Suzanne Hartmann: The Nail That Sticks Out

by John Endo Greenaway

In April 1942, Suzanne Hartmann’s mother, Kathy, was an eight-month-old baby when she and her family were torn from their home in Victoria, British Columbia and shipped across the Strait of Georgia to Hastings Park in Vancouver. Men and boys over 18 were stacked like firewood in the Forum, while women and children were relegated to the livestock building, herded into unsanitary animal stalls where the whole building was permeated with the stink of manure. Families were kept there for months at a time before being uprooted again and sent east. Kathy and her parents were sent to Popoff, a prison camp in the Slocan Valley, where they shared a three-room shack with her dad’s family until the end of the war.

As the Second World War ended, given the choice of relocating east of the Rockies or being deported to Japan, thousands of Japanese Canadians scattered across the country and went about the business of rebuilding their lives. They were careful not to concentrate in identifiable communities, but rather assimilated into the mainstream society. High intermarriage rates soon followed and with them an erosion of identity. The internalized shame of those wartime years manifested in a pervasive and sometimes claustrophobic silence. The widespread loss of heritage language impeded communication, which included the sharing of stories and contributed to strained generational relationships. Eastern and Western values coexisted in an uneasy relationship.

Like many other Japanese Canadians, Suzanne’s mother and her family set down roots in Toronto and choose to remain in the east even after restrictions were lifted in April 1949. They settled into a new way of being, far from their West Coast homes and communities and navigated a new world, breathing different air. As refugees within their own country, Japanese Canadians were only grudgingly admitted into Toronto at first. As the painful memories of the war began to recede, Canada and the rest of the world began to adapt and open up to a new postwar reality. By the time Suzanne was born, Japanese Canadians had begun to feel more at home, jobs and accommodations were no longer shut to them, their kids accepted into universities. The prewar years on the coast and the disruptive wartime years with the constant uncertainty and uprooting began to feel like a far-off dream.

Suzanne new book, The Nail That Sticks Out: Reflections on the Postwar Japanese Canadian Community, is a hybrid memoir that examines an evolving community from different angles, through memories of places and events while tackling issues of identity, belonging and racism. The fourth-generation narrative of the Japanese Canadian experience celebrates family, places and traditions. It includes portraits of family and community members — people who, in rebuilding their lives, made lasting contributions to the Toronto landscape and triumphed over adversity.

Suzanne Hartmann, five or six years old, circa early 70s, with her grandmother Yaeki at her house on Browning Avenue in Toronto.

Bulletin Interview

Suzanne Elki Yoko Hartmann

In reading your book, I was able to relate to some elements of your experiences of growing up mixed race in Canada and not so much to others. I wonder if some of that is about growing up at different ends of the country. I like the term hybrid memoir. I’ve not come across it before. It’s especially fitting I suppose for someone like you and me, who embody the notion of duality through the very nature of our existence. Can you explain what a hybrid memoir is?

I’m glad the work resonated with you and hope there’s some small nugget every reader can relate to. Traditional memoirs usually focus on one person and their key moments in time. Thanks to the opportunity to pursue an MFA in creative non-fiction, I was able to gain insights into various writing techniques and methods to do more than simply tell family stories from the past.

Duality is one of many facets, which influence the work. Because of my background in media, I wanted to provide a resource based on facts. Using my skills as a researcher and fact checker, I investigated and verified memories. In efforts to uncover my history, I discovered a dark void of information – files were lost or missing, early accounts had not been recorded and errors existed in record keeping.

With the loss of each Japanese Canadian survivor in my family, I felt compelled to preserve these cultural memories for future generations. Countless unsung heroes have made significant contributions to our community and I felt it was important to document their stories as well. So the work expanded to include the historical accounts of other people and places that had intersected with my life.

A fair bit of the book is devoted to the struggles you’ve had during your life with the question of identity – how you do or don’t fit in. When I was younger, I wished I looked like the popular blond boy in my class. And then when I was older and first getting involved with the Japanese Canadian community, I wished I had straight-black hair and looked like all my new friends. It took me quite a long time to come to terms with, and then embrace, my hybrid identity. Do you think it would have been easier for you if you had been full Japanese?

It’s funny how we always think things are better or easier for others, when we all have burdens to carry. Fully Japanese individuals have their own set of issues – particularly when faced with an all-white environment. In contrast mixed-race people like us straddle different worlds. For some, this can be seen as an advantage of expanded options, for others, a nightmare or curse. Context and place are key and play a huge role in how each situation or encounter unfolds.

My family instilled in us the Japanese ideas of gaman (endurance) and ganbare (perseverance) from an early age. Despite everything that happened to them, my grandparents were proud to be Japanese. Through their living example and commitment to family and community, they shared their rich cultural heritage. Although I might not have appreciated it then, as a yonsei I’ll be forever grateful for these valuable lessons.

Sure, there were times when I felt racially ambiguous and not fully accepted or part of either the Japanese Canadian or mainstream community. But this only fueled my ongoing desire and interest in learning and education, which allowed me to gain perspective through exposure to different cultures and ideologies.

