Vasquez Rocks

We were headed toward a distant cluster of cottonwood trees, which in the desert signifies permanent water, a lush pocket of congregating life. I had pointed it out to my cousin, Cheyenne, a hiking partner non paraleil, for her interest in going off trail, wading into the geology, discovering the raw, untouched places no path leads to. We were improvising our way there, along the spines of fractured ridges, eroded boulders, wind burnt caves. Rosa was too, and she and I were carrying our babies in our arms.

Now, we had meandered to a bad spot, which I had just noted to Rosa, who carried our 8 month old daughter, Bella, a few yards ahead of me. She worked her way eagerly, almost blindly, to a spot where one could edge down a shelf- a shelf strewn with chips of granite, like loose tile, on a hard, slippery rock, to a level spot beneath.

Rosa had no fear carrying the 8 month old on the lip of granite, and silently passed the Bellita from her pair of hands to my cousin's, Cheyenne's, who had already clambered down, needing both hands and feet to do so.

There was an elusive, diffuse point to being on the edge of a cliff carrying one's progeny;  improv. That is, the joyful sensation of following one's instincts. There's nature and art that promotes true freedom, true creativity, true, in-the moment-ness, and after that, for me, it's degrees of illusion. This meander through the ruptured and distended tectonic plates of Vasquez Rocks was long views toward distant destinations, and thousands of snap judgements about how to get there, with potential diversions at every turn. It was this creative whim which lead Rosa to this point.

I approached less whimsically, though certain of a routine, careful descent, when a cliff edge crumbled under my foot, my 2 year old daughter tucked under one arm. 

Time stopped, I tumbled toward the edge in a small cloud of falling granite. In front of me, I could see a massive rock spinning edgewise down, toward Rosa and the baby, and I reached for it, slapping it as hard as I could with the ends of three fingers of my right hand, trying to re-route it. At the same time, I was falling onto my left rib cage, against which my two year old daughter was held, tightly, like a football in my left arm. My elbow caught the ground, hard.

I imagined righting myself, so that no matter how far the fall, I'd land feet first, and be able to collapse, maybe breaking ankles and hips, maybe a bone in my arm, instead of landing sideways, crushing my ribs, internal organs, smashing my head on rock. I imagined making sure that my body was between the earth and Ariana's, so that i would cushion her fall with my body..

A woman screamed..

 The flush of granite rock and gravel travelled silently through thirty feet of air, and its clatter on solid ground echoed up the walls of the small ravine below.

Two seconds bloated into an eternity, and I found myself on my back, stopped, my feet and butt holding everything into place, a crying baby in my arms, a torn, aching left elbow, a woman, Rosa, screaming that she could not get down, that she was scared, and, strangely, tattered fingertips.

At the moment, I shrugged off my good fortune, relieved that my daughter wasn't even scratched, but as we continued our walk through the recently wet ravines and cliff faces, she said, "Daddy, you fell down a mountain! I fell down a mountain! I'm scared!"and the moment came back to me in its adrenalized delerium, where the bleary details were unclear.

Above is the best description I could muster.

I asked Rosa what she saw, and she said, there was a look, a startled look on my face, like I was thinking I would die, and that I was holding a huge rock in one hand, and Ariana in the other. And she asked me why I was trying to carry that rock.

Her description made me laugh...how could it look like I was carrying a huge rock, much bigger than I could actually carry, while sliding down the edge of the cliff?

From the safe, conjectural world of hind sight, (and my cousin agreed,) I looked like I was holding the rock in my hand because everything, the rocks, the humans,  moved down the hill at the same speed. What I remember thinking was a slap, was probably an extended shove, which deliberately moved the rock from its original trajectory. My hand did look like it was holding the rock in that split second.

In the end, it was probably the rock which saved my, and Ariana's, ass.

Reaching out to knock the small boulder from hitting Rosa and Bellita gave me something heavy to push against- that even though the rock was in motion, it absorbed my fall, and my shove pushed me backward just enough to land cleanly on the edge.

Miraculous, that an instinct to protect others before oneself could lead to self-preservation.

Still in one piece...

