchi across the room sneaking away with another plate of cookies. “Mr. Moriuchi can be our first interviewee. I’ve already learned so much from Emi about her family’s sacrifice.” Frank’s gaze lingered on Emi, whose cheeks glowed.
Harriet nodded supportively, but Phil thrust a finger into the air. “I believe we’ve spent enough time circling the problem, and it’s obvious that we require an ideological basis for our process and actions. If we’re serious about this, we need to study the theory that’s made revolutions possible. We need to take our thinking to the next level.”
“Oh,” Harriet murmured with wonder, “yes, of course, the next level.”
Augusta blew her smoke into the room and drew a Z with the tip of her cigarette over the chocolate chip cookies. “Making a revolution isn’t like making a tea party.”
Emi watched the ash from Augusta’s cigarette snow over her cookies and tried, “Well, maybe Phil and Augusta can read Capital and report back?”
Augusta rose regally and said, “Oh good idea, don’t you think so, Phil?”
Phil grabbed his book, stood with Augusta, and marched out with her.
The door closed with a bang behind them. Emi looked around, but no one’s eyes met.
Breaking that wake of silence, Frank jumped up and said, “Jane and I were thinking of going to a movie tonight. Want to join us? If we leave now, we can make the 9:00 p.m. showing.”
Harriet asked, “What’s playing?”
“Planet of the Apes.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it already.” Harriet waved them on. “Bob took me. Enjoy.” She started to remove the teapot, cups, and cookies, then saw Emi slouched on the couch in confusion. Harriet consoled Emi. “Well, I’m looking forward to that book report, because I certainly wasn’t going to read that entire book.”
“Right.”
Harriet returned from the kitchen and cozied up to Emi. “Emi, I know you’re disappointed. I know you invited me to these meetings because you wanted Phil to like me. Don’t get me wrong; he’s smart, but he’s kind of a prick, and anyway he should be with someone like Augusta. And then you wanted Frank to like me, but he likes Jane. It’s not your fault. Don’t be depressed. You’ve been really super.” Harriet squeezed Emi with a hug and got up. “Hey, I’ll see you at the next meeting. Bye.”
Emi could hear the phone ringing. If it had been today, it would have been ringing from her iPhone, and she would have been able to see the caller ID or read a text: George Kishi. Henry Moriuchi wouldn’t install an answering machine for another decade. The vagaries of communication in the day made life less predictable, but you still had to talk to each other. The phone gave up. She picked up a cookie, brushed off the ash, and bit into it. Obviously, the revolution wasn’t going to start in the Moriuchi living room, but maybe they could take it to the next level.
Japanese American Gothic
In this story, you get to be the sansei heroine because you are like a lump of narrative Play-Doh, and the less self-awareness you possess, the more you can be poked, prodded, and punched into possibility. You are the heroine because we follow your adventure even if other characters might have better adventures and more interesting lives, because your adventure has moral authority, and because it’s a trick. This is not said to make you feel special or bad or even tricked; the real story is there, just not necessarily in your exact direction.
Mukashi, mukashi, Cathy Ozawa grew up a tomboy, but then around adolescence got it together to pretend to be a girl. In those years, girls did a lot of pretending. Let’s pretend Barbies. Pretend your Barbie and my Barbie live in castles right next door. Pretend that Ken lives with your Barbie one week and my Barbie the next week. There’s only one Ken, so they take turns. Sometimes your Barbie and my Barbie live in the same castle, which is way more fun. Sometimes our Barbies leave Ken all alone in your castle wearing your Barbie’s clothing because Ken only has one set of clothing, even if it’s glitter pants and a jacket, but the shoes never fit. The only way to make the shoes fit is to screw Ken’s head onto your Barbie’s head or vice versa. O.K., if you let your imagination run, you get the pretend picture.
