The Song Poet by Kao Kalia Yang (Henry Holt and Company)

When Kao Kalia Yang was eight, she saw a crowd of people weep at a Hmong New Year celebration as her father sang poetry, his words and music “blending hardship and harrowing hope.” The songs he created gave shape to the story of leaving one country for another and evoked the beauty and loss of what had been left behind,  “a reminder, a promise, of home.” 

Across the United States, Hmong people heard about Bee Yang’s songs and begged that he record them. He made a tape with six songs that yielded a profit of five thousand dollars. Instead of putting that money into another album, he turned it into “grains of rice and strings of meat” to feed his children. Although he continued to write songs and recorded them on a basic tape recorder, he never made another album again. But his poetry surrounded the lives of his children, who “took it for granted that this would always be so.”

Instead, when Bee’s mother died, he lost his songs. His poetry vanished.

What stayed with him were his stories that he embedded in the memory of his daughter, a girl who became a writer herself (The Latehomecomer, reviewed in Asia by the Book in April, 2008). Listening to her father’s recorded songs and translating his poetry into English led her to the story of her father’s life, from his birth in the Laos mountains to his struggles in the United States.

Hmong song poetry is an art in which the singer “raps, jazzes, and sings the blues;” it holds “humor, irony, and astute cultural and political criticism.” Kao Kalia Yang tells her father’s story in his voice, in answer to his songs, entering his heart, mind, and history.

Bee Yang never knew his father, a man who “did not live to see his son yearn for a father, or struggle to become one.” A child of two shamans, Bee searches for his own answers in the words of the people around him, looking for beauty within what he hears in his village and what he sees in the natural world within which the Hmong people coexist. 

When war makes Bee and his family flee for safety into the jungle, he falls in love with beauty in the person of a young girl, one whose spirit challenges and sustains him as they reach the safety of a refugee camp, get on a plane to live in America, and work to raise their children by doing jobs that would cripple their hands, tear at their lungs, and lacerate their spirits.

“When I speak English, I become a leaf in the wind,” Bee admits, as his children become interpreters of life in America and he a storyteller of life in Laos.He watches his children grow away from him as they work toward the goals he has set for them; his dream of them becoming doctors, lawyers, successful Americans. He rages at his oldest son who, racked by bigots and bullies at school, drops out and follows his parents into manual labor.  But in spite of the gaps that yawn between his children’s lives and his own, Bee’s family holds together, bound by the persistence of his love.

Haunted by the memory of an adopted brother who was tortured into madness by Laos soldiers and died as “a collection of open pits, broken trees, and burnt houses,” Bee longs to return to his country and honor his brother’s memory. Although his oldest daughter gives him a plane ticket to Southeast Asia, he’s stopped at the border between Thailand and Laos with the warning that if he crosses into his homeland, he will be killed. Instead he and his wife climb to a Thai mountaintop and stare down at a country where Hmong people once fought against Communism and from which they are now exiled as a result.

In the country that has never been his own, Bee, old, deaf, and physically beaten down by factory work, proves that his spirit is unbroken when he stands up against unfairness in his workplace and walks away, never to go back. “I leaned on my children, who told me “...Everything will be okay.” They help him buy a house on a hill where he gardens, raises chickens, watches his grandchildren play. “Each breath I take, each song I hear, gives my heart something to sing about, silent songs…”

Kao Kalia Yang has reached into her father’s poetry and used it to illuminate his life, honoring him and the many men like him, who live “in this land as strangers, beneath the foreign sky,” so their children can find peace. In a time when immigration is threatened, this book is a potent reminder of what the US owes to these men and their families.~Janet Brown

Mayada : Daughter of Iraq by Jean Sasson (Dutton)

Jean Sasson has lived and worked in the Middle East for a number of years so when the opportunity presented itself to visit Iraq after the First Gulf War, she could not resist the temptation. As she was the author of a book that criticized then President, Saddam Hussein, she knew that no government official would issue her a visa. So, she wrote directly to the President and along with her letter she sent a copy of her book, The Rape of Kuwait. In her letter, she told the President that she didn’t agree with his invasion of Kuwait but was “concerned about the well-being of Iraqis living under sanctions.” She wanted to see for herself “how the Iraqi were faring.”