Nakamura family, Salt Spring Island, 1928. Photo courtesy Suzanne Hartmann.

In a presentation I gave several years back, I asked the question, “how did we get from here to there? From ‘enemy alien’ to ‘model minority,’ from ‘the nail that sticks up gets hammered down’ to ‘the squeaky wheel gets the grease.’” It’s quite a feat, I think, to make that transition in a relatively short amount of time. You position yourself as the nail that sticks up, or in your case, out. We need disruptors in our community. If we’re all just nails lying flush to the surface, it’s too easy to settle. What do you take away that’s positive from your proclivity for questioning the status quo and pushing the envelope? How has it served you in life?

Over the years, I’ve grappled with these same questions. As children we’re taught to be obedient and to listen to our strict parents who themselves were raised with Japanese ideas of conformity and blending in. Yet living in Canada we’re fed the North American dream and led to believe anything is possible – we only need to distinguish ourselves with achievements and rewards will follow. How do we reconcile these contrasting ideas?

In a way, I feel the role of being a rebel was thrust upon me. Growing up, I was often branded as an outsider – and the nail that stood out – just because of the way I looked. Being “othered” in this way forces you to learn how to advocate for yourself since you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Fortunately, resilience has been built into our DNA. After all, my Japanese Canadian ancestors had to completely rebuild their lives after having everything taken away. Instead of retreating or “lying down” as you put, they got up and worked twice as hard to get ahead. I must have inherited their fighting spirit.

The final chapter, Rage, was the most interesting to me. You talk about seeing Jay Hirabayashi performing butoh in Rage with Kokoro Dance at the Jack Singer Concert Hall in 1989. I was on the stage that night playing taiko for the piece. It had a lifelong impact on me and I’m surprised and pleased that Jay’s performance had such a powerful impact on you and others. I’m a big believer in the transformative power of art and how, at its best, it provides us a window into something beyond the everyday, a window into something deeper, should we choose to go there. In that chapter, having discussed the sometimes fraught nature of working in community, you write, “Maybe, as JCs, we’re not the model minority others believe us to be. Rather than perpetuate any myths, maybe we mirror our own dysfunctional relationships with uncanny precision.” How has writing this book, and having to articulate what it means to be in community, changed your relationship with your story?

After knowing you for all these years, it was another serendipitous moment when I discovered you were one of the performers in the landmark production Rage. It’s amazing how our paths have repeatedly crossed through our work in the community.

As artists and writers, we should use our voices to amplify and uplift one another and make a statement rather than work at cross purposes. I had a tremendous amount of respect for my grandfather. Although he was a dignified man of few words, he always spoke his mind and stood up for what he believed in. His unwavering acceptance had a huge influence on me. Just like him, we need to be willing to speak up and ensure our issues are heard.

It’s time we embraced collaboration and started a fresh dialogue. We need to shift our focus, not to deny our trauma and shame but to begin a new narrative. Let us share our pride in the accomplishments of our ancestors and celebrate how despite hardships, our story is a triumph over adversity.

Was there anything that surprised you in pulling together these memories and stories?

I never intended to tell the wartime story since there are many Japanese Canadian narratives that have done a great job covering this material. During my MFA, it became evident many Canadians and new immigrants were completely unaware of our experiences of incarceration, dispossession and relocation. In effect, it forced me to tell the story of what happened to my grandparents to lay to groundwork and provide context to the next-generation story.

You must have done a lot of research for the book, as you weave in a lot of history among the personal stories. What did you learn that had a big impact on you?

Everything.

Having been the nail that sticks out for so many years, have you found a place of equilibrium? Are you comfortable being in community? Or is there something to be said for refusing to toe the line, for being the grit in the sandpaper?

Embracing our ikigai or purpose is an ongoing, spiritual quest – one that is never completed but merely evolves to another stage. As I grow older and hopefully wiser, I’ve realized how short our time here is and what a gift it is to be alive. Our connection to nature, the environment and other people is what is truly important. Yet if we look around, the degradation of our beautiful planet and the disconnect and lack of compassion between people shows otherwise. We need to tune out the distractions and turn our attention to where it truly matters.

Injustice is everywhere and how we respond is what matters. Key landmarks in Toronto, such as the Centennial Temple Bell in Ontario Place and the original Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre, are being lost. By removing these historical buildings, our community contributions to the Canadian landscape are effectively being erased – and our presence at risk of being forgotten.

Don’t we all want to have a sense of belonging and community connection? To do this we need to strengthen and grow our existing bonds and also empower the next generation. For our youth to be proud of their identity, it is essential they have a firm understanding of our history and culture. They must be grounded in the past before they can soar into the future.

The Nail that Sticks Out: Reflections on the Postwar Japanese Canadian Community
by Suzanne Elki Yoko Hartmann
Dundurn Press | Available in various formats through Dundurn Press and all major bookstores and online outlets