1970

by Karen Tei Yamashita

  “See, what people need to understand is that we come together today to show Third World solidarity and unity for political prisoners within the United States. Now, I can dig that’s why we’re here, but you have to understand that when Los Siete walks free of the San Francisco County Jail, when the Soledad Brothers leave the ‘gladiator school’ (what it’s more affectionately called), then we will be free. See, because when the political prisoners walk free of the institutions that bind them, then we will walk free of the institutions that bind us, institutions like the credit agency our parents owe money to, institutions like the Bank of America, institutions like the system that asks us to give six years of our lives to Uncle Sam.” Twist your mind around that: we’re all some kind of prisoner.

  So he’s tying it up see, but he’s got to include the women, the feminist position. So he continues with, “the same institution that perpetuates the thought that builds and works on male chauvinism,” but then he wants to make the big point, so he points back to the jail behind him and he says, “the same institution that built that motherfuckin’ piece of shit!” Now this brings the roar of approval from the crowd because finally he’s rolling his nice and easy talk around to the hard and rough. And that’s what the crowd is wanting. They are motherfuckin’ mad.

  When they calm down a bit, he goes into his denouement: “Now in order to change this thing, brothers and sisters, in order to make things right, we have to do something, make a real big change.”

  Now this is where he’s going to show off his Marxist take, but he wants to bring it down to the level of common understanding. Make it plain to the people. “Now I’m not too intellectual or academic, but I heard that this thing is like where the quantitative change turns into the qualitative change, or where the thesis and the antithesis struggle and therefore make the synthesis.”

  But the brother’s got to show his Asian colors, where it’s going to relate to yellow folks. So he says, “Now, philosophically, dig, I just put it one way: when this change comes, it will be when the yin turns into the yang.”

  And for the final touches, to prove he’s into Malcolm: “And to put it into the words of the people, dig, this is when we will return the power to its rightful owner, and that rightful owner is the people, and we will get that power by any means necessary! ALL POWER TO THE PEOPLE!”

  Asian guard-brothers on stage know the grand finale, and all the fists pump up.

  On the subject of racism, Marxism-Leninism, offers us very little assistance. In fact, there is much evidence that Marx and Engels were themselves racists.

  —Eldridge Cleaver

  The Black Panther

  June 6, 1970

  7: I Am a Revolutionary

  I know you’re no good for me

  But free of you I’ll never be

  Nowhere to run to, baby

  Nowhere to hide

  —Martha & The Vandellas

  RG and the Panther running around pulling the blankets off the beds, throwing them at the door to snuff that fire out. Flames flying off that door like it’s tinder wood. When they get the flames down, RG gets some glasses of water and tosses them to cool down the egress. Outta curiosity, opens the door and checks the hallway. It’s still the same empty hallway, somewhat smoked up, but no one’s running out trying to save their lives. Coulda been a major disaster. Shit, coulda been the spark. But all the Moscovites tucked in and sleeping pretty.

  “What’re we going to say about the door?”

  “Damn cigarettes. Need to quit the habit.”

  “Shitload of smoke in here.”

  “Windows don’t open.”

  “Where’s that pipe?”

  “Yeah, after that, we got to relax.”

  Pipe lights up with its customary stink. If a fire don’t arouse nobody, what’s a little stink?

  RG takes a drag and speculates. “Never thought I’d ever come to Russia.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  “Used to think the whole world existed inside Chinatown.”

  “I never had that problem. Whole world was always out there.” Panther grabs the air like there’s bars and juts his chin forward.

  RG and the Panther hold their breaths, then pause to consider how this thing—the whole world—works. How you gonna catch a thing like that in your mind? Che got on his motorcycle. Mao did his Long March. Malcolm did his hajj to Mecca. Now RG and the Panther doing it by socialized modern transportation. In search of the Third World. Could practically fly into every Third World war zone and get a handle on the national question. What’s it gonna come to? Revelation on the revolution at the end of the road.