Surprisingly, she was contacted by Baghdad and told her visa would be granted through the U.N. Mission in New York City. Once Sasson was in Baghdad, she was adamant about being assigned a female interpreter and was introduced to Mayada. The two became fast friends and kept in touch. A year later, Mayada disappeared without a trace. No one answered her phone, she didn’t return any of the letters Sasson wrote her and then one day, Sasson receives a call from Mayada who informs her that she was in “the can”, a euphemism for prison. It wasn’t until Mayada escaped Iraq that Sasson could ask her what happened.

Mayada : Daughter of Iraq is part biography but mostly focuses on Mayada’s life after her arrest and what she and other women had to deal with during their incarceration. Sasson gives a voice to Mayada so she can tell the world the truth about Saddam Hussein and his Ba’ath Party.

Mayada Al-Askari is the daughter and grand-daughter of a prominent Iraqi family. She lived a life of privilege even under the reign of Saddam Hussein who she has met on a few occasions. However, Mayada was arrested by the Mukhabarat, the Iraqi Intelligence Service and was taken to the notorious Balladiyat Prison. She wasn’t told why she was arrested nor was she given a trial. 

Mayada describes to us in graphic detail the torture she and the other women endure. It is not for the faint of heart. They suffer beatings, burnings, the cutting off of certain body parts and rape. These are just a few of the injustices that took place behind the prison’s locked doors.

A month after being arrested, Mayada was told that she would be released, again, with no explanations whatsoever. The other women made Mayada promise to call their relatives and children to let them know where they were being held and which guard to bribe for their release. They also said to her, “You must swear by Allah that one day you will tell the world what has happened in this cell.” 

It took courage for Mayada to come forward to keep her promise to the women who were left behind in prison. It’s a shame what despots and their willing partners are capable of doing. What still baffles me is why the United Nations let Saddam Hussein stay in power. It appears as if the United Nations have forgotten Lord Acton’s words, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” We can only hope that Iraq doesn’t see another leader like Saddam Hussein in its future.~Ernie Hoyt

Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning by Cathy Park Hong (One World, Random House)

 “If you want to write about race, you have to do it politely, because then people will listen.” Cathy Hong Park understood this statement made by another poet of color; she’d been writing poetry  “for a roomful of bored white people,” submerging her identity and her feelings to fit into a narrative that didn’t see color, only whiteness. Flattened into a category that lumped all Asian nationalities into a model minority that exists only for some, she felt “as interchangeable as lint,” without a voice of her own. Steeped in depression, she found a path to this after watching Richard Pryor and taking to the stage herself as a stand-up comic, delivering sardonic truths that shocked audiences into listening. She no longer had to be polite, a state that seeped into her poems and pervades her essays in Minor Feelings.

In defiance of the approved standardized language, Hong Park explores and celebrates “bad English,” collecting it from websites that find humor in mistranslations of English in other countries. “I steal those lines and use them in my poetry,” she says, “bad English is my heritage.” She treats “English as a weapon in a power struggle,” “hijacking English...to slit English open so its dark histories slide out,” “finding a way of speech that decentered whiteness.”

Dark histories emerge in Park Hong’s essays, through words that decenter whiteness like scalpels. She charts the odyssey that she traveled at Oberlin with two friends,Taiwanese and Korean, the three of them becoming “indomitable forces” in their different art forms, possessing “the confidence of white men, which was swiftly cut down after graduation.” 