JP

1942 to 2010 - congressional medal of honor for JA

To continue the last blog, I learned that, today, Congress awarded Medals of Honor to the Japanese American troops who fought for the US Army in World War Two (in France, and Germany) while their families were incarcerated in "interment camps" (In the United States) Heralded as patriotism at its apogee: that grown men would fight for the nation that jailed their mothers and sisters- and would have jailed them unless they were willing to fight on enemy soil- the reward comes after a 68 year hiatus- meaning that the men who fought, and survived, are most likely in their late 80's now.

Surely, after the decades of commitment it required to build the political capital to reify such an act, it is truly an honor, mixed with relief, that one's sacrifice was recognized.

However, this blog is about to turn into a personal reflection on this history. It is a painful surgery to unsuture wounds now covered by scar and callous.

2010 + 1942= 1984

2010. Kubrick.

1942. Lucas. (Or is it Spielberg? Sometimes I get those two mixed up.)

And how can I leave out Orwell's 1984?

To explain what these years, (not the films), have in common with the book (not the year), I have to begin with the story of my grandma- Kikuko Nakao.

Kikuko Nakao was born in 1920, on a small island off the coast of California. It was pristine, with massive runs of bonito and mackeral off its beaches. Halibut and perch were easily caught from the shore. A short swim across an adjacent channel would get an enterprising swimmer to the growing municipality of Long Beach, known at that time for its...long beach.

Terminal Island, as it is called today, was then called Furusato, and for decades my grandmother, along with her family and approximately 3,000 other residents, formed a bustling community. Many were immigrants from Japan, though most had children born on this island, who were thus American citizens.  All spoke Japanese as a first language, though it mutuated into a unique dialect of its own, a "Janglish", so to speak, and the island was an isolated world centered around the tuna factories, for whom many worked for, or supplied tuna to as fisherman, to make their living.

Their community followed Tuna Street, the spine of the community. Along it, as with any small community, were the typical Houses of Worship, Associations, schools, businesses, all of which supported the culture and the values of the residents.

In this case, the enduring center of the city was the hardware and grocery stores, from which island traffic,  mostly on foot, though bikes and a few autos also prevailed, circulated.

By all accounts, it was a nice place to grow up- safely absconded from the rest of America, and living in orderly, intimate rows of homes, where everyone knew their neighbors.

However, my grandmother's father passed away when she was in her teens, and her life in the factories began at an early age. By the time she was twenty, she was not married, and instead of being able to pursue her studies, she had taken on the role of primary breadwinner for her family, helping her mother- a teacher at the elementary school, raise the younger brothers and sisters.

Locally, the Japanese community was tolerated as contributing, though unassimilated, neighbors. Though Terminal Island kids went to school on the mainland, they came home to "Little Hokkaido" and played mainly with each other. The fisherman and factory workers worked hard, were disciplined, and took lower wages than their white counterparts, so for the most part, Van De Kamp, and other canneries, were delighted to be working with the Terminal Island Japanese.

In fact, throughout California, Japanese farmers and fishermen were becoming succesful. A Truck farming industry was developing on the backs of Japanese labor, and such success was arousing a Nativist rage. How can these Japs keep getting more and more land? was the thinking, getting richer and richer?

Legislation outlawing the purchase of land by Japanese was enacted. Movements to limit Japanese to small ghettoes also followed. REntal of lands was also limited to 2 years, meaning family farms could not persist in one location.

And so when Pearl Harbor was hit by the Japanese Imperial Army, to preemptively cripple the US Navy nestled in the Hawaiian Islands, and the USS Arizona was sunk, despite early warnings, the match hit the tinder that had been building over the years.

In 1942, Executive Order 9066 was infamously passed, decalring that all residents of Japanese ancestry along the West Coast of the United States be given 48 hours to pack up what belongings they cold carry with them, and enter "relocation camps."

Consequently, 120,000 Japanese, the vast majority of whom were citizens of the United States, (and supposedly with all the rights that US citizens enjoy), were moved from their homes along the Pacific Coast, to desert wastelands (often in Native Reservations) ranging from Arkansas to Idaho.