  RG walks to a window you can’t pry open. Looks out on that dark sky and observes the moon over the USSR. Moon this side of the Earth should be red, but it’s all the same. What about that sputnik dog circling around? What kind of dog conclusions does he come up with? How do Russian dogs say bow-wow? Or Neil Armstrong putting his big boot into the moon for mankind? Shit. They’re always trying to colonize someplace. Colonize the moon, if anybody was there. Get this, same day Neil and Buzz walk the moon, Panthers’re in a revolutionary conference to build a united front to combat fascism. Advocate the revolutionary struggle to abolish capitalism and introduce socialism to the USA. Stepping and leaping for mankind.

  But let’s get back to the storytelling about how some Chinatown street gang makes a radical turn. Back to the revolutionary war front at home. Pass the pipe, and hunker down with jet lag.

  RG obliges. “So everything changes in the year of the rooster.” Meaning last year, 1969. Leway brothers come to the realization that the liberal capitalist venture is jive. What’s legitimate if you still get beat up by the pigs? What’s legitimate if the charges are trumped up? You got nowhere to run, unless it’s Vietnam. Time to stand up to the bastards. Become the defending force at home.

  Come Chinese New Year, Leway contingent splits off to become the Red Guards. Set themselves up to do security for the youth festival on Waverly. Waverly’s the heart of Chinatown. Every year, some white carnival comes in, closes off Waverly, and takes it over. This year, Red Guards get smart. Put out a call for every Chinatown group to put up a booth, make your own money, and keep it in Chinatown.

  Red Guard security duty is serious. Brothers on watch on the roofs and off the balconies. Their commander is the minister of defense; he got his position by virtue of his size. You know Goldfinger’s Oddjob? Big Oriental cat with the steel hat? Yeah, that’s him. He’s the biggest, baddest brother among them. You see him patrolling the fair and watch the crowd part around him.

  Some drunk tourist is playing with firecrackers. Like he’s in a foreign country whooping it up. Frolicking idiot’s tossing packs into the crowd like popcorn and watching the folks disperse. A little kid is crouching to pick up a fallen toy when the crackers hit the pavement near her face. Suddenly her face is singed in soot. She screams. Her mother screams.

  Oddjob Minister rushes over, picks the tourist off the ground and throws him. Pigs patrolling the event as well, looking for an incident. This is it. Two of them come to the rescue to protect and serve the drunken tourist. Ignore the mother and her child screaming for help. Trounce on Oddjob, pulling him away from the tourist, try to get him down. Try to get Oddjob down? That’s a fucking job for twenty! Tosses them off like flies. By now the rest of brothers are alerted. Red Guard comes out of everywhere with every sort of rifle and pistol you can imagine. It’s a red army. Pigs are smart. They’re outnumbered. They run. They got nowhere to hide.

  That night, expecting reprisal, Red Guards station themselves up and down Jackson Street and throw their anti-personnel arsenal—firecrackers and cherry bombs—into the street all night. You know what is all night? Long line of Guards must set off every available firecracker in Chinatown. How many bricks does it take? It’s the Great Wall! Who knew you could sustain a battle as long as a celebration? Street’s a smoke screen, and the crackling and popping never let up.

  Revolution
aries are Monkey Kings; their golden rods are powerful, their supernatural powers far-reaching and their magic omnipotent, for they possess Mao Tse-tung’s great invincible thought. We wield our golden rods, display our supernatural powers and use our magic to turn the old world upside down, smash it to pieces, pulverize it, create chaos and make a tremendous mess, the bigger the better!

  —Red Guards

  Tsinghua University

  June 24, 1966

  8: I Am the Vanguard

  I heard it through the grapevine

  Not much longer would you be mine

  …

  People say, believe half of what you see

  Oh, and none of what you hear

  —Gladys Knight

  Smoke screen in the Moscow hotel room like a great cloud. RG and Panther sitting in that cloud hearing the past and present converge through a wispy grapevine. Everything gets that clarity when sitting in silence. Smoke thickens to a marbleized liquid substance, and the mind wanders into the future.