She illuminates the death of artist and poet Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, who was raped and murdered in Manhattan. Her death went unnoticed by the New York press and it was her brother and her husband who discovered the site of her murder after the police had given up a cursory search. Cha was killed just as her book Dictee was released, just before her photographs were to appear in a group show at a Village gallery. With her murder, she vanished, so thoroughly that Park Hong discovered Dictee only through a workshop with a visiting Korean American professor.  A mixture of “memoir, poetry, essay, diagrams, and photography,” Cha’s book pulls Park Hong into an unfamiliar truth, a truth she expands upon in a scathing essay that focuses a long-denied attention upon Cha’s life, death, and art.

She brings to light an activist who by rights should be famous, a woman who held Malcolm X as he died and who’s immortalized in a photograph of his death but remains anonymous. Yuri Kochiyama grew up in a U.S internment camp during World War II. She became a civil rights activist and was one of the seven who occupied the Statue of Liberty in 1977 as supporters of independence for Puerto Rico. She fought for a government apology and reparations for the survivors of internment camps and in 1996 proclaimed “People have a right to violence, to rebel, to fight back.” “At a time when identities can be walled off,” Park Hong says, “it’s essential to lift up the life of Kochiyama.” The scalding shame is that this life needs to be lifted up when Kochiyama should be a shining part of America’s historical fabric. 

Park Hong defines minor feelings as those emotions that don’t enhance and pay homage to the ruling system: “envy,  irritation, boredom,” the feelings that emerge with honesty and are all too often submerged “to protect white feelings.” 

These essays will not do that. Reckonings are not conciliatory actions and Hong Park makes it clear from the beginning that this is what her book is about. What her essays will do is propel white readers into an awareness that should have come our way long ago. It’s a launching pad. Make a leap.~Janet Brown

A Cab Called Reliable by Patti Kim (St. Martin's)

Patti Kim was born in 1970 in Pusan, Korea. Her family immigrated to the U.S. when she was four years old. She wrote A Cab Called Reliable as her Master’s Thesis at the University of Maryland where she earned a Master of Fine Arts Degree. Her thesis was then published in 1997 and became her debut novel and opened the path for her to become a writer. She says her books “aren’t autobiographical and yet they are, if you know what I mean.”

The story is set in the early seventies. Ahn Joo and her family are from Pusan, Korea where they used to live in a small room behind a grocery store. They moved to the States when Ahn Joo was seven years old and settled down in Arlington, Virginia. They currently live in an apartment complex called Burning Rock Court.

Ahn Joon is in the third grade and was on her way home from school when she heard her younger brother crying. She remembers her mother saying “it was wicked for a child to cry in public” and yet she would not scold her son, Min-Joo, who often cried in public. She was told that Min Joo was special.

Ahn Joo saw her mother carrying her crying brother get into a taxi. She decided to hide behind a tree and when the car passed by, she saw her mother’s face through the window in a blue cab that had “Reliable” written on the door. When Ahn Joo got home, she found a note her mother left her along with a box filled with four small cakes with white frosting.  In the note which was written in Korean, her mother said the cakes were for Ahn Joo, to eat them and enjoy them. She would come back later to pick up Ahn Joo. That was the last time Ahn Joo saw her mother. 

We follow Ahn Joo’s life as the years pass, from grade to the fourth, from the fourth grade to the fifth and on up until high school, sharing in her failures and successes. She still believes her mother may one day come back and get her but life goes on with just her and her Dad.

Her father sums up the life of the Korean immigrant. Even though it is just him and his daughter, he squeaks a living with a welding job. He saves up enough money to buy a food truck then progresses to becoming the owner of a grocery store in a mostly African-American neighborhood and makes sure his daughter gets the education she needs. 

