by John Endo Greenaway
Pichi pichi, chappu chappu. It hardly ever rains here. Funny how I hated the rain so much when I was a child and now I miss it sorely. A body isn’t meant to brittle dry. It’s hard to keep the words flowing if you have to lick them, moisten them with your tongue before they leave your lips. The days stretched long and wet when the rains fell in our childhood waiting. But Okāsan would tell us tales.
Mukāshi, mukāshi, ōmukashi . . .
Okāsan told us stories in our childhood waiting, but the tales she told didn’t have the power to save us. Funny how parents tell teaching stories yet they never bother to taste the words they utter. How the words are coated with honey and nectar but the flesh inside is weak and hollow. Let me tell you a different story.
from Chorus of Mushrooms
by Hiromi Goto, NeWest Press 1994
Hiromi Goto’s first book, Chorus of Mushrooms, features a spare, poetic prose that earned it the 1995 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best First Book in the Caribbean and Canadian Region. It was also a co-winner of the Canada-Japan Book Award. The book, now in its fifth printing, has been published in Israel, the UK and Italy.
Chorus of Mushrooms was followed by the children’s novel The Water of Possibility; The Kappa Child, which won the 2001 James Tiptree Jr. Memorial Award; and Hopeful Monsters, a short story collection. A new novel for young adults, Half World, will be published by Penguin Canada in 2009.
Goto was born in Japan, but immigrated to Canada with her family at a young age. The family lived in the British Columbia’s Fraser Valley before relocating to southern Alberta, where Goto began her writing career.
In addition to her novels, she co-wrote the award-winning script for the Alison Loader’s NFB short animation film, Showa Shinzan with Jesse Nishihata and was the 2003/04 Writer-in-Residence in a joint residency with the Emily Carr Institute of Art and Design, the University of Northern British Columbia and Powell Street Festival. Her short stories, critical writing and poetry have appeared in a wide variety of publications, including Ms magazine, Nature, and the Oxford University Press anthology, Making A Difference.
As a creative writing facilitator, Goto has worked with learners of all ages and has read and lectured at institutions throughout Canada, the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, Taiwan, Germany and Japan.
This year, Goto was selected to be writer-in-residence at the Vancouver Public Library, a program that is now in its third year.
IN HER OWN WORDS
The following interview was conducted via e-mail on the first snowy weekend of the season.
I was born in England, moved to eastern Canada when I was three and then relocated to the coast when I was ten. So when people ask me where I’m from I tend to recite those facts, ending with the statement that I’m “basically from here”. I see from your bio that you were born in Japan, moved to the west coast when you were three and then relocated to southern Alberta when you were about ten. What do you say when people ask you where you’re from? Or rather, where do you see yourself as coming from? And how does that impact your sense of identity?
It depends upon the context of the question. Who is asking me where I’m from? Why would they ask? Does it matter? I suppose it matters to the person who is asking; perhaps it is a way for them to try to understand who and what you are. It often becomes a nervous question when it’s coming from whiteness. Because many white Canadians configure their presence in Canada as being of Canada, and would not think of themselves as being from somewhere else (as they, indeed, are) as much as brown people are from elsewhere. What they really want to know is, “What is your cultural and racial background?” Again, why the curiosity? Whenever I am asked this I ask it back. When people ask me where I’m from, I have many answers. They are all true!
I see myself coming from an immigrant family. My parents and grandmother were Japanese and then they immigrated and became Japanese Canadian. I see myself, firstly, being the child of my parents. I have been informed by their cultural background. Seeped in it in many ways. My sense of identity is not static. It is in constant flux because identity can also be influenced (as well as influence) by the context. I am not the same person in Japan, as I am in Burnaby. I am not separate from my environment; there is a play between self and place. This isn’t to say that there isn’t a core that is solid and present. Only that the social performance of presented identity is like a dance. The core is, for me, private. I don’t know if it has a name. The social identities I inhabit and move in and among and between are feminist, JC, queer, woman, mother, etc.
I also read in your bio that your family moved from Langley to Nanton, Alberta so that your father could fulfil a dream of starting a mushroom farm. It seems to be rather an odd dream. Is there a story behind that?
Well, he actually had a mushroom farm in Langley, already, before moving to Nanton. The one in Nanton was bigger and more ambitious. I think my father was an odd dream . . . He lived exuberantly and noisily. A larger-than-life character.
Your grandmother, Naoe Kiyokawa, had a profound influence on you. In your first book, Chorus of Mushrooms, she is one of the characters in what you call a “retelling of personal myth.” You have even used her real name in the book. What was your relationship, and how did she influence you and your writing?
I used her real name (with her permission) because in researching folk tales of Japan I learned that folk legends originally started out as a “true event”. And, in the retelling, over decades and centuries, it became a legend. I was thrilled by that idea and wanted to turn my grandmother’s presence in a small town in Alberta into a contemporary legend without waiting for the centuries to pass. You can do that in fiction. That’s one of the thrills of this art form.