My grandma was one of these 20,000. Kikuko Tanamachi, nee' Kikuko Nakao, was born on Terminal Island, worked the Van De Kamp tuna factory to help put her brothers and sisters through school, and was transformed by EO #9066 from a "US Citizen" to an "Enemy Alien" in the slash of a pen stroke. And in the space of a year, she had moved from factory worker, supporting her family, to "intern" at Rohwer, Arkansas, an area still defined by its proximity to untilled swamp land.

And what of Terminal Island? Today, it is surrounded by the largest port in America- Long Beach Port, concreted over, and blacktopped, surrounded by the nation's most polluted waters. A naval air field is built on one corner, and a penitentary is built on one corner of a sheet of concrete that has no other use expect the occasional transfer of cargo from boat to truck.

And what of the Japanese? Well, in my family, there is exactly one full blood Japanese male, and the rest of Kikuko's grandchildren are mixes of Japanese and German, or Japanese and Mexican. None of us speak Japanese. And only a few of us have even visited Terminal Island, let alone Japan. Our assimilation is complete. Our ethnic identity comes more from having non-white racial features, than being born into a Japanese dominated household, or Japanese influenced community.

Many sociologists have claimed that the high rates of outmarriage in the JA community, and decisions made by parents to not teach their children the Japanese language came from the experience of being vulnerable outsiders, and the drive to be "American" was a rational consequence to help their children "succeed."

So, that was 1942. What of 2010? And how does any of this relate to 1984?

More later...

Music Review #1: Subatomic Sound System

Not many know "the Emch."

But he's legendary.

His name alone (Emch) has been the subject of phonetic discourses, beginning predicatably, "What the F.. kind of name is that?"

Emch.

It has been shouted in households across the nation, as a non-sensical, ejaculatory uluation.

The word "Emch" has been used as a verb.

"In tiger skin loin cloth, he Emched his way across the jungle canopy."

Or gerunds...

"Damn, that's some filthy Emching right there."

Maybe that's why he goes by the name of Subatomic Sound System these days.

Cuz the Emch is a sensitive soul. The Emch is an artist. The Emch is a lover and a fighter. The Emch stands for entertainment that improves the planet, and expands your mental horizons.

And Subatomic Sound System has a new albumn out; a concetration of nectars that the Emch has been harvesting for the last two decades.

Take dub reggae, like Pablo Augustus, or Lee Scratch Perry,  or newer, Rusko, then, add avant garde electronic sensibilities, say, Flying Lotus, and even 70's Miles Davis, On the Corner era, and you're getting close.

The guy has been collecting sound since the early 80's in Seattle Wa., where sanctuary and sanity were first discovered in the meliflous riffing of Randy Rhoads, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Manitas de Plata. From there, music lead him from diverse local bands like the U-Men and Killgore Trout, to the world, like Fela Kuti. I have a hard time finding music he hasn't heard, so I often challenge myself to do so- (and yeah, recently, I introduced him to Smood, and I always like beating him to the punch. In the past, I got him into Jane's Addiction. I take credit for Eddie Palmieri, and Omar Sosa, too.)

Needless to say, the guy personifies a love of music in all its variety, only insisting that it has soul.

His new albumn certainly has that.

In fact, his eclecticism finally gets served in all its variety,  pairing both Lee Scratch Perry, the dub pioneer heemself, and David Lynch, the avant garde film maker, with badass Jamaican chant masters like Anthony B.

You won't really know what to think on the first listen, because you haven't really heard stuff like it before. but after a third listen, your ear accomodates the poly-sonic vibe, senses the innate ruminations on peace and justice, and creates a desire for equally strong elixer, and an exploratory dance floor with like minded argonauts.

So, check it out. The Emch-neesh is for real.

http://www.kidult.com/news/entertainment/david-lynch-and-lee-scratch-perry-get-remixed-in-dub

Franz Schurmann: American Soul

1997.

I was a whip snap recent hire at Pacifc News Service. I wanted to write. I wanted to edit. I had that young, blind burn to succeed in my chosen profession, and wanted to do it all. I was "back from Asia," I liked to say to anyone who listened- (though it was really just a year and a half in South Korea, Cambodia and a few vacations in Japan and Thailand. I knew little more than zip about "Asia.")