Cathy grew up in Fullerton with white people who had escaped the darkening inner city. As it turns out some J.A.s, too, escaped into the burbs of scattered cities across the U.S., since returning from concentration camps to the confinement of ghettoed J-towns didn’t seem like an option for the future. And if J.A.s just spread out all over the country, maybe the next time around, it would be harder to find them. Besides, Mr. Ozawa had served America honorably during the war, using his language skills for military intelligence, interpreting and breaking Japanese codes, linguistic and cultural. Not that anyone knew this; it was a secret. Those white neighbors who chafed at having to live next door to the only Japanese family within miles could wonder at their luck, but Mr. Ozawa conducted himself with a mixture of friendly and aloof dignity, because he had the upper hand of conscience that patted him on the invisible stars of his kibei shoulders. By the time he was known as Ol’ Man Ozawa and had trained several generations of white karate kids, even his own kids were surprised to read their dad’s obit. Jim and Cathy Ozawa went through childhood and adolescence like it was normal to be white, until one day Jim left for college to study Asian American studies at UCLA and Cathy drove her mother’s elderly friends Mr. and Mrs. Ishi to a dental appointment in Little Tokyo.
Mrs. Ozawa said to Mrs. Ishi, “Cathy just got her driver’s license.” She searched for a plausible excuse in case it turned out to be a bad idea. “She’s never even been to Little Tokyo.”
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Ishi, “I’m sure she’s a very safe driver. Never been? Oh my.”
“Tosh and I go. You know, funerals and maybe Nisei Week, but we never bring the kids,” Mrs. Ozawa replied defensively, but the kids weren’t kids anymore.
Mrs. Ishi pouted, then recuperated her natural optimism. “It will be an adventure. You know, I never learned to drive the freeways, and Woody’s eyes just aren’t trustworthy anymore. Cataracts.” She blinked for emphasis and sighed. “When we moved out here”—she waved her hand around like it was all Disneyland in a Midwestern cornfield—“we changed all our doctors, but we just couldn’t change dentists. Am I wrong, Mary? Living out here all these years, you probably don’t have a Japanese dentist, but I couldn’t trust just anyone inside my mouth.” Mrs. Ishi moved her lips over her crooked teeth, sported an apologetic smile, then continued, “And besides, we like to eat in Little Tokyo and stock up on provisions.” By provisions, Mrs. Ishi meant Japanese foodstuffs: Calrose rice, shoyu, rice vinegar, miso, sake, nori, bancha, ajinomoto, etcetera. “Don’t forget to send Cathy with your list.”
Mrs. Ozawa put a list into her daughter’s hands, not without noticing the black fingernail polish and the blood-ruby ring attached by a delicate chain to an ornate black lace bracelet. As usual these days, Cathy was dressed in black—boots, jeans, tee. Mrs. Ozawa queried her daughter’s face, and Cathy reassured her, “I didn’t apply it that thickly today, Mom. Don’t want to scare the Ishis.” Cathy was really the sweetest young woman, and Mrs. Ozawa prayed everyone would see her daughter through that dark outfit.
Cathy resisted the urge to turn on KROQ and drove the Ishis’ gray B
uick with conscientious attention, darting eyes checking mirrors and merging like a cab driver, Mr. Ishi at shotgun and Mrs. Ishi in the back seat and chattering nonstop with great particularity about the Lakers—the players, their positions, averages, heights, injuries, scoring patterns, prospects for the semifinals, and on and on.
When Mrs. Ishi seemed to be catching her breath, Cathy turned to her husband. “Are you a fan, too?”
“Oh yes, but she’s the expert. I just took her to her first game.”
Mrs. Ishi pounced back in, leaning forward into the gear shift. “That was when Woody could drive. UCLA versus USC. From that moment on—” Mrs. Ishi paused rather romantically.
And Mr. Ishi finished as if responding to a song, “It’s all history.”
“My brother Jim is at UCLA,” Cathy offered.
“What’s he studying?” Mr. Ishi queried.
“Sociology, I think.”
“Smart kid,” Mr. Ishi remarked.
“That game at UCLA,” Mrs. Ishi returned to her subject. “I first saw Lew Alcindor …”
“Kareem Abdul-Jabbar,” Mr. Ishi corrected.
“It was like,” Mrs. Ishi searched for the right word and landed on, “ballet.”