My Oba-chan was the foundation of our family. She was the cornerstone. The place of shelter in a storm. She is the toughest person I’ve ever known. And I have a profound respect for her strength, her fortitude. Her will was like a white light. She raised me and my sisters while my parents were busy at the farm. She was strict and consistent and taught us to be strong and generous through example. We were not the most grateful granddaughters when we were smaller. It’s only when we grow older that we begin to recognize greatness in the most humble of places.
My grandmother is a model, for me, on how to conduct oneself in life. And the example she set of how to keep on going when there is ever so much more work to do; this has shown me how we are able to persist in the face of struggle and hardship. This includes writing. Sometimes it is the most difficult thing to be writing. It is not easy.
I read Kerri Sakamoto’s The Electrical Field a few years ago and I was struck by a pervading sadness and sense of inevitability that seemed to permeate the work. I got some of that from Chorus of Mushrooms as well. I probably shouldn’t read too much into that and start making generalizations, although it does strikes me that both books are situated far away from the coast—yours in Alberta and Kerri’s in Ontario. Do you think there’s a Japanese Canadian “voice” when it comes to literature? And if so, do you think that it perhaps comes from being uprooted from a place that was beginning to feel like home?
I don’t know if I could claim that there is a JC “voice” when it comes to literature. Perhaps “voices”. . .. I actually bring a certain level of humor and levity to many of my fiction pieces. I would say there tends to be a larger number of “sad” texts than “happy” ones insomuch as narrative relies heavily on a model of conflict. There is pathos and seemingly dramatic significance to tragedy. So there tends to be far more tragic novels and novels with ambiguous endings than stories that are, well, “happy”. This is pervasive across most works that aspires to be “literary”. Now, we might look into the notions of wabi sabi and examine if such a sensibility exists in some/many of JC texts. It would be an interesting graduate studies project!
The Internment of Japanese Canadians during the Second World War has had a huge long-term impact upon Japanese Canadian culture and identity and the reverberations continue to be felt. I don’t think that this dispersal has given rise to a JC literary voice per se. The injustices experienced by JCs during WWII has scarred the JC psyche, so it seems natural to me that there will be creative work being developed that revisits this site in some way. Being able to write about the wrongs is a way of healing and educating and growing. But I don’t think dispersal defines JC literary “voice”.
A friend of mine, who happens to be a very good writer, claims that he’s not bothered at all by the fact that we seem to have entered a post-literate age. I, on the other hand, find it sad that a lot of people these days just can’t write a sentence to save their lives. Maybe that makes me a snob and a throwback. What is your sense of the state of literacy in this country?
I think that there is certainly more funding needed to support literacy and the school system. Education and health care is always so under-funded.
In terms of being in a post-literate age, I think current technologies have had a huge impact upon things like spelling, grammar and diction; particularly to blame are text messaging and instant messaging. Expedience seems to be a defining factor in the formation of this new “kwikspeak”. I understand that language is always in a state of flux. We certainly don’t speak and write English as people did a hundred years ago. That said I really find “lol” to be rather annoying and “CU” and “thot” to be quite awful . . .
I haven’t read all of your books, but the early ones at least are very rooted in your identity as a Japanese Canadian, and also as a woman. That sounds rather obvious; clearly you are a woman, but I feel something more than that, that you really delve into the femaleness of your characters. I’m not being very articulate here—do you see what I’m saying? And how do you respond to that?
My earlier projects did focus a great deal upon Japanese Canadian identities and the experiences of being a woman. This was because there was still an enormous lack of diverse JC experiences being represented in popular culture and literature from a JC feminist perspective. I grew up watching images and reading about highly feminized and Orientalized Japanese women. These images persist to this day. I am sick of white men and their fetish for geisha. I abhor it. Chorus of Mushrooms was written as a bellow of frustration, a rally cry for change, a call to see things in a different way.
I don’t know about “femaleness”. . . I do focus on the female body. The body is our first interface with an external world. It is also a signal that is read in diverse ways. Gender and gender codes are imposed upon us at birth, as soon as we are thrust into blue or pink snugglies. I am highly conscious of how these signals are read and how people behave in their assumptions surrounding “appropriate”(sic) gender-divided social conduct. So often people think in terms of “normal” and “not normal”, without considering or realizing that these notions are taught and maintained socially and institutionally. It is a constructed reality that subjugates and dis-empowers women. A sexist society harms not just women, but also all of the men, as well as people who are intersex.
I’m interested in writing about women’s live and women’s experiences and the narratives I often delve into are identities that are not reflected in mainstream culture. My writing is women-focused.
Not long ago I was part of a panel discussion talking about leadership within the Asian community and one of the other panelists made the point that all hyphens should be thrown away and we should all consider ourselves simply Canadian. It’s not anything we haven’t heard before, but it got me thinking. What is the link between culture and race and citizenship? Why do I sit up and take notice when you, a person who just happens to share ties to a common country, in this case Japan, becomes writer-in-residence at the library? Why do I follow the exploits of hockey star Paul Kariya with special interest? Why do I care when David Suzuki gains increasing stature on the world stage? Is this a form of tribalism? Am I being chauvinistic? It’s a funny thing—almost like a flip side to racism. I mean, I consider myself pretty much a Canadian through and through, yet I find myself taking special pride in the accomplishments of fellow Nikkei.