Patti Kim’s A Cab Called Reliable brings to life what it is like for a Korean-American girl to grow up in the U.S. The struggle for identity and adjusting to a new environment and culture. The family dynamics may not be the same for every Asian immigrant family, but many of the problems they face are easily recognizable - the prejudice, the language barrier, family ties (both good and bad) and wanting the best for their children.~Ernie Hoyt

Homeland Elegies: A Novel by Ayad Akhtar (Little, Brown and Company)

Is it a novel? Is it a memoir? Is it an economic explanation of the current political realm in the United States? Ayad Akhtar provides his own explanation in the subtitle of Homeland Elegies. It is, he proclaims at the outset, a novel.  In a letter that prefaced the advance reader copies that were sent to booksellers and reviewers, he assures them “this is not a work of autobiography,” that his writing has the need to “deform actual events...in order to see them more clearly.” A quote from Alison Bechdel on the page that follows the dedication teases with “I can only make things up about things that have already happened…” And from the outset, readers begin to wonder what has already happened and what is made up.

Akhtar, as is true of his narrator, was born on Staten Island to parents who had recently arrived from Pakistan, grew up in Wisconsin, suffered the death of his mother, and won a Pulitzer Prize for his play, Disgraced.  These facts, all given a new focus in Homeland Elegies,  distract and detract from the American life of a man who has achieved the American Dream while his fellow-countrymen disregard the truth that he is American, often quite brutally.

His novel, if indeed it is one, is an epic saga that sweeps from Partition to 9/11 to the Age of Trump, from a childhood of privilege to an unexpected  shower of wealth that comes his way during a stock market boom, of travels to visit relatives in Pakistan and ill-fated journeys in the United States. The narrator could easily be a successor of Huckleberry Finn, although one who is well-educated and born into Islam. But it’s the tease that weakens his story. When he steals a crucifix to wear around his neck after being assailed by a mob immediately after the Twin Towers fall, is this a skillful act of fiction or a confession? When he tells the love story that ends in his being given a case of syphilis, is this a form of satire or a mean way of settling a score with a woman who left him?  Does it matter? Should it matter?

Underpinning this narrative from the first chapter to the last is an astute assessment of how American politics have intertwined, with disastrous results that are so woven into the country’s fabric that they may never be repaired.  America is still a colony, the narrator is told by a university professor, but it is being colonized by the cult of the American self, with its need for all wishes to be immediately granted. This theory is expanded by different characters whom the narrator encounters throughout his life: the lesbian professor who points out that prevailing colonization and the exile we all face, at least economically; the Black Hollywood agent who explains how entrepreneurism was destroyed by the freebooting free-market deregulation of industry that led to the existence of Amazon and the cult of low prices at any cost; the Moslem financier who cynically turns consumer debt into a wealth-generating commodity and ultimately a weapon; the family friend who longs to return to Pakistan and excoriates American diversity by saying instead of the mythical melting pot, the nation is actually “a buffer solution, which keeps things together but always separated.”  Trump, the Black agent explains, is simply “a human mirror,” reflecting the mood of Americans who longed to achieve the richness that surrounded and eluded them, a mood that “was Hobbesian--poor, nasty, brutish, and nihilistic.”

And yet this theory, as carefully constructed and as plausible as it appears, turns characters into mouthpieces and plot devices, as much as the detailed accounts of racism that scar the narrator feel like reconstructed journal entries. None of this ties together in a way that is an established literary form; it’s only Akhtar’s considerable talent that pulls this book into a whole. This could be what, in a more innocent time, would be called The Great American Novel. But it’s also dependent upon a form that will probably never be successfully replicated. The taunting elusive nature of hybrid work fails to be satisfying in the long run.~Janet Brown

Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi by Geoff Dyer (Pantheon)

Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi is divided into two sections. The first half takes place in Venice, Italy. The latter half is set in Varanasi, India, considered a holy place by Buddhists and Hindus. It was where Buddha gave his first sermon. In Hindu mythology, the city is believed to have been founded by Shiva, the Supreme Lord who “creates, protects, and transforms the universe.” 

The year is 2003. Jeff Atman, a journalist in his forties, living in London has been commissioned to write an article on the Biennale in Venice which is an art festival held every two years in the “City of Canals” featuring the latest names in art and art installations. This year’s participants included Ed Ruscha, Gilbert & George, Jacob Dalhgren, Fred Wilson just to name a few. 