Sandy Close, who hired me, set up a lunch with her husband, Franz Schurmann, and it seemed clear I was about to be measured. Measured, meaning, analyzed, plumbed, then, categorized, perhaps for job placement.

Reading his bio, I saw he had authored several works on foreign policy, most often focused on US- China relations, and original, historical analysis of US involvement in South East Asia. Furthermore, he was a professor emeritus of the Cal Berkeley History department, and spoke a dozen or so languages. This linguistist's talent enabled him to read the "ethnic press" in its original, non-translated drafts, pushing him closer to the 360 degree worldview which journalism often espouses, but rarely, if ever, strive for.

That his studies illuminated the ideas and practices of Communism from a non-jingoistic perspective, meant I was meeting one of the great portals of non-American political though in America. Here, I mused, was a person capable, actually, truly capable, if put in the right place, of changing US foreign policy in a radical direction, a direction from which the world could benefit.

At that time, I should add, I thought that such a goal- changing US foreign policy- was the only goal worth achieving in the United States.

How nice to be hired into a news agency with this visionary's values at its core, I thought. Bringing the voices of the the subaltern into mainstream news, understanding the impact domestic policy decisions could have on the world at large, educating Americans by re-inventing news, and having educated opinions impact future policy decisions. Seemed pretty clear to me then.

I came prepared; with a pen and a notebook. I toyed with the idea of bringing a hand-held voice recorder to capture the conversation. Imagine, though, that I would be sitting in front of a guy who had written extensively, reported and authored op-eds for all of the major publications, who wrote extensively about any topic that piqued his curiosity. Who would want this guy to think you were a wanna be reporter? Could be embarassing.

I imagined a DC guy, capable of walking in front of the Senate and edifying on North Korean military capacity and the effects closing US bases in Okinawa would have on Taiwanese independence.

Well, he certainly was that. But he lacked bombast. He radiated humility. He had wisdom.

When Franz and I met, across a plate of lo mein, he cupped an ear and leaned toward me- so that I would not necessarily adress his eyes, but his ear. A bit pulpy- with a wealth of hair sprouting from the interior, it seemed  a geological feature countoured by voices, music, opinions, poetry, facts.

And throughout the meal, that ear invited me to speak about a bit of everything. My mother, my religious values, how I saw plastic surgery in South Korea, what of the skeleton trade in Cambodia, and did I know about the Hmong general Vang Pao who lived somewhere outside of Fresno yet was planning a coup d'etat in Laos as we spoke?

Over the next two and a half years, I learned  the true definition of an American intellectual, plying every day people with questions that got at the subjective truths we each carried within, then tying them to the great currents of history, rather than the less palpable smoke of political agendas. He was  a vast respository for odd facts, quirky historical moments, revisionist paradigms, what ifs, why nots, and imagine ifs, which grew from a lifetime of searching for what historical certainties there were.

His often rambling and seemingly untethered ruminations ended with surpising conslusions that often reminded me of Huxley's analysis of history, which I misquote now:

 "A study of history shows only that human beings are always doomed to ignore the lessons of history and repeat mistakes. And that is the great truth one learns from the study of history."

If all of America was driven by such curiosity, what a magnificent nation we would be- searching for the artists, the visionaries, the silver lining, the most truth one can find. Catching it all through a willing ear trained to the vocubles of 12 languages!

The last time I spoke with Franz directly, was on a morning walk through the Sunset, by his home, which was his daily routine. He dubbed them these morning walks his "talks with God," where the rumination could contend with the daily grind of a news organization, where the ideas concretized from that cauldron of memory and text. I was 26, a new father, and he in his 70's, and that morning, we discussed Anthony Poshepny, the unlikely inspiration for Colonel Kurtz, Marlon Brando's character in Apocolypse Now- a CIA vet who lived a mere mile away from us at that moment who had amongst other things, recruited the hill tribe soldiers in Laos to take up the US cause, and who had orchestrated the Dalai Lama's "kidnapping" from Tibet.

I enjoyed the way we discussed the truth behind myth, the forces which shaped myth, the individual imperfections of those individuals who achieved mythological status in our culture, or in our lives. No doubt, Franz was one of those mythical people to those of us who spent time with him.