I have a mistrust of nationalism. It encourages a kind of group mentality that can be used to manipulate the masses. This can be profoundly dangerous for anyone who is not seen as part of the “in” group.
I suspect that we feel a kind of satisfaction and pride when Japanese Canadians do well because we share a cultural and racial history. Is this tribalism? I don’t know. What I do know is that Japanese Canadians, along with numerous other racial minorities, were not treated in the same way as white Canadians. From limitations to immigration, the Internment, to getting the right to vote, JCs have been oppressed in a systemically racist nation. I think this oppressive past influences us to take pride in the works of JCs. It has not been easy and we have worked hard to succeed.
I could call you a Japanese Canadian writer. I could call you a Canadian writer. I could call you a feminist writer. Or perhaps simply a writer. Do labels limit us or do they give us a comfortable framework to exist within, a sense of belonging to something? What do you think?
Labels can be problematic because they seek to categorize and then the label can be used against you. To say that I’m a Japanese Canadian writer might give people the impression that I’m only writing about identity-based narratives. I find this annoying. A Japanese Canadian writer could write about a broad range of topics, but she might not be perceived as doing so if she self identifies as JC. Despite this frustration, I do self-identify as a Japanese Canadian writer and feminist writer because for me it’s important to create alliances and community awareness. I am not at all comfortable imagining myself as some sort of “universal” writer. I am very much aware that the writer’s subjectivity saturates her work, no matter what the topic is about. I don’t see myself fixed in one site in terms of my writing. If I do have a sense of belonging to something, it would be a diverse group of politically engaged writers who do not shy away from social justice in their artistic practice.
You’ve just started a four-month position as writer-in-residence at the Vancouver Public Library. How does one qualify for a job like that?
The writer should have published several books and have a solid cv. She should also have worked with community and have experience working with aspiring writers in workshops. In the application process the writer is asked to propose a community-based project for their public time during the residency. I proposed that I would like to conduct a writing workshop for Filipino Canadian youth. Filipino Canadian writers have not hit the Canadian literary scene, yet, despite being a very big ethnic minority group in the major Canadian cities. When there is such a gap, it means that there are barriers in place. Since proposing this project I’ve leaned that Filipino Canadian youths in Vancouver has the highest drop-out rate. This, again, is a sign that there’s something systemically having negative impact upon Filipino Canadians.
I’m curious about what it means to be writer-in-residence. On the VPL website it says that you will spend 75% of your time writing. Does that mean literally writing “in residence” as in on the premises? Do they put you on display and you sit at your computer and type?
Yes, I actually have an office space on site, and I’ve been writing inside my glass room. I like to imagine that I’m a gorilla in my habitat. <g>
It’s actually a luxury to have an office space separate from my home. I can focus on the writing without the distractions of the needs of the domestic space.
The other 25% of your time is supposed to be spent “mentoring emerging writers, conducting workshops and participating in other activities to share her experience with the broader community as well as communities not typically exposed to Canadian literature.” That seems like a pretty big mandate. Say I’m a young, or perhaps not-so-young, aspiring writer. I make an appointment with you at your office on the fifth floor of the downtown branch. What happens then?
An aspiring writer who would like to receive feedback on their writing can send their work by email, mail, or drop it off at the central library. Unfortunately there are only so many time slots available for feedback; it’s first come first served. So people should act sooner if they want a spot. I go over the submission and then critique it. The writer should have mentioned what kind of feedback they are seeking. Ie. Is the pacing effective? Does the point of view make sense? What can I do to make this writing stronger? How is the dialogue? Is the character believable, etc. When I have finished going over the writing I contact the writer to book at time for them to come in and we go over the work together.
You mentioned the other day that fiction sometimes palls and that you’re working on a longer prose poem piece. Your fiction is very tactile and not necessarily linear in the classical sense of the word—do you see this as taking that a step further and relieving yourself of the strictures of the narrative model?
Narrative fiction has to have a particular form. My novels for adults tend to be non-linear, but it’s still necessary to move within the vehicle of plot. This seems fairly obvious. How can there be a story without a story? But the conventions of story dictates a kind of binding to causality that I find, sometimes, to be creatively mind-numbingly dull. It begins to feel so pedestrian. With poetry I feel like there is more possibility to play with form and meaning. The causal is not prescribed. I can use it if I want, but it’s not a demand. If we compare writing to music, maybe writing poetry is more like playing jazz.
Do you have a sense of yourself as “progressing” as a writer? And if so, where is the progression taking you? Do you have a sense of that?
I truly hope that I keep on learning and growing and pushing my craft into new terrain. I’m frightened of the idea that I’ll start writing the same thing over and over again. If that happens I should just stop. Writing is an art form. I want to keep on pushing myself out of comfortable spaces and challenge my understanding of what I think I know. I’ve recently started doing collaborative projects and this is very exciting as working with other artists definitely takes you to places you wouldn’t have gone by yourself. I see myself doing more collaborations and I also see myself traveling to other places. The world is a big place and there is so much to learn, share and experience. This all filters back into the writing.