He was told by the editor of Kulchur Magazine to get an interview with the reclusive Julia Berman, “to persuade her - to beg, plead and generally demean himself - to do an interview that would guarantee even more publicity for her daughter’s forthcoming album and further inflate the bloated reputation of Steven Morison, the dad, the famously overrated artist.”

Everything changes when Atman meets Laura. He becomes obsessed with her and spends more time looking for her than he does gathering information for his article. The two have a mutual attraction and spend most of the rest of their time at the Biennale having sex or getting drunk, or a bit of both but the event has come to an end “when everything was so close to becoming just memory.” “Or the opposite of memory: a longing for something that would soon be impossibly remote.”

The next thing you know, you’re reading about another freelance writer who was asked at the last minute to do a travel piece on Varanasi in India. Dyer leaves it up to the reader to decide if this journalist is the same Jeff Atman that covered the Biennale as the story is told in the first person and not once does the writer’s name appear. 

Venice was full of fun and debauchery to satisfy one’s lust and longing. In contrast, the journalist in Varanasi who was only going to visit the country for a few days stays for months. The first few days he walks around, checks out the ghats, does research for the article he’s supposed to write, but the longer he stays, he forgets about the article and has his own spiritual awakening. His friends become a little worried as he seems to be going native as the days go by reminding one of Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. 

In Venice, Jeff Atman loses his inhibitions and follows his desires whereas the unnamed journalist in Varanasi is faced with death, sickness, and poverty. Atman chooses to live life to the fullest. The unnamed writer is at first disgusted by what he sees but the longer he stays, he begins to develop an understanding of the Hindus love for Varanasi. Dyer writes two great stories and makes you wonder if his versions of Venice and Varanasi are two sides of the same coin or are they reflections of the same city? ~Ernie Hoyt

Above Us the Milky Way by Fowzia Karimi (Deep Vellum Publishing)

Near the end of 2020, a bookseller pulled this book from a shelf and showed it to me. Everything about it was beautiful: the gold dots on a deep blue unjacketed cover, the weight of the paper as I leafed through its pages, its typeface, the way that it used photographs and drawings in a way that seemed part of its text. I turned back when I was two miles away from the bookstore and brought it home, with no real sense of what it was about. I wasn’t even sure that I would ever read it, but the sight of it on my table made me happy.

Two weeks ago I picked it up and began to read, an experience so weighted and rich, so rooted in horror and loveliness that I made my way through it slowly, every day. When I finished it, I pressed it hard against my chest in an involuntary gesture that wasn’t a hug; it was an attempt to make it part of me in a physical way, as it had already claimed my heart and my imagination.

Is this a novel? Is it a memoir? Fowzia Karimi teases with those questions, claiming it is neither one. It is, the subtitle says, An Illuminated Alphabet, one that Karimi says should be read in a random way, not as a linear narrative. Within the order of the alphabet, each letter forming its own chapter, an illumination casts its beam upon the magic of childhood and the cruelty of war, upon the nature of memory--where it lives and how it is revealed--upon the way in which lives are lived in two places at the same time. 

If there is a narrative, it’s circular, tracing the journey of a family with five daughters who left Afghanistan for the United States when the girls were quite young. But there is no arc, no resolution, no named characters. There’s Father, Mother, the sisters, and a multitude of family members who were left behind, living and dead. 

In their new country, the sisters are one as much as they are five: the sister who sleeps, the sister who walks through the night, the sister who dreams, ths sister who gives, the sister who who loves the sea. Their faces are seen only dimly in family snapshots; in drawings of them only the back of their heads are given. Karimi herself, in her author photo, shows only the back of her head and shoulders. And yet through their memories and their dreams, the games that they play and the chores that they do, they become visible, girls who are both wild creatures, exemplary daughters, creative beings, and nomads by blood and through practice. 