Meanwhile, Southern California whooshed by until they descended an off-ramp into that iconic cluster of downtown high-rises hugged by a floating donut of smog. As Mrs. Ishi had promised, it would be an adventure.
As instructed, Cathy dropped Mr. Ishi off at his dentist on First Street, then proceeded on to Third with Mrs. Ishi, who wanted to visit her friend Mrs. Murata at the Hiroshima Café. “I’m surprised your folks didn’t at least bring you here,” Mrs. Ishi remarked to Cathy as the door opened and chimed behind them. “Min and Mitoko are old friends. Opened this place right after the war.” She strutted over to a booth in the corner, settled into the red Naugahyde, and leaned over the table, whispering to Cathy conspiratorially, “Chashu ramen.”
A young woman with a pad sauntered over to the table and exclaimed, “Mrs. Ishi, where’s mister?”
“Bella.” Mrs. Ishi smiled exaggeratedly, showing her canines. “Woody’s doing his teeth.”
Cathy’s eyes traversed the Hiroshima hostess Bella, who sported a red happi coat over a leather skirt and fishnets, her hair ratted in every direction. “Tsk tsk.” Bella shook her finger at Mrs. Ishi. “Too many sweets.”
Mrs. Ishi nodded back and forth like it was her fault. “Bella, this is Cathy.”
Bella took a step back and glared appropriately through mascara and thick eyeliner, moist red lips articulating, “How do you do?” emphasizing the do’s.
“Uh,” Cathy stumbled. “I don’t. I mean—”
Bella turned and left the table, yelling over the counter into the kitchen, “Momma, guess who’s here?”
Mrs. Murata emerged from the kitchen rubbing her hands on her apron and scooted into the booth next to Mrs. Ishi. Cathy watched the ladies turn into little girls again.
“How’s Min?” Mrs. Ishi asked.
“Not so good. Can’t talk hardly. Can’t use his right side.”
“My brother had a stroke too,” Mrs. Ishi commiserated.
Mrs. Murata pushed gray hair under a stretchy net. “I’ve got to go home and feed him now.” She looked around the café. “Bella’s taking it over.”
Without bothering to ask, Bella came around with bowls of chashu ramen, then walked over to the jukebox and punched in what Cathy recognized as Siouxsie and the Banshees. She scanned the walls plastered with band posters and concert flyers, picking out her favorites. She couldn’t believe her luck. What sort of café was this? There was no such place in Fullerton. Fullerton was a cultural desert. The door chimed in tune to Siouxsie’s oriental song, Hong Kong Garden, and they all looked up. Mr. Ishi appeared dejected.
Cathy knew all the words: disoriented you enter in / unleashing scent of wild jasmine.
“Woody,” Mrs. Ishi suggested, “show us your smile.”
“Got to come in next week again. Root canal.”
Cathy couldn’t help herself. “No problem at all!”
Bella’s eyes caught Cathy’s. Bloody lips parted in a cruel grin, message sent and received. Slanted eyes meet a new sunrise / a race of bodies small in size.
Cathy shut her eyes and sucked in, one egg noodle sliding between her teeth, salty wet tail disappearing into a puckered O.
The summer started like that, back and forth for Mr. Ishi’s teeth, provisions, and chashu ramen. The Hiroshima Café was, let’s say, an eclectic dive, where all sorts of human beings happened along: the regulars from the local community, retired migrant workers looking for a cheap meal, aging beatniks and deadbeats, day laborers, local yakuza, and now Bella’s cohort of activist anarchists, jivers, musicians, and, lately, punks, post-punks, goths, or whatever the scene was that outdid the previous, plus scattered unsuspecting tourists. Eventually Bella proposed to Cathy, as if an afterthought, waving a cigarette, “We could use some help. I can pay you by the hour, but …” She paused to think. “If you do your eyes bigger and badder, you’ll probably make more in tips.” A job sounded legitimate, but Mrs. Ozawa was suspicious, because who goes to work plastered in makeup with fishnet stockings and spiky hair? So she sent Cathy’s older brother, Jim, on forays to Little Tokyo from UCLA. “Mom, relax. Relax. Don’t you know the Muratas? I go to school with the son, Jonny Murata.” What he didn’t tell his mom was that he was soon also dating Bella, if whatever relationship they were in could be called dating.
