By traci kato kiriyama
1)
writers are sometimes asked
to consider the question,
“Who is your ‘public’?”
my Public
seems to
change depending
on where the mic is placed
is that open mic hosted by
Asian American college students?
should I read this piece
for our performance at
Day Of Remembrance?
is this poetry reading
at a tiny library?
north of Colorado Boulevard?
on a Saturday morning?
but, I’m stubborn
and end up reading it all
wherever I am
so, really, the Preface to
a poem read aloud
is what changes
I suppose the Public
stays the same
(should stay!)
(can stay?)
(will stay.)
2)
At a poetry reading I attended
last week
there was a man who
did not know what I meant by
“American Concentration Camps
for Japanese Americans
during World War II”
He told me later he was raised in
California
His face was far too full of wrinkles
He had too many sunspots
way too much white hair
for someone who
had never heard of
Manzanar
3)
This is all I wanted to say,
without any preface:
In a town called Independence
up in the Owens Valley
a small museum
holds a panoramic photograph
of the farmers in Manzanar
during the war
you can only see it once a year
when it is put out on display
for a Pilgrimage
the descendants make
to meet with the ghosts
who hover around
the fences of Inyo County
the spirits usher us around their
former camp
with haughty high noon
exhales
tempting us toward the
streams where their
hands once
proffered treasure
to the puzzled desert
and made introductions
between cherries and bark
wisteria and wire
eggplant and tumbleweed
cucumber and dust
the river was aloof
to most but nothing
more than a challenge
to the farmers who were
masters at designing
a maze
that could irrigate
distant wishes into
dreams realized
right through the
vast, abandoned domain
underneath their green feet
turning once pitied dirt
into the richest
of soil
they did this
for their sons
like my father
who ran with friends
from mess hall
to mess hall
come dinner time
to see the
new crops
sprout on
plate after plate
after plate
they did this
so the rumors
of wartime officials
stealing meat rations
would matter less
for their stoic daughters
like my mother
who even at 3 years of age
knew she wasn’t
supposed to learn the
meaning of seasons
while locked
up in a desert camp
the first time I made
pilgrimage to meet
Grandpa’s ghost
my brother pointed out
that photo
when you go to find it
look towards the very
center and you will
see a man in a
clean white t-shirt
and a long, thick,
black beard
in every other picture
taken of my grandfather
outside of camp
he was always
clean shaven
in a button down shirt
with rolled up sleeves
underneath a vest
or tie
ready for the business
he took from farm
to grocery store
now when I look at this
picture of the farmers
I wish it to be a digital photo
in a frame with a touch screen
so I could expand the image
with my fingers and zoom in
on the detail of his
face
I’d like to think I could
tell what was behind the
beard and confirm
what looks like a smile
for all the
glorious vegetation
posing so splendidly
in the foreground
what I can see is
the posture of a
proud spirit
a fierce farmer
and a man
who didn’t need to
be pretty for that
kind of place
that place
where the
farmers
like my
grandfather
who had nothing to
prove
and for no one else
but their families
raised
into a home
—
traci kato-kiriyama writes at open tables, counters and roads all over Los Angeles. She will be the opening reader this Sunday, March 16, at 2 p.m. at the USC Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena to celebrate the debut book release of “Fox Drum Bebop” (Kaya Press, April 2014), by 82-year-old Gene Oishi. Please join them along with Naomi Hirahara for a stimulating dialogue investigating the art of survival in contemporary Japanese American literature. The event is free with admission to the museum. Reservations: (626) 449-2742, ext. 20.