Anchored by stories and memories, the family lives outside of the present because they know they could return to their first country at any moment.  They have no future because the war has devoured everything they’d known in the past. They live “between what had been and what might have been.” 

What they know about the events within the country they no longer live in is terrible. The stories of the dead live within the sisters: those who were buried alive in pits, those whose bodies were tortured, those who were cut in half by gunfire. The girls know and live with these histories that co-mingle with their memories of balloon-sellers, fruit vendors, festive birthdays with tribes of cousins back in their first country.

Karimi’s goal is to “explore the correspondence on the page between the written and the visual arts.” Her small paintings bring objects into the text: a butterfly on one page, a severed finger on another, all rendered with the careful lovely attention of a botanical drawing. Like signposts, they keep readers from growing numb. They and the words that they accompany keep us awake, keep us alive, keep us connected to what we might not ever know, what we might prefer to ignore; the complex and knowledgeable life of children, the bright and bloody history of a country that has long lived with “fire in the sky, limbs in the trees, blood in the streets.”~Janet Brown

Japan's Longest Day by The Pacific War Research Society (Kodansha)

For Americans, December 7, 1941 will always be “a day which will live in infamy”. It is the day Japan attacked Pearl Harbor which resulted in bringing the United States into the Second World War. Four years later, Japan would have its own day which will “live in infamy”. That date would be August 15, 1945.  “For one day in August 1945, while the world waited, Japan struggled to confront surrender - or annihilation. This is the story of those twenty-four hours.” It is the day when the Japanese heard the voice of their Emperor for the first time as he gave a speech announcing the surrender of Japan to the Allied Forces. 

Originally published as Nihon no Ichiban Nagai Hi in 1965 by Bungei Shunju Ltd. It was compiled by the Pacific War Research Society, a fourteen member group led by Kazutoshi Hando who passed away this year on January 12. Japan’s Longest Day reconstructs the last twenty-four hours before the Emperor of Japan’s broadcast announcing the surrender of Japan to the Allies and putting an end to the Pacific War. 

On July 26, 1945, the nations of the United States, Great Britain, China, and the Soviet Union issued the Potsdam Declaration, the statement was an ultimatum outlining the terms for Japan’s complete surrender. It stated that “if Japan did not surrender, it would face ‘utter and prompt destruction’”.

The Emperor and other members of the cabinet including the Prime Minister realized that the war was lost but the problem was how to bring the war to a close. The Imperial Army “would admit neither defeat nor surrender - and it continued to insist that it, and it alone, knew what was best for the country.” The country was at an impasse. The top members of the government and the military leaders could not decide on what action to take. 

Many young officers and soldiers believed it was a dishonor to surrender and planned a coup d’etat. They shot a high ranking officer who was guarding the Imperial Palace and started a rebellion against the government, rationalizing that the cabinet members were being traitorous to the Empire of Japan and to the Emperor himself. Other members raided NHK, Japan’s national radio station to prevent the broadcast of the Emperor’s speech. Fortunately for Japan, their efforts failed and the announcement was made at noon on August 15, 1945. 

I couldn’t help but see the parallels to the military uprising and the current situation in the U.S. which lead to the attack on the Capitol on January 6, 2021. It certainly seemed to be a case of history repeating itself. As George Santanyana is credited as saying, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” If more American citizens were aware of world history, perhaps the attack on the Capitol may never have happened. In Japan, it was the military trying to incite younger soldiers to rebel against their own country and to spread false rumors of senior cabinet members being traitors. Now in the twenty-first century we had a sitting President accused of “incitement of insurrection” because he did not agree with masses that showed he lost the presidential election. 

Fortunately, for both Japan and the United States, the two countries chose the path of reason. Japan became an international economic power and with the swearing in of Joe Biden as our new President, the future's looking bright for the U.S. as well. ~Ernie Hoyt