Sadly, Franz has left us, and is perhaps meandering the cosmos on a journey for the curious, a final talk with his God, that I would love to hear him discuss once again.

In the meantime, I will toast Franz, daily, and remain a devoted meanderer, chasing the newest incarnation of the curious which always seem to show itself at just the right moment to keep life wondrous.

Jeremy Lin and Bruce Lee

All my life I've wondered exactly how the world's greatest martial artist (at least in film) could be Asian, but there had never been a dominant, cat quick, ninja-like point guard, akin to Allen Iverson, or Brandon Jennings- thin, wiry, yet strong and fluid, and SO quick you couldn't stop them.

As an Asian American who played a lot of basketball, and having grown up in Los Angeles- where there are pretty good Japanese-American basketball leagues, it was never clear to me why this would be so. Not even at the college level- (though there have been more sitings than normal in the last few years.)

In fact, the premier Asian talent in basketball is Yao Ming, then Yi Jianling, followed from afar by Sun Yue, who is the shortest of them all at 6'9". The influx of height definitely changed one of the most prevalent stereotypes about Asians- that we are short. (Even I theorized that Yao et al had been bioengineered by a selective breeding process engineered by the Chinese government, something which has yet to be proven; today I take the realistic tack that if there are 1 billion and counting individuals in China, then .001% of the population should fall into the 7 foot category.)

Aside from these tall guys though, there has not been a Bruce Lee type who has made it at the highest levels of basketball.

Some will point to Rex Walters, a first round draft pick out of Kansas a few decades ago. Or even Raymond Townsend, or back in the day, Wat Misaka, the "first" Asian American in the NBA. (Check out this link to a documentary film about his life...http://www.watmisaka.com/). Heck our people are even claiming Nate Robinson's 1/8th Filipino heritage makes him the first Asian-American Dunk champ..http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZXyM0i_rlg

Cool? Yeah.

But it's not what I'm talking about here- which is a tradition of great NBA caliber Asian point guards.

See, PG's can be in the 6 foot to 6'5" range, and there's a lot of Asian guys who are that tall.

PG's also need discipline, skill, speed and quickness, traits that you'll see at every single martial arts tournament.

While it's believed that Asians can't jump, they are also fabled with ninja like verticals, so, what's the truth?

I summon Rick Noji to answer this question. This is a 5'8" Japanese-American guy, growing up in Seattle, who, strangely, I remember having more than his fair share of grey hairs as a senior at Franklin High.

Back in the 80's, Noji won not only the State championship in the high jump, (once posting a 7'4" jump), but he also won the 200 meter sprint (21.2) and the long jump (23'4") in his high school career.

Not bad.

Later, as a professional he jumped 7'7"- which was about two feet over his head. (That's actually what your average ninja does..)

Here's his bio:

http://www.wiaa.com/ardisplay.aspx?ID=513

Of course, basketball needs more than simple athleticism, often requiring a focused perfectionist's ability to learn the details of the game. Hmmm. Know any Asians like that? (I do, and I hate them all. They're the guys I had to compete with to get into a good school.)

Reasonable to think that the gym rat requirement would be met.

What else?

Good coaching and opportunity to play?

Maybe this is the hardest part- to get a great coach to believe that an Asian player has the same talent and abilities as kids from races with more proven track records. But you know what? That's not a reasonable argument. Every coach in AAU is looking for some kid who can help his team that got overlooked by those dominant, well known teams continually crushing them by double digits.

Parents? Maybe, not encouraging their kids to play basketball at the highest levels?

Yeah. Surely there are some. Surely many Asian parents wouldn't want their kids to be involved in sports at all if they've decided that their child's path to success lies in academics. And certainly, Asian parents have been stereotyped for pressuring their child to succeed academically, with cram schools, language schools, tutors, etc...

But then there are other Asian parents who do put their kids in sports, so, ...consider it a small filter- yes, Asian parents will emphasize academics over sports, particularly as a career, so the sample size is smaller.

Still, if this leaves us with 500,000 Asian kids growing up in the US alone, whose parents put them in sports, and are willing to give them the support (driving, getting them good coaching, etc.) to develop to their fullest potential, there should by now, be more than one Jeremy Lin in the NBA as a spider quick point guard.