Whenever possible, Jim and Jonny were at the café, usually for lunch or dinner. “Beats dorm food.”
“I bet. You might at least,” Bella smirked, “leave a tip.”
Jim looked at Jonny. “What say we unionize the workers here?”
Jonny sneered. “Minimum wage, bullshit. Who do the Muratas think they are?”
“Putting you through college, dope.” Bella rolled her eyes.
Jonny pranced around, shouting, “On strike! On strike!” He returned to the table and shoveled down a plate of egg foo yung and said to Jim with his mouth full, “I could use this place in my paper about Asian family restaurants, child and cheap labor. Be an exposé. Hey, I lived this shit.”
“Jonny, you never lived no shit.” Bella’s eyes drilled into her brother’s. “I live this shit.”
Jonny grumbled at Bella’s behind as she walked away, but Cathy returned with a tray of glasses and two cold bottles of Budweiser.
“Cathy,” Jonny began, “when do they give you a break? I got my Supra right here beyond that door, waiting. Purring. You know what I mean? The meter’s ticking. If you wait too long, I could get a ticket. Tick tick tick. Make up your mind. I can take you away from this chungking ichiban fast.”
Cathy smiled. “If you drink that Bud and drive away, you can get a ticket too.” She stepped away to the next booth.
Jonny raised and knocked his glass on Jim’s and took a slug of Bud. “Talk to your sister. I know she likes me.”
“She doesn’t like you, Jonny.”
“No, Jim. She’s falling fast. Any minute now.”
“Forget it. She’s in high school. Way too young.”
“Egg fool young! You’re doing Bella. Do I say anything?”
“That’s different.”
One day, Cathy walked to a booth, its table covered with intricately and realistically painted watercolors of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. A young man was turning the paintings in his hands, then placing each carefully back into a folder. “These are great, Nora,” he said sincerely to the young woman across the table. “When did you paint them?”
Nora shifted in the seat, and Cathy thought she answered, “In the can. Except”—she pointed at another group—“for these. I did them lately.” She looked up at Cathy, who, pad in hand, was quietly observing.
“Oh,” said Cathy, “I can come back later.”
“No, thank you, we’re ready.” The young man pulled out a menu from under the paintings.
Cathy looked the couple over with interest. They were local sansei, dressed casually in jeans, probably Jim’s age. This was their territory, Cathy thought enviously. They had grown up knowing this place and each other. The woman wore no makeup. There was a tough, determined, but sad air about her, a quality Cathy admired in Bella. Nora could have been Bella without all the makeup.
“Henry,” Nora said, “I’m not that hungry. Choose something, and I’ll eat some of it. Anyway, I got to get back and do that class.”
Henry nodded and ordered the chicken chow mein and tea.
Cathy nodded. “Sure.” She looked back at the table, Henry’s black ponytail swirling down the back of a worn t-shirt over the words Manzanar Pilgrimage.
Returning to the table with tea, Cathy ventured shyly to Nora, “You’re so talented.”
“Thanks.”
Henry suggested, “Nora’s teaching classes at the cultural center. Interested?” He handed a flyer to Cathy. “Maybe you could put this up?”
When Cathy handed the flyer to Bella, Bella said, “Nora Noda is back.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means she’s on parole.”
“Oh.”
“You wouldn’t know, but Nora went underground doing shit like building bombs to start the revolution, and then she got arrested, and now she’s doing community service. We’re her community.” Bella smiled her nasty smile. “Nora’s my heroine. If I could do what she did … but who has her guts? Easier to do this.” She waved her arms around the café. “Oh, and since you seem interested, that sweet sansei guy Henry is her brother. He chauffeurs Nora around to keep her out of trouble.” She puckered her lips. “Toot sweet for me.”
That evening, Cathy stuck around to do the evening shift because Jim had promised he could drive her home late. Bella got herself into full costume with a black-and-red bodice hugging her breasts and everything showing lasciviously. She handed Cathy a bag. “You need to dress up for the night.”
Sansei and Sensibility Page 16