  The dope proposes the inevitable possibility of change. Everything changing. Everything in flux. Moving on. Supposed to change inevitably from this ism to that ism. Are you going to be there for the revolution? Are you going to be there kicking ass with the vanguard?

  These are the days when we get the women to love their lumpen. That’s the truth. Panther’s today’s number one lovin’ lumpen. RG could be a fast second. Jail’s a badge of courage. You could be Malcolm in the Charleston State Prison or MLK in the Birmingham Jail. How many women fall in love with those prison letters? Baby, baby. Get her one of those prisoners who dream about her every night. Enough to make her lose her mind. Next thing you know, she’s toting a gun for you. She’s your Mata Hari in a miniskirt with a .22 in her purse. She’s the chorus backup for the revolutionary chanting. How come all of Chinatown’s plastered with Free Huey flyers? She’s tacked up every corner of the Chinese ghetto with his face, but what Chinese can relate to that? Still, you got to appreciate that she loves you more.

  She’s working the telephones at the office, waking up early to cook for the breakfast program, distributing the paper, running day care during the morning and a free school in the afternoons, lifting shit and raising money for the programs, doing political study in the evenings and basic training on the weekends. In between, she’s got to be giving you honey, even though you might be getting several honeys. Even though from time to time you lose your mind and put your revolutionary fist in her face. She accepts your weeping apologies because what lumpen can be perfect? Takes time to get your freedom. She’s gonna bear it for you. Gonna prove her mama’s wrong about you. After all, she’s got your babies and another one coming. Producing those power children for the next generation. For the protracted struggle.

  But how long’s this gonna last? Dope offers up the future: funk wears off. What else you got to offer? By the time it takes you by surprise, you know she’s found it all out yesterday. Oh, yes.

  So while we’re in the purple haze, let’s do some storytelling.

  Akagi has himself one righteous woman. It’s those righteous women you gotta hang on to, but it might not be possible after all. Maybe he met her in a more innocent state, but she’s a fast learner. Catches on. Figures out she’s got a place in the scheme of things.

  Every night, field marshal takes his ratty briefcase with his personal arsenal out someplace. Leaves her nursing the baby on the home front. She’s taking in the situation, and she knows this can’t be good, in the final analysis. She’s not fooled anymore by all that strutting machismo. She asks, “Where’re you going?” Quips, “Going to kill someone?”

  He grumbles like, what’s this woman know about taking care of business? “Tonight we’re packing. That’s all. We’re packing.”

  She gives him the eye with the smirk, and he leaves in a huff.

  Comes home at night with the same ratty briefcase. She asks like she’s distracted from her knitting, “Killed someone tonight?”

  He gives her the look. “We was packing is all. Everyone packing.”

  How many nights she’s got to sit home with the baby waiting for the field marshal to return with his ratty briefcase? One night he comes home, finds the door ajar. First time he has to really draw his weapon, kick the door aside, and jump around with his heart in his throat, thinking, what’s the door open for? She’d never leave it open in this neighborhood, not at this time of night, not with what’s been going down. He searches the house, kicking in the doors, checking every room like he’s in enemy territory, snuffing out a sniper. But it’s empty, and she’s gone.

  O.K., so much for the future you could predict. What happens next, and over time? Hasn’t happened yet, but you gonna find Akagi renting a room in the I-Hotel with the old Filipino and Chinese bachelors. Nothing strange about that. He’s a bachelor too. He’s like all the other activists down home with the tenants, working for their rights. Even though he’s been purged from the Party, he’s not like others to go wash his hands of everything, reject his beliefs. Where’s he gonna go anyway? Gonna keep working for the people.