Maybe, just maybe, Asian kids aren't raised to be leaders of kids of other races, though. And a point guard has to accomplish this, every day, every play, on the court.

Maybe that's why we haven't yet seen an Asian Quarterback, or president.

In fact, there are very few Asian Americans I have seen visibly leading individuals of other ethnicities. Bruce Lee, Guy Kawasaki, Dale Minami, a few senators, that governor in Washington. So yeah, there are a few. But there should be more. For the skills, the intelligence, the discipline, and the spirit that Asians have in abundance, their placement in positions of leadership should be higher.

But the instructed humility, the discomfort with pushing an envelope, all time honored parts of the Asian heritage as well, leaves it to envelope pushers like Lin and Lee to drag the rest of us behind them.

In conclusion, I hope that Lin is as much an inspiration to all of you as he is to me, who never did accomplish my goal of being that first in the line of many lightning quick point guards, of the Asian persuasion.

I already got Miles in three basketball camps this summer...

SAVE THE WHITEFISH!

There is a great article about the Asian carp- currently public enemy number one in the Great Lakes of America (and Canada).

The Asian carp, it seems, was introduced in the "Deep South" back in the 70's.

They were "imported" to fish farms, as well as sewage lagoons.

Extrapolating, then, the Asian carp was brought to make money, and to literally "eat shit."

Since the early 1970's, the carp "escaped" into the Mississippi River, and is now, "infesting" northern waterway, devouring the plankton upon which cherished native species rely, species which include "whitefish."

Check it here.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20100719/ap_on_bi_ge/us_asian_carp_great_lakes_5

What is most interesting about this is the rhetoric is identical to that used by Arizona Minutemen in their battle against "Illegal immigrants."

"Asian carp will kill jobs and ruin our way of life," states Michigan Attorney General Mike Cox.

In his petition to the US District Courts in northern Illiniois, Cox is essentially asking for "locks, gates, and other infrastructure" to be closed,  after the carp was discovered north of  an "electric barrier" designed to "block the voracious fish's path."

Anyone want to play "Parallels in American History?" (Sounds like a fun new board game to me!)

My turn!

Off the top of my head, they include both the bracero programs for migrant labor, and the plantation based economy of the "deep south", where blacks and latinos were brought into the US to work fields, clean houses, etc. the "dirty jobs."

Most obvious, since we're talking about "asians" is the Chinese "cooley" system, when labor from China was brought to the US to build the railways, wash clothes and pick weeds.

Then, there's "chitlins"- basically, the pigs intestines which were fed to slaves, very close to eating shit.

Fast forwarding to the present,  there's the electric fence, which echo the "border" fences being erected to keep out terrorists, drug dealers and of course, the evil illegal immigrants.

There's also the Arizona law- how could I leave that out? which would allow law enforcement and a network of patriotic vigiliantes (aka- the minutemen) to act as a "gate, lock, or other infrastructure" to keep out the "invaders."

Other parallels?

That this fish has in its core a desire to succeed, proliferate, and conquer that seems to embody the American Dream at its best. A fish that, by the way, jumps out of the water to "attack" boats and fisherman. Kinda badass, really to think about these escaped shit eaters kicking everyone's ass!

As a half-Asian/ half-white man, I feel both a sense of pride, and a Nativist rage! How compelling.

SAVE THE WHITEFISH!!!

A quick glance at the comments in the Yahoo section shows that while there are some intersting ideas, like harvesting the fish and selling it "back" to "Asia" (a big continent, by the way, extending from Turkey to Japan), where it is apparently eaten, there are human bottom dwellers as well.

Here's a sample:

Joseph
"It's called "infiltration". The only thing is it's at every level in this country. All the way from diseases, to animals, to aliens slithering in, to politics, to whatever else you can think of."
 
William S
"The Feds won't keep out mexicans or fish. Just what the hell are they good at? Taxing me to death and spending money even my great grandchildren will never be able to repay!!!!!! Thanks Barry.
 
KC "This species of fish routinely major in electrical engineering, that is how they are getting by the electric fences."
 
the anti-liberal "Obama will give them amnesty, health care, and the right to vote. He will also start a civil rights protest if the fishermen step any closer to them."