  Things take their turn, but the mind is always helped by a little dust. Twinkle dust makes you fly. Steps out on the window ledge of his room on the second floor of the I-Hotel. Believes half of what he sees and none of what he hears. Trouble is, which half, and what does he hear? Looks out on the crowd moving slow and incrementally below. Traffic passing easy on Kearny. Across the street, familiar haunts—liquor store, pool hall, café with the gravy on the rice. Honk of cars and honk of old men coughing up yellow phlegm onto the sidewalk. Ukulele tunes waft up from Tino’s Barbershop just below his feet. Muffled sounds from the pool hall—soft clack of the cue balls hitting their mark. Go on, Akagi, take the next step. How much longer would you be mine? Windowsill’s a launching pad. Oooweee! This is it. The yin becoming the yang. Take it to next level.

  RG’s got his mind embracing the yin/yang, but he’s gotta admit, “Future looks bleak.”

  “You forget one thing.” Panther wags his finger. “Woman warrior.”

  All’s said and done, women of the lumpen don’t come away with nothing. Survivors. They catch their licks, but they’re gonna give ’em out too. For the protracted struggle.

  Tom: Today’s top story: Twenty-six-year-old Angela Davis, the once political philosopher at UCLA who was fired because of her affiliation with the Communist Party USA, was linked to the Marin County Courthouse shootout earlier this week. . . . We have Lisa Cornwaller in California with Governor Reagan. Lisa. . . . Lisa: Thanks, Tom. Governor Reagan, would you consider Angela Davis dangerous? Reagan: Yes, she is a Communist.

  —Channel 45, 6:00 PM News

  August 24, 1970

  I HOTEL

  Afterword

  In the 1990s, Amy Ling, then professor of English and Asian American literature at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, sent me a questionnaire she hoped would turn into an essay that would be part of a collection of essays by Asian American writers. The answers I returned disappointed Amy—she sent me a more full-bodied response written by another author. Comparing my work to the other author’s, it seemed to me that we both had answered everything with the same ideas, except my answers were in shorthand. I decided to answer Amy with something she really didn’t want at all, something she could reject outright. So I wrote an article about a book I’d never written. That led to thinking about that unwritten work. It was about the Asian American movement, mostly as I knew it in Los Angeles. But by 1997, I had come to live in Santa Cruz, and I thought I should explore the San Francisco/East Bay area where my parents grew up and where I was born. I shifted to a new center for this now real project: the International Hotel in San Francisco Manilatown/Chinatown, the site of political activism and community service for almost a decade until 1977, when residents of the hotel were forcibly evicted.

  The I-Hotel, as it was known to its residents and the greater city, housed mostly elderly Filipino and Chinese immigrant bachelors, men who
had come to work and make their fortunes prior to World War II and who, because of antimiscegenation laws, exclusion acts prohibiting Asian immigration, and a life of constantly mobile migrant labor, were unable to find spouses, have children, and to settle in the United States. In the 1960s and 1970s, the I-Hotel was sold to force the eviction of the residents and to redevelop the site as the extension of a West Coast Wall Street. In an effort to save the hotel and the surrounding Chinatown and Filipino communities, Asian American activists staged dramatic protests with thousands of participants and made the hotel a center for political activities and community service. The I-Hotel became a magnet for a multitude of political action groups in the San Francisco Bay Area, a center and symbol for the Asian American movement.

  Against the backdrop of the Vietnam War and the political and social changes of this period, Asian American students and community activists, influenced by the civil rights movement, the Black Panthers, and international revolutionary movements, gathered to create what became the Asian American, or Yellow Power movement. From this came Asian American studies, with departments in colleges and universities across the country, communes and cooperatives, drug rehabilitation programs, bookstores, newspapers and journals, theaters, filmmakers, cultural centers, artists, musicians, politicians, law cooperatives, educators, historians, underground Marxist-Leninist-Maoist collectives, and literary and political movements. For the Asian American community, this was a flourishing time of new creative energy and political empowerment.

  Since beginning this project, I have spent countless hours in Asian American archives, wandered around the old brick-and-mortar sites, read books, viewed films, listened to music, speeches, and rallies, and had both long and short conversations with over 150 individuals from that time. Researching a period in this way is passionately involving, so much so that you begin to live it and to forget why you began the project in the first place. At some point, I realized that I was supposed to be writing a novel, and the research had